by Ken Fry
Maria held out her arms. “You are right, and I was very wrong. Throughout my life, I have never apologised for anything I have said or done. Now, I do to you. The right is undeniably yours, so let us drink our wine and I will tell you more. But first, I’ll make that call on your phone and you must listen. I think you may hear a few things you have been so curious about. Abbot Louis heads the Monasterio de San José de Nazaret, which is near Segovia. He has been there for many years. Don’t speak, just listen.
The call was answered.
“Hello, Father Louis, it’s Condesa Maria speaking.”
The conversation continued.
“Is Brother Baez there? I think we are all in need of an urgent meeting.”
“Of course. He returned yesterday, and he wants to meet with you. You two have not met for seventeen years.”
“I can handle that, as I’m sure he can, but it’s more than that. I have somebody here he should meet.”
“Who? Why?”
Maria breathed in deeply to the full extent of her aged lungs. “Right now, I can’t say. But it is deeply important. I will call you again to let you know when we shall arrive.”
“Is it his daughter?”
Maria’s breath hitched. “How could you guess that? Yes, it is.”
There were a few more words and the possibility of meeting very soon. The phone went dead.
Martha, her face strained with an ache of expectancy, was staring at the Condesa. “Is Brother Baez my father?”
Grasping hold of the emotions that threatened to overtake her, Maria breathed deeply to steady herself before replying, “Yes. He was Brodie Ladro.”
A silence descended between them, like that which lurks within an empty art gallery.
CHAPTER 13
Uffington, UK
That morning, a lengthy feature article in The Times newspaper immediately caught Ulla’s attention. The strap line ran:
LAZARUS ALIVE AND WELL IN LONDON!
The article concerned the formation of a new church announced at the World Charismatic Convention at Wembley Stadium. It was to be called Holy Church of Lazarus, and its followers known as Lazacrucians. The new church is led by an American named Pastor Silas Shepard, who claimed to have received visions and had conversations with God whilst praying and meditating in the desert. Only those who followed his instructions and the new faith would be saved from Armageddon. Written in a deeply sardonic style, it was less than complimentary. The writer’s name was Ned Garcia.
Ulla felt fazed. It had also mentioned that Pastor Shepard had alluded to the existence of an icon that could bring healing, peace, and joy to humankind.
This could not be a coincidence, thought Ulla. Too many events were stirring around the historical Lazarus. She needed to speak to somebody. Without thinking, she Googled the newspaper, wrote down the phone number, and then picked up the phone and punched the number.
Ten seconds elapsed before a soft voice spoke, “News desk, Ned Garcia speaking.”
§
The Park Lane Hotel
Piccadilly, London
Two days later
Garcia was not the athletic type. Fifty years old and with a florid face, he looked as if he’d been around the block too many times. He wore a worn-out, double-breasted, charcoal-striped suit without a tie, but with a white and red, spotted cravat tucked into a khaki, military-style shirt. The cut of the suit concealed his ample waistline which resembled a loose bag of flour. In his hands, he twirled a large glass containing his favourite drink, a Rusty Nail.
Opposite him sat Ulla Stuart, enjoying her first ever Rusty Nail, and marvelling at the hotel’s Art Deco décor. She knew a lot about Garcia’s background, courtesy of Google.
He’d been recently voted as the most distinguished investigative journalist of the decade, and that included the TV reporters. One of his controversial revelations concerned a secret paedophile ring that operated within the government, church, and judiciary. It had caused the collapse of the government of the time. Attempts had been made to block his reports and his life had been threatened several times. All had failed. He was dedicated to exposing scams, corruptions, bribery, and cover-ups of all sorts. In some quarters, he was revered almost as a god.
“Ulla, I’ve listened to your story and it seems like a sack load of rubbish.”
She flinched. “I’ve told you everything I know. The coincidences, everything, and you are the only one I’ve ever mentioned them to. I don’t lie, nor am I a Walter Mitty.”
“I appreciate that, but it all sounds unbelievable … except for one thing.” He ordered two more Rusty Nails. Inwardly, Garcia concluded that the woman was dripping with sincerity, and he liked her very much even after such a short time. You can’t invent stories like this ... I wish I’d met her years ago.
“What’s that?” Ulla tilted her head, curious.
“You said something earlier that got my attention. You spoke of Sir Maxwell Throgmorton and his sordid, crooked involvement. What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. He just vanished.” Ulla lied.
“I ask because when I was a trainee, my mentor, Desmond O’Keefe, who was investigating Throgmorton’s corruption, had been found drifting face down in the River Thames. He’d been garrotted and shot through the heart. I swore I’d carry on Desmond’s work, and do so to this day. You couldn’t possibly have invented that scumbag. He was real. As for this Pastor Shepard, I’ve found out a few things more about him. He was discharged from the USSS under a cloud of treason after being caught in a honey trap. My sources said he has a backer by the name of John D. Bower. He is reported to be fabulously wealthy as the owner of several casinos. Rumour has it he was the secret buyer of a priceless sixteenth century folio known as the Augsburg Book of Miraculous Signs. I can’t prove that, but if it’s true, it suggests he has some sort of interest in the world of mysteries. I must admit, with the involvement of these people, there could be a possible scam brewing here.”
