Throughout the telling, Harker had been stealing sips of his drink to combat the unease he was feeling, but this had nothing to do with the events themselves. It was the supernatural overtones contained within his account that irritated him, because the very mention of such outlandish things made him feel like a fool.
Brulet remained expressionless, looking neither surprised nor knowing throughout, and it was only as Harker’s account drew to a close that Templar Grand Master began to shift in his seat.
‘… and that’s it.’ Harker concluded before finishing off his drink. ‘Right up until Detective Rodriguez dropped us off here.’
Brulet remained still, staring directly into Harker’s eyes with those cross-shaped pupils of his. ‘That’s quite a story, Alex,’ he said finally and interlaced his fingers pensively. ‘So do you believe it?’
Harker was slightly taken back by the ease with which Brulet asked this question. ‘Which part?’ he stammered, because he had covered a lot of ground.
‘About the three Secrets and this apparent fourth one,’ Brulet replied. ‘Do you think they actually foretell the timetable for an approaching cataclysm?’
Harker held back for a moment to consider his answer, but that didn’t help him much and he instead ran with his gut feeling. ‘Sebastian, I may still believe in God, even if my faith in the Church itself is somewhat diminished but…’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘… a prophecy! I don’t believe in them for a second, but… if you had seen those people’s faces at Notre Dame and the way they just dropped dead; it was so unnatural. It was almost… supernatural.’ Harker zoned out for a moment as those expressions of pain and despair briefly came to life in his mind, and he dropped his head into his hands and massaged his temples before returning once again to face Brulet’s steady gaze. ‘Truth is I don’t know what to think, but I do know the Vatican believes it, and they also believe that the Christ child is the only one that can stop it from happening. Either way, that little boy appears to be at the heart of it all. Have you had any luck tracking down Claire Dwyer?’’
Harker felt his heart sink as Brulet shook his head solemnly. ‘I am embarrassed and saddened to say no. Claire Dwyer has literally vanished off the face of the earth, and with her the Christ child that she kidnapped. We have people looking but every lead so far has resulted in a dead end.’
Harker collapsed back into his chair, his energy now deserting him. ‘Then my only option is to keep tracking the Secrets and pray something comes of it. I just hope that the hundred people that died today will have been the last.’
‘Actually it was one thousand,’ Brulet corrected.
‘What?’ Harker coughed.
‘I am afraid so.’ Brulet continued, his finger gliding across his lips thoughtfully. ‘Apparently Notre Dame was just the start. Over a thousand people died today, Alex … And they all died the same way.’
Chapter 12
‘Hello? Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? Please… anyone please.’ Claire Dwyer screamed the last few words in nervous frustration as the sound of her voice was once more consumed by the pitch blackness smothering and besieging every one of her five senses. Her head swirled with the same unanswered questions that had been haunting her since regaining consciousness some minutes earlier. Where was she and how long had she been here? Her mind felt disconnected, her thoughts scattered, with all the unnerving peculiarities experienced during those first few seconds after having just woken from a deep sleep, and not knowing where one is. Except those seconds had become minutes and the fog clouding her mind was still refusing to clear.
Claire closed her eyes and clumsily stumbled through her memories, attempting to recall any reassuring truths that would allow themselves to surface. ‘My name is Claire Dwyer,’ she whispered to herself gently, the warmth of her own breath tickling her chin and that sensation offering a small measure of comfort in these otherwise cold and damp surroundings. ‘I am thirty-six and I was born in … in … Manchester.’ The simple recollection brought her a shred of relief, but it was quickly replaced by that same feeling of dread she had awoken with. ‘And how did I get here?’ Wherever here was. The question caused her whole body to slump in self-defeat as she allowed herself the indulgence of self-pity. She shook her head back and forth violently as if the very act itself would shake loose the doubt and fear that were continuing to strengthen their grip. What was the last thing she remembered? There was a car… She had been in a car, with something in her possession. Something important. Something very important. She had a vague recollection of staring out of the window and watching buildings and other vehicles pass by. She was a passenger in a car, and the car was travelling fast; she was sure of that because she could remember the whine of an engine in her ears.
The images in her mind began to fade and she immediately pressed one hand to her forehead and began to massage it stiffly, concentrating on those thoughts with every ounce of mental strength she possessed. After a few seconds, the memory began to fall back into focus and she expelled a sigh of relief at this minor triumph. The car she sat in was chasing another … or were they being chased? She couldn’t be sure but what was certain was that she had in her arms something valuable. Something of great importance. Something priceless. No, something irreplaceable. And then a dark shadow had fallen across her. The shadow of another vehicle just before it hit.
Claire shuddered as she relived that moment of impact. There was the deafening sound of crunching and twisting metal. The grinding of glass as it shattered all around her. And the intense force of the collision that sent shockwaves rippling throughout her body … And then nothing. The images captured in her mind were but a few single snapshots of the turmoil unfolding around her. It had all happened within a fraction of a second, but the sensation of it was far more lasting than the single hazy image of the impact – as is commonly the case during the most intense moments of trauma experienced during a car crash.
