None asked the Cardinal’s opinion. Thou shalt not kill was a commandment they assumed was sacrosanct.
Toby Bell opened a briefcase on his lap, removed some sheets of paper and handed one to each person, watching their reactions as they read. One name caught Cardinal Venti’s immediate interest.
‘What do these people have in common?’ Toby Bell said.
‘Money, power, influence, fame - they could be any of us,’ said Monique Zambeel.
‘But is there any other thread, linking their lives?’
‘Tell us,’ Bianca said.
‘They have all been patients under my direct care at John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, and undergone heart related surgery for a variety of complaints. Procedures included coronary grafts, valve replacements, the fitting of stents and pacemakers. Each patient is also fitted with my special medical insurance. You see, once I held their tenuous lives in my skilful hands and they are grateful for what I did for them. But to this day they are unaware I still hold their beating hearts to ransom.’
Venti loved the drama, considering Toby Bell a wonderful prospective protégé.
‘Keep going, Toby,’ Paris said, on the edge of her seat.
‘Inside their chests is a tiny detonator with sufficient explosive power to cause sudden death, each encoded with a unique twenty-digit number that can be activated by cell phone from anywhere on the planet.’
The group were aghast at Toby Bell’s willingness to play God.
‘Can anything else trigger the detonators?’ Joan said.
‘Only direct contact with a conductive metal such as a probing scalpel. The detonators are the size of a pinhead. It’s a small risk,’ Toby Bell said.
Venti was highly amused.
‘By virtue of your reputation, Toby, you have attracted some powerful identities. But are we willing to follow through with murder if our threats are ignored?’ Lord Jensen wanted a unanimous decision. ‘Shall we put it to the vote?’
‘I have made up my mind.’ Monique Zambeel blew smoke near Joan to agitate her.
A general murmur of agreement followed.
Lord Jensen opened a drawer in the ebony table, prepared for the eventuality. He scooped out eight black velvet bags all noosed with yellow drawstrings, and dropped them in a pile around the tabernacle.
‘In each bag are two smaller bags, one containing a pink and one a green Ping-Pong ball. A dish will be passed around. If you are in favour of the proposals, including the threat of murder, put the bag containing the pink ball into the dish. If you are of the opinion the tabernacle should be safeguarded and no further action taken, put the bag containing the green ball into the dish. Return your remaining small bag to the larger bag for disposal in the fire, thus preserving your anonymity. Is that clear?’
The collective nodded.
‘Take a bag and cast your vote ladies and gentleman.’
A dish passed around collecting the voting bags. Lord Jensen carried the leftover bags to the fireplace and tossed them onto the crackling logs where they evaporated up the stone chimney in a cloud of acrid smoke
He opened the voting bags and tipped the balls back into the dish, where they totalled four pink and four green.
‘What now, Lord Jensen?’ Monique Zambeel said.
‘Perhaps the Cardinal should decide,’ Paris Vanderock said, realising she had shown her hand. Surely Venti would not condone murder for any reason under the sun.
‘As eminent and righteous as Cardinal Venti is, we cannot impose such a decision on him. Responsibility cannot be weighed upon the conscience of one man. Perhaps chance should be the fate of mankind as chance has determined the fate of many a man. I suggest the toss of a coin, a random tool of the universe in the hands of God, to point us in the right direction,’ Jonathon Brown said.
Paris detected a hint of Ventiism in his address.
‘Seeing we cannot decide, I am happy for chance to play its part,’ Bianca said.
‘I agree,’ Norman said.
‘If there are no objections, we will proceed,’ Lord Jensen said.
None were forthcoming.
Jonathon Brown took a gleaming gold sovereign from his pocket.
‘Heads, we implement the threats.’
He tossed the coin high into the void. It spun in a blur, catching the electric light, fluttering as it hovered near the ceiling, lingering longer than gravity should allow, then dropping and bouncing on the rug. It came to rest and Jonathon Brown leaned over it.
‘Heads it is.’