“You will do this then?”
“It looks like it. I need a new adventure. My editor trusts my judgement and why shouldn’t he? Now, I want all the details; names, addresses and every possible connection, locations, etc. You can do that?”
“Of course.” A broad smile crossed Ulla’s face.
He felt touched. If only…
Before he left, she gave him a sealed envelope. “I’ll tell Martha about you and I would be grateful if you could give her this when you meet.” She handed him a large, thick envelope with the words ‘To Martha’ written on the front.
“You were sure I’d bite the bait, huh?”
“No. Hopeful.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’ll keep in touch.”
Thirty-six hours later, he left Gatwick Airport aboard a budget flight via Norwegian Air International to the Barajas Airport in Madrid. Toledo’s nearest airport was sixty-nine kilometres away. He’d booked in at the Hotel Abad, a ten-minute walk from the city centre and close to Martha’s hotel.
Ulla wasn’t slow off the mark. She called her daughter and quickly explained the run of events and in particular, the story of Pastor Shepard. She cautioned her to be on the watch for him. Martha was still talking to the Condesa under the veranda.
“That was Ulla. She’s getting concerned with all the events occurring around this Lazarus business. She’s spoken to an investigative reporter called Ned Garcia and─”
She got no further. Luciana bustled in, holding a phone. “It’s a man from a church and he wants to speak to you, Madam. Shall I tell him you are busy?”
“No, if it’s from the church I’ll take it.” Maria took the phone from her. “Condesa Maria speaking, how may I help you?”
The caller made a reply.
“Where are you then?”
There was another lengthy reply.
“I’m about two kilometres from there. I cannot give you more than ten minutes as I have guests here. I will expect you very soon.”
She turned t
o Martha. “I asked him here out of curiosity ... something to do with a new church called Holy Church of Lazarus. You’re right. He is being raised again.”
“Is his name Shepard?”
“Why, yes. How did you know that?”
Martha quickly explained. Both looked amazed.
“Leave this to me, Martha. I know how to handle him. I want you out of sight, so get back inside with Luciana. That must be him approaching now.” Maria pointed to a billow of dust growing nearer.
Martha looked concerned. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Just you wait and see. I’ll be fine. Now, out of sight, please.”
It wasn’t long before the tall, skinny frame of Pastor Silas Shepard emerged from the SUV to make his way to the seated Condesa.
She refused to stand nor allow him the chance to be seated. She fixed him with a stony stare and ignored his outstretched hand, taking an instant dislike to him. “You are Shepard?”
“Yes, Pastor Shepard. May I take a seat?”
“No, you may not. Stay where you are. Tell me what you have to, I don’t have all day.”
He began telling her of the Holy Church of Lazarus and the conversation he had with God in the desert.
“Absoluto sin sentido! Utter nonsense! So, you have God’s phone number? Perhaps you’d like to share it with me?” she snapped. She could see he was not feeling comfortable.
“I heard that you were cured of a serious illness when you touched a painting. I, or we, as a church, are seeking this painting so that we may bless humanity with its powers. Is this true, your … er … er … your Grace?” Shepard wasn’t sure how he should address her.
“How dare you waltz in here and ask me such personal questions. What happened to me is my concern and nobody else’s, least of all you, and your bogus church. Usted es un mentiroso!” The man seemed to understand that she had called him a liar. His face was gradually turning red.
He gained equilibrium. “You have a girl here, I believe, who might know something about this painting. May I speak with her, please?” Shepard knew he was pushing it.
“That is none of your business and the answer is no, you may not. If this is all you came for, there is nothing for you here. It’s time for you to leave. Now, get out.”
“Now, just a minute, lady. Nobody is going to treat me like─”
He didn’t finish. From her pocket, Maria had pulled out her small, silver pistol.
“I’ve used this before, believe me.” She fired a shot into the ground near his shiny, black shoes, covering them with dirt and sand.
“You’re mad. Totally mad!” He turned and ran as she fired off another shot that clipped the woodwork near his head. He soon disappeared in a spinning cloud of dust.
Both Martha and Luciana rushed out.
“What’s going on?” Martha spotted the gun. “Maria! Are you alright?”
Maria gave a rare smile, tucking the weapon out of sight again. “I enjoyed that, but I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him.”
CHAPTER 14
The sky was a perfect blue and cloudless, allowing the landscape to glisten in an uncanny display of colour a peacock would have been envious of. It was an artist’s dream. He decided to take full advantage of it. Shepard and his two bodyguards were out on a mission to the Condesa’s home in Guadamur.
Bower, with a genuine feeling of rare happiness, prepared his seating and arranged his easel, palette, oils and brushes. He contemplated the vista that stretched out before him like a scene from some medieval mystery. The river Tagus glistened like a sheet of tin foil. In his money-making life, the opportunities to indulge himself in this manner were rare.