Claire instinctively rubbed at her right arm, where her first awareness of the impact had occurred, searching for signs of injury. But there were none. She slid her open palm down the length of her right side, all the way to the ankle, but there was nothing. No pain. No breaks. Not even any bruising, so far as she could tell in the darkness. Not even a tightness in her muscles. Quite simply nothing.
Claire pulled back instinctively and clasped both her hands together as if protecting them from any unseen force that may be maliciously lingering in the darkness. It was impossible! A crash like that should have been punishing to her body, pulverising even, and yet she couldn’t find any trace of it on her body. Impossible unless … A dark thought implanted itself into the depths of her cortex. At first she pushed it to the periphery of her mind but within seconds it began to grow, overpowering the rational and logical thought processes that had so far been guiding her. As, the idea became more vivid, so did the fear it induced and the consequences that came with it. Claire Dwyer felt a cold shiver tingling throughout her body as the idea flourished further. The grip she exerted on her hands began to stiffen and her mouth became dry, as an unpleasant constriction took hold in her throat.
Was she dead?
In a person’s life there is a moment when the potentially inevitable suddenly becomes inescapable. A moment such as an accident at the crucial moment of impact, when the point of no return has been reached, and your life is literally in the hands of the gods or of fate. When these moments occur and the importance of your own world fades around you and time slows, as it always does, one thought will consume your mind … Is this it? Is this the moment of my death? Of course it all happens so quickly that you won’t have a chance to worry about it, let alone have time to evaluate it. It just is, and in that instance comes a moment of peace. Not because you are OK with it in any way, shape or form, but rather because there simply isn’t time to think further. As Claire Dwyer sat motionless in the pitch black, clutching her hands together for comfort, this time-induced luxury was one she would not be afforded. Ther
e was only one emotion she could feel and it wasn’t one of peace … It was sheer panic.
Claire’s mind frazzled with the notion and as a single tear of despair rolled down her cheek, she once again clung to any truth her mind would allow.
‘My name is Claire Dwyer,’ she stated forcefully, her voice now shaking uncontrollably, ‘I’m thirty-six years old and I am alive.’
She dipped her head to her chest and was about to repeat this comforting mantra when, high up above, a tiny glow appeared and from it a thin ray of light shone down onto her head. She looked up and raised a hand in front of her eyes, as the dazzling light sent a shooting pain through her retinas. The discomfort increased, as the thin ray of light from above began to expand until it surrounded her whole body in a circle of light, revealing the moss covered, stone-cobbled flooring of what looked like a medieval prison cell of old. Through blurred vision she could now make out a circular opening overhead, where a rusty metal cover had been lifted back on a pair of dirty and well-oiled hinges. As her eyes struggled to focus, a shadowy figure loomed into the opening, the bright light from behind making it impossible to distinguish any of its features.
‘You are not dead, Miss Dwyer.’ The voice was unmistakably a man’s: deep, gruff and with a strong European accent. ‘But your fate has yet to be determined.’
Claire pulled herself to her feet, both hands still shielding her eyes, and she squinted up at the opening in the ceiling which she could now see was about ten feet above her. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded cautiously. ‘Why am I here?’
The mysterious shadow craned its head to one side as if trying to get a better view of the prisoner. ‘You are here because you are a sacrilegious heretic and a witch.’ The voice sounded extremely composed, considering the insults it was hurling. ‘You are here because you kidnapped the son of God for your own political grotesqueries.’
Claire’s knees almost buckled under her as her memory came flooding back. The cloned child! The Christ child and her part in his abduction! Where was he? Was he safe? She remained silent while trying to hide the shock she was feeling and, as her eyes grew more acclimatised to the light, she could now see the figure was wearing a hood made of a dark-coloured fabric, covering his face. In fact, she could only make out one feature and that was a pair of glinting white teeth and the lips surrounding them, which appeared to be snarling at her.
‘As for who I am, you need to know only that I am your judgment. I will be either your saviour or your executioner.’ The shadow’s lips now began to smile ominously, the sight sending a chill racing down Claire’s spine. ‘Tell me, Miss Dwyer,’ the voice continued, ‘are you ready to be born again?’
Chapter 13
‘…one hundred at the basilica in Rhône, one hundred and thirty at a synagogue in Porta Bella, Italy, and lastly one hundred and forty at the central mosque in Madrid. That’s just over one thousand people in seven religious institutions around the world, and they all died the same way within minutes of the tragedy at Notre Dame.’ Brulet nestled back into his chair. ‘So once again, Alex, I am compelled to ask: what is going on?’
Brulet’s question was not uttered accusingly but rather more like a probing of the facts. Regardless, though, Harker couldn’t help but feel this back-and-forth was more of an interrogation than a debrief, and he struggled to hold back an instinctive feeling of defensiveness that was now rising in his chest and attempting to push its way to the surface. ‘You have my word, Sebastian: that’s all I know.’
Brulet remained silent and motionless, those eyes of his not blinking or moving but just staring uncompromisingly.
‘You don’t really think I had a hand in this, do you?’ Harker’s stunned tone prompted an immediate shake of Brulet’s head.