He left the coin on the rug and four of the assembled felt sick to their stomachs. They’d agreed to the gamble, still none showed jubilation or disappointment. Cardinal Venti experienced an internal ecstasy that threatened to overwhelm him. On the brink of jumping for joy, he fought to conceal his emotions.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we break for supper then formulate our plan,’ Jonathon Brown said.
Cardinal Venti pulled Lord Jensen aside and whispered in his ear.
‘Can something so diabolical really exist, Zach?’ Father Stephen said.
‘It seems Venti has convinced them of it, Steve.’
‘I’d love to see the names on that list,’ Rachel said.
Zachary leapt off the rug and dashed to the helicopter. He flicked a switch on the dashboard, dousing the spotlight. Soon the thumping blades of another helicopter passed overhead. When it had gone, Zachary turned the spotlight back on.
‘Everything we’ve heard this evening is stored inside this box.’ Zachary patted it as he spoke.
‘None of which would hold water in a court of law. The high-powered lawyers at the disposal of these luminaries would squash this ill-gotten evidence like a bug,’ Rachel said.
‘Toby Bell would have to prove his innocence if his patients knew about the detonators even though it would seem a ludicrous claim against one of the great surgeons of our time,’ Father Stephen said.
‘Nevertheless, sowing seeds of doubt would have Toby Bell hoping none of his clients died suddenly, for fear of a deeper investigation,’ Zachary said.
‘We must identify every Jupiter.’
‘I agree, Rachel, but above all we need the tabernacle,’ Zachary said as his cell phone sent an alert. The ornament from the museum had left Hobsgood Castle and was now stationary east of where they sat. Zachary plugged the coordinates into his cell phone. The Google map indicated the middle of a deep lake.
‘It seems our hunt for the tabernacle is down to two.’
Zachary put his headphones on and listened to a jumble of sounds. The mingling voices confused the directional capability of the RAISINs, leaving Zachary unable to decipher any of it. Tuning proved pointless in the noisy chaos, and Lord Jensen’s fondness for loud music clouded everything. Zachary’s bitterness rose with the freezing winds scouring the field.
The headphones went silent. Then as Zachary fiddled with the tuner, the voice of Lord Jensen became crystal clear.
‘So, our plan of action is set. We will reconvene in two weeks. I bid you goodnight and trust you sleep well. Your transfers will commence immediately after breakfast.’
The music resumed and Zachary collected up the headphones. Rachel packed the tartan rug under the back seat of the helicopter and Father Stephen extinguished the spotlight. The triumvirate lifted off for the private aerodrome.
59
An envelope, postmarked in Shanghai, arrived at the White House. It passed a rigid security screen and was deemed free of explosives, dangerous chemicals and contagions. Inside was a message printed in bold type on a single sheet of white paper.
MR PRESIDENT,
WE HOLD AN ELEMENT TO DESTROY HUMANITY
BRING AMERICAN FORCES HOME BY 4TH JULY
WATCH JEFFERSON ASHBY ON THE
28TH FEBRUARY
JUPITER
The President was not shown the letter. Any fingerprints on it would be run through a criminal database. A number of similar crackpot letters arrived at the
White House each year.
Jefferson Ashby was the highest paid actor in Hollywood. On February 28th, the Kodak Theatre would stage the Academy Awards, with every actor and actress well protected by Federal agents and personal security teams. An impenetrable net would surround the entire spectacle with Ashby himself unaware of any specific threat.
The letter was tossed in the tray marked for immediate action, which meant tomorrow. The Oscars were still a week and a half away.
The unease in the room was palpable, the bonds between the Jupiters weak as gossamer threads. Four could not bear to watch a man die at an hour of their making, shown live into a billion homes across the globe.
Paris Vanderock bowed to the pressure. ‘I want no further part in this.’
The others waited for the first reaction.
‘Are there more of you who feel the same?’ Toby Bell said.
There was silence.
‘So, we are bound by the collective decision,’ Toby Bell said.
‘This isn’t some schoolyard prank. It’s murder of an innocent man,’ Paris said.