He had a perfect view of the Castillo de San Servando, a former monastery later used by the Knights Templar, and the Puente de Alcántara, a bridge that traversed the river. The Romans had built it after they founded the town. In the Middle Ages, it was one of the few entrances for pilgrims into the city.
He looked left, right, then upwards to the blue sky above, picked up a drawing pencil and made a few swift strokes on his canvas. He was not going to miss this rare opportunity. He’d begin with the castle.
But Bower would experience something different that day. When he tried to paint, his hand and brush seemed to have a life of their own. To his astonishment, he was unable to control them.
What’s that noise?
A momentous buzz filled the air around him. The bridge looked so much older ... and full of soldiers, knights and Arabs!
YAAA! A tremendous roar filled the scene as metal, clashing steel, cries of men and dying horses, filled the sky in one terrible instant. Shrieks and curses filled the air.
“What...!” His head was bursting with the clamour of battle noise and the sights of limbs being chopped and heads rolling. Bower stood to his feet, dropped his brush, covered his ears, and then fell to the ground before passing out.
His canvas fluttered in a soft breeze.
When he came to, he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He stared out at the bridge and nothing had changed. It was a normal day in twenty-first century Spain. Traffic and people looked as they always did.
What the fuck! His jaw hung open. I saw them ... heard them! He then received another shock. His hands were covered and dripping with blood.
“AAGGH!” he screamed out loud but there was nobody around to hear him. He held them up and knew it wasn’t oil paint ... but he had no wounds. He grabbed his cloth and towel and removed the blood with vigorous wipes. His heart thundered in his chest and his breath came in machine-like staccato bursts. He could not stop himself shaking.
But there was more for him that day...
A quick look at his canvas added to his confusion. He had painted something. A deep green covered its previously blank surface, and in the middle was what looked to him like a great white horse, almost an abstract in its composition.
“I didn’t do that!” he exclaimed.
His gaze was transfixed upon it as he slumped back into his seat.
It called to him ... and he had no answer.
Without reason or understanding, his terror began to dissipate, and he became aware of a deep sense of peace descending and enfolding him in an embrace of love, the likes of which he had never known.
But, he resisted.
“I think I need to a see a doctor. This is too damned spooky. I’m out of here!”
Reaching for his hip flask, he took a copious gulp of brandy. Its hot tentacles spread down his chest and stomach, and slowly, he regained his composure. In a state of complete bafflement, he packed up his equipment and headed back at speed to his hotel.
§
Martha had returned to her hotel, her mind in a turmoil of expectancy. Opening the locket, she touched the lock of hair and gazed on his face – a face full of life and interest. She knew she loved him. The thought of their first ever meeting, which he would know nothing about until they came face to face, made her tremble. She whispered the word, “Dad.” She repeated it to herself, over and over. “Dad. Dad.” She had to get used to the unfamiliar sound, but already, she found herself liking its resonance.
How will he react? Will he accept me? Will he love me, or will he reject me? I’m really scared.
The room phone rang. She answered, “Martha Stuart, speaking.”
“Señorita Stuart,” the receptionist replied, “there is a man here asking for you.”
“Who is he?”
“It is a Señor Ned Garcia.”
“Splendid. I was expecting him. I will be about ten minutes. Please let him know I’ll meet him in the bar.”
Martha had no difficulty in spotting Garcia sitting at the bar. In fluent Spanish, he was explaining to the barman the intricacies of making the perfect Rusty Nail. They shook hands and he ordered a white wine spritzer for her, and then headed to a quiet table by a corner window.
Martha liked him at once and sensed he was a person she could trust. Ma’s always been an excellent
judge of character.
“Martha, that was quite a story your mother gave out. I have a number of leads to follow up on and a whole bunch of phone calls to make, plus, a mass of Googling to be getting on with. I guess this is to be a very private and emotional time for you. I may see you tomorrow or after your reunion. I hope it will be a happy one. Your mum asked me to give you this.” He handed her the envelope. “Why don’t I go back to the bar and you can read it privately?”
“Thank you, Ned. I appreciate that.”
Once he had left, she unsealed it. Another envelope fell out, addressed to ‘Brodie.’ She gazed at it long and hard, aware of a plethora of emotions assaulting her. Placing it to one side, she opened her own.
My dearest Martha,
By the time you read this I truly hope arrangements have been put in place for you to meet your dad, Brodie. I’ve cried every night since you left, for both you and him. I so much want him back here, so we can all be together.
The years must have worked their changes on him, as they do on all of us. He’s carried his burden too long. It’s time, surely, for his release. I only hope and pray that he can lay it down and walk away and take rest and comfort for what remains of the remainder of his life.
Tell the Condesa, I think of her often and that she is the most amazing woman I have ever met.
Beware of Silas Shepard and anybody who is involved with him. Trust Ned Garcia. He’s a good man and he’s on to this scam like a dog with a bone.
Let me know at once how it shapes up and give your dad my letter.
Love you so much … Ma
Martha wiped a small tear from her cheek and thought about what she had just read. That word ‘dad’ continued giving her a warm sensation.