‘Not for a moment, Alex – or we would not be having this conversation.’ The response was typical of what Harker had come to expect from the Grand Master, affable yet unnerving, demanding a silent respect from any it was directed towards. Brulet rose gracefully, picked up Harker’s now empty glass and glided over to the corner bar, where he began to mix a fresh drink for his guest. ‘Have you spoken to Father Strasser since he initially set you off on this Vatican-sponsored mission?’
‘No. I tried his number after we got arrested outside Notre Dame. It was the only phone call I was allowed but his line had been disconnected.’
‘It doesn’t sound like he wants to speak to you any more,’ Brulet deduced. ‘So what do you know about him anyway?’
‘Just that he was acting as an emissary for the Pope,’ Harker replied, now feeling somewhat naïve for not having checked out Strasser’s credentials for himself.
‘Very well.’ Brulet continued back to the table and placed the drink in front of his guest. ‘Then let us at least try and find out who he really is.’ The Grand Master leaned over to a small wood-encased speakerphone set in the middle of the conference table and tapped a round grey button on one side. ‘Jason, I need a background check, please, for one Father John Strasser – two ‘S’s I think.’ Brulet glanced enquiringly in Harker’s direction but was met with an uncertain shrug of the shoulders. ‘Better try it with one S as well,’ Brulet continued, ‘and he’s claiming to have direct contact with the Pope, so begin with the Vatican’s database. Oh and, Jason, do the same for a Captain McCray. Did the man have an accent, Alex?’ Brulet asked, looking back at Harker.
‘It was English,’ Harker replied earnestly, ‘and definitely southern.’
‘Did you get that, Jason? I’m not sure if the title refers to some military affiliation but best start there.’
‘Right away, sir,’ came the response, and the Grand Master released the speaker button and slid back into his seat, with his attention again focused on Harker. ‘Now, may I see this so-called Secret that seems to have caused these terrible events?’
The hint of sarcasm in Brulet’s tone was not lost on Harker but he didn’t take any offence to it, considering he himself thought that the idea of mere words instigating such a tragedy was absolutely crazy. But, still, the cynicism evident in Brulet’s voice was unusual from the man he had come to know. Harker pulled the offending piece of paper from his coat pocket and silently placed it in Brulet’s waiting palm.
Brulet began to examine it and within seconds was shaking his head, his eyebrows raised in bewilderment. ‘Well, its cryptic, and I can see the connection with ashes – or people – dropping to the floor but, Alex,’ he waved the piece of paper in front of him like a white surrender flag, ‘‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.’ Whatever this is it cannot be responsible for the deaths of all those people.’ Brulet handed the note back to Harker. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
The question was voiced with such conviction that Harker couldn’t help but feel somewhat idiotic, and he slipped the note back into his pocket with a gulp. ‘The whole idea of it sounds crazy, I know, yet I saw it happen with my own eyes. One second everyone’s fine and then I read this, and within seconds people are dropping to the floor like flies.’
Harker let out a deep pained sigh before continuing, as Brulet eyed him in silence. ‘If you had seen those people … their faces, the colour of their skin, their eyes.’ Harker paused to catch his breath as the memory of Bishop Canard pointing a finger towards him with those glaring inflamed red eyes loomed in his mind. ‘It just seemed so manufactured, as if it was meant to happen exactly as it did … if that makes any sense.’ Harker took a deep swig of his fresh drink and pushed the awful images from his thoughts before returning to face Brulet who was now looking a tad more sympathetic.
‘Do you believe in prophecy at all, Alex?’
Harker instinctively shook his head. ‘No, never have.’
‘And why is that?’ Brulet continued.
‘Because I believe that those who prophesise usually want to feel they have a special place in this world. That they are here for a reason, regardless of what the truth might be, and prophecy can give them jus
t that. Furthermore, some especially spiritually inclined people, can convince themselves that they even have a direct link to God Almighty.’
Brulet offered a mere nod of his head, those dazzling pupils of his refusing to blink. ‘Well, I do believe in prophecy, Alex. I believe in God Almighty and I believe that the Church and those that govern it, although far from perfect, do so at His wishes and in His name. Now, if I believe that, then I must also believe that God must communicate with some of us, and even hand down His knowledge to a few when that is deemed important or necessary.’ Brulet raised his finger upwards towards the ceiling, with the conviction of a preacher. ‘The real truth, though, lies in separating those with an authentic link from those for whom it is totally imagined.’
‘Oh yes? And how do you decide that?’ Harker questioned and unable to conceal the scepticism which he had instinctively wrapped around the question.
‘With common sense, my friend.’ Brulet reached over and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You have just found yourself at the centre of a horrific and truly bizarre event and are left considering the prophetic warning this Strasser fellow heaped upon you, not to mention this psychopath McCray? Well, then I’m not surprised your good judgement has taken a knock,’ Harker offered a nod but remained silent, allowing Brulet to present his rationale further. ‘But ask yourself this: what makes more sense? That you are somehow responsible for the death of a thousand people around the globe by the mere reading out of a note, or that some terrorist is using you as a pawn in his own twisted plans.’
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