‘And what do you propose instead, Miss Vanderock?’
‘I am leaving with my conscience intact, and an ultimatum of my own. If anything happens to Jefferson Ashby or any of the other people on your infernal list, I will expose you all.’
None spoke, eclipsed by fear. Paris Vanderock could not determine friend or foe.
‘I am afraid, Miss Vanderock, leaving under such conditions is impossible. I deeply regret your stance but if your blonde brain cannot understand the merits of this action as a conduit to greater things, I cannot have you blabbing about it outside these walls,’ Toby Bell said.
She fumed at the insult, suppressing her emotions to clarify herself. ‘But you have my word. If the threats are called off, so are mine.’
‘Unfortunately, Miss Vanderock, you are outnumbered,’ Toby Bell said.
‘Lord Jensen, thank you for your hospitality. Arrange for my luggage to be collected from my room, I wish to leave for London immediately,’ Paris said.
A terrible darkness descended upon Hobsgood Castle, unrelated to the light. Paris Vanderock felt the crush of betrayal and could not believe they had forsaken her. The silence chilled her to the bone and the last thing she remembered was running for the door.
Cardinal Venti watched the Oscars from his Vatican quarters. To compound his excitement, he employed a new batch of drugs. He poured a powder onto the cover of the Bible his parents gave him at his ordination, arranging it in thin lines. He pinched a straw off in his left nostril and sniffed sharply, tracing the lines as best he could. The powder disappeared with a tingle onto the floor of his brain. He wet a finger, mopping the residue onto his tongue. The ice played a symphony in his head and he considered how much he could devour before the carnival collapsed inside him.
Venti put the Bible to one side, downed a measure of scotch and sunk into a deep leather chair.
The red carpet leading to the entrance of the Kodak Theatre was a river of celebrities, flanked by grandstands of worthless people living their miserable lives by every word from the mouth of Hollywood. The catwalk of fame lasted three hours, out of the dusk and into the night, a circus of flash bulbs, oversized diamond accessories, perfect smiles and revealing gowns. Reporters hustled for interviews and snippets of false wisdom to fill their news casts. Screaming fans that had slept out for a week to get prime spots against the barriers, thrust books and scraps of paper into the rarefied corridor searching for an autograph, a concrete piece of stardom to treasure and adore for the rest of their tiny little lives. They reminded Venti of starving Africans jostling at the back of a U.N. food truck.
At 8 p.m. the doors to the Kodak Theatre were shut and Billy Crystal opened the Oscar ceremony with a song-and-dance routine spoofing the year’s nominations. Venti was only interested in the major awards. The rest only padded out an event already far too long.
This was touted as Jefferson Ashby’s year. His extensive body of work was a testament to his diverse ability, though he had never been honoured by the Academy. All of Hollywood believed an Oscar would sit perfectly in his trophy cabinet since he had collected every other acting honour known to man, some more than once. It was an anomaly the immutable laws of the universe must surely correct.
Jefferson Ashby was nominated for his role in the movie Puff, also a contender for best film. As Johnny Million, he sails through the void of space in a super ship after his attempt to intercept a giant asteroid fails when his navigational computers refuse to alter course. After losing communication with Earth, he steers involuntarily out of the solar system. The harrowing story is a voyeuristic examination of one man’s descent into insanity, drawing comparisons to the plight of prison lifers and questioning the ultimate meaning of our existence.
Critics acclaimed Puff the most powerful and evocative film of the last fifty years. It relieved Cannes and the Golden Globes of nearly all its trophies. Jefferson Ashby’s haunting immersion in the central role was so convincing, people now saw him in a different light. Many believed a lot more of Johnny Million resided in Jefferson Ashby than he would ever admit to. He was a master chameleon.
The five nominees for best actor were introduced and flashed onto a giant screen, the biggest ovation reserved for Jefferson Ashby. The entire theatre stood as one, applauding. Ashby smiled meekly into a camera. He managed a single wave of acknowledgement, not yet ready to celebrate. He’d been denied eleven times before.
