by Sam Nash
Glancing over to the buffet table, I looked at the benign exterior of the Father General, his aide still fussing over his care. He picked through his plate of choice morsels with bony fingers and ridged claws. He resembled a vulture, pecking over the remains of those he controlled, his lieutenant and cabinet members, loitering, watching, waiting for their chance to seize the moment when he falls.
The Black Pope spluttered. Spittle and wet food particles flew. His aide produced a clean cotton handkerchief and tried dabbing it to the old man’s face. Constricted rasping accompanied the erratic bobbing to the Adam’s apple in his scrawny throat, his face red and contorted. Those about him stood respectfully, assuming that he was enduring another coughing fit. From a distance of twenty feet, I could see that he was choking.
I shoved my champagne flute into the Grand Master’s hand and ran to the Father General’s side. Pushing the aide out of my path, I positioned my arms around his wasted body, and forced my clenched fists up into his diaphragm. With the second lurch, armed guards appeared from nowhere and surrounded me, aiming their weapons at my head, just as the offending bolus of food shot from the Jesuit’s mouth. I put my hands up in surrender, leaving the old man to collapse to the floor, wheezing.
With a breath so weak, it could barely sustain him, the Father General levered himself up onto an elbow and said, “Stand down. He saved my life.” They did as he commanded, but remained in position ready for orders.
With my arms still raised, I ventured, “He needs oxygen. Someone should call an ambulance… ambulanza…understand?” I heard the Grand Master shout to his clerics in Italian, and in doing so, set the whole party in a frenzy of concern.
I shuffled towards the exit, weaving backwards through the mass of onlookers. In less than ten minutes, the ambulance gurney, followed by a team of medics entered the hall, providing a perfect distraction for my escape.
At a measured pace, I walked along the gravel path to the rear of the building, past the cypress grove and around the side of the church. Ahead of me, chauffeurs leaning against limousines, smoking and chattering. They paid me no attention, as I marched past them, and out of the open gates at the front of the compound.
At last I was out, but not beyond their reach. I quickened my step towards a group of last-minute tourists, squeezing the final rays of daylight from their visit to the famous Keyhole of Rome. In desperation, I stood to the side of the diminishing queue and hailed them.
“Mi scusi, parla inglese?” It was about all I could manage, my understanding of the language being so poor. “Does anyone here speak English?” It was a long shot, but it was all I had.
“I’m English, mate. What’s up?” He was young, early twenties. I looked at the striped helmet hooked over his wrist, and wondered if fate wasn’t on my side after all.
“Please can you help me. I’m in such trouble. I need to get to the nearest train station immediately. I can pay you. I have sterling.” I reached for my wallet and displayed the crumpled wodge of notes.
“Put your wallet away. Don’t go flashing it around in tourist spots at night. That’s asking for trouble. Come on, I’ll give you a lift. It’s not far.” He led me to the tarmac parking area, secured the helmet on his head, and slung his leg over the moped frame. “You gonna be alright on the back of this? I mean, you ain’t gonna fall off and kill yourself, are you?”
“I’ll be fine. I had a classic motorbike, once upon a time. Thanks for this, I really appreciate it.” I got on the back and clung to the seat beneath my bottom. With the motor started, we sped down the Aventine Hill, the high-pitched engine whine and deafening horns blaring in my ears. Within a minute or two, we joined the Via Marmorata, encircled a large round-about and flew past the Pyramid of Caius Cestius. In short order, my young saviour screeched to a halt outside the Roma Ostiense, railway station.
My hands were seized from gripping the saddle, and my knees crunched during my dismount, but I was inordinately grateful. I took out my wallet once again, and tried to give him a tenner for his troubles, but he said, “It’s okay, don’t worry. You kinda remind me of my grandpa. He was a bit of a daredevil back in his day too.” I shook his hand, and thanked him profusely, before hurrying into the station.
Studying the huge maps of transportation links in the foyer; my immediate thought was to plan a route back to the airport. How simple would it be, for Carmine the hulk to make a call and arrange for his colleagues to meet me at the departure lounge, ready to drag me off kicking and screaming? It would be the first place they would look. My second option would be slower, but much harder to track.
I took all the cash I had to the currency exchange booth, converting enough for my fare into Lira, and the rest into Francs. With my tickets purchased, I boarded the connecting train to the Roma Termini, and had to stand while it creaked and ground its way in a long loop through the city.