Jack Nicholson unfolded the envelope.
‘The Academy Award for Best Actor goes to...’
Nicholson paused interminably.
‘... Jefferson Ashby.’
The Kodak erupted as the first syllable of his name was uttered. He kissed his wife and children and made his way up to the stage. Nicholson handed him the gold statuette and hugged him tightly. Ashby balanced the Oscar on the lectern, allowing the elevated waves of applause to wash over him. He waited more than a minute.
At first, the voice of a hundred movies was rendered mute by the swirling sentiment. He scanned the darkness where he knew a thousand people stared back at him. The stage lighting spilled into the first few rows where he saw many of his contemporaries. In a surreal moment, he imagined standing before God, enduring his judgement, hearing the words of eternal salvation: Well done, good and faithful servant. All the blessings of the universe seem to rain down on him at once, and he experienced elation beyond his wildest dreams.
Jefferson Ashby continued to stare into the audience as another round of applause threatened to fill the theatre. The words they waited to hear never captured the moment better than the tears drowning his eyes.
‘Congratulations to tonight’s winners and past winners who have been honoured for their contributions to the wondrous world of film. To the men and women who have supported, advised and mentored me throughout my career, you are all acknowledged in full. I gratefully accept this gold statuette on your behalf and am forever in your debt. To my wife, Adelaide, twin daughters Brittany and Sophia and our extended families; my deepest love and appreciation. To everyone involved in Puff, superlatives fail to aptly describe the extraordinary efforts of the many talented people who collaborated to bring this landmark film to fruition. Lastly, I dedicate this award to the grand spirit of adventure. And to quote Johnny Million – A universe without us is no universe at all.’
Cardinal Venti expected it to happen then and there.
Jefferson Ashby clutched the statuette, raising it up amid deafening applause. He left the stage with Jack Nicholson, as proceedings broke to honour broadcast commitments. By the time the best film nominations were announced, Ashby was back in his front-row-seat.
When Puff won, and the cameras again swung to Jefferson Ashby, something terribly unnatural resonated about his demeanour. When his wife turned to kiss him he didn’t respond. She shook him gently, knelt on her seat, trying to wake him like Jackie Kennedy leaning over JFK in Dallas. Her screams wer
e swallowed up by the cheers of the crowd. She wished for quiet, feeling for a pulse, putting her cheek against his face to feel his breath. She waved her hand, some thought in celebration. An usher pulled Ashby off the chair and laid him on the ground.
When no one came to accept the Oscar, the applause turned to gasps of horror as the audience concentrated on the screens either side of the stage. They showed a grey-faced Jefferson Ashby being fitted with electric paddles and an oxygen mask. At the sight of him bouncing to jolts of electricity the broadcast was severed.
Visibly distressed, Billy Crystal immediately closed the ceremony.
On the floor below the stage where he enjoyed his finest moment, Jefferson Ashby was pronounced dead at two minutes to midnight.
Venti was enthralled and exhilarated. He hoped the President was watching.
In Hobsgood Castle, pulses raced. Toby Bell stood smiling with his cell phone resting in the palm of his hand.
60
Monique Zambeel’s family sat around a bed. Her three younger sisters and her mother, all beautifully attired, looked up as she swept into their midst. Monique had flown to Paris in her private jet on receiving word her father was dying. He lay gaunt, dressed in a white hospital gown with his head supported by a plump pillow. His eyes were closed, his breathing rapid and shallow. Vases of bright flowers filled the room and a shaft of late afternoon sun lit the wall beyond the foot of the bed.
Her sisters had been crying. They held their father’s unresponsive hands, gently stroking the tops of his fingers. Her mother rested her palm on his head, repeatedly brushing a thumb across his brow.
‘His heart is failing, Monique. They expect less than twenty-four hours.’
‘I’m so glad to have arrived in time, Mamma.’
As Monique sat quietly with her father in his last hours, she was stabbed by the thought of Jefferson Ashby, snatched cruelly from his wife and children without warning. She was suffocating in guilt.
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