Even at this late hour, the station was buzzing with noise and people milling about the concourse and electronic signage. The moment platform numbers appeared; a great surge of impatient travellers pulsed through the barriers and fought for the best seats. I looked again at my ticket. It had Prima Classe, printed at the top, and what looked to be a seat number next to it. I grumbled to myself, and wondered if the official who helped me purchase the fare was on commission. Then, strolling past the crowds of people, trying to cram into the cheap seats, I sent an air born apology to the thoughtful person who saved me from the crush.
Sinking into the plush, reclining seat, I took a minute to decompress from the high state of anxiety, checking my pulse and actively attempting to calm its feverish beat. I closed my eyes to the annoying sounds of bumping suitcases, swishing automatic doors and apologies in French and Italian. The table wobbled in front of me, and the scent of musk rose and alcohol filled my sinuses. I opened my eyes to discover a slender woman, in her mid-forties, with shoulder length dark copper hair and altogether too much make-up.
She gave me a brief smile, and then tended to her abundance of bags and cases. Flagging down a young man in a black waistcoat a short way down the aisle, she flapped her arms about her head, instructing him to stow her luggage in the overhead lockers. With plenty of grazie-milles, spoken in an American twang, she slipped him a tip, then took great pains to adjust her clothing before sitting down. I pretended not to notice her shapely figure and dazzling blue eyes, but I am only human.
Finally, we were underway, a slow jaunt through the moonlit outskirts of Rome and out into the countryside. I wrestled my journal from the lining of my jacket and filled these pages with my frantic pen. It felt good to empty my brain. At last, I was on my way to find David. If there is a God, please keep him safe.
Monday 30th July 1990 - Midnight
Picking up speed, through the industrial sections of the city, the fair lady opposite me caught my eye, and said, “Mi scusi, but would you mind if I sat on your side of the table?” She pointed to the seat next to me and began to move. I nodded and scooted a fraction in my chair. Shoving her handbag on top of the table, she slid in place next to me.
“Thanks. I had no idea I’d be travelling backwards when I booked the seat. Makes me queasy, you know?” Her American accent quite pronounced. Again, she took time to adjust her clothing. This time, tugging at the front of her blouse and affording me an unobscured view of her cleavage. I found myself smiling, unable to stop.
“I guess I ought to introduce myself, it’s a long way to Paris.” She twisted in the chair and stuck out her hand. “I’m Tawnie Chambers, hail from Boston, live in New York.”
Taking her soft hand in mine, I noticed an absence of wedding ring on the left hand. “How do you do, I’m Phillip.”
“Ooh! A British accent…how I love that accent.” She squealed with delight. A man scowled at her from across the aisle, then fumbled in his pocket and retrieved a set of earplugs and a sleep mask. Tawnie mouthed her apology. Then to me she said, “Do you fancy a nightcap, Phil? I want one. Where’s
that God damn waiter got to?” The lights in our carriage dimmed, in deference to those wishing to sleep. Tawnie failed to notice, waving her hand about and cooing at the same young man who had earlier tussled with her luggage.
Two cognacs arrived on our table. She swished the ice about her glass with a finger then stuck the digit into her mouth. I suppose that is what passes for seduction in the US. Despite the distinct frisson brewing between us, I was not so ignorant as to think that she was without motive. The carriage was full with eligible men, most around her age or younger, and I caught the fact that she already knew my destination, but I was intrigued to see how far she was prepared to go. I sipped my drink, and felt the sting of alcohol burn my chest and begin to neuter my inhibitions.
Tawnie flicked off her shoes beneath the table and ordered more brandy. In retrospect, I should have eaten more at the buffet, since the effects of our drinks hit me quite suddenly. Her toes inveigled their way up my trouser leg, her hand slipped to my thigh.
“So, what was it, Phil, business or pleasure? Why is a distinguished gentleman leaving Rome on a sleeper to Paris in the middle of the night? Are the Mafia after you?”
Trace fumes of sickly cocktail liqueurs floated from her mouth. These were not her first drinks of the evening. I played along. “I could ask the same of you. An attractive woman, travelling alone with her copious luggage past midnight.”
“Ha! Yeah. I did get a bit carried away with the shopping. But a girl’s just gotta have the right shoes. You know what I mean, Phil?” Her head lolled against my shoulder.
“Not really, no.”
She tilted her face towards mine and ran a fingertip over the silvery stubble coating my jaw line. “You know, you’re younger than I thought you’d be. What are you? Fifty, fifty-one?”
There it was. Confirmation that she was ordered to accost me, but from which group was she sent? I kept my expression neutral and halted my drinking. “I’m fifty-six.” It occurred to me that in her inebriated state, and with the first scheduled stop to change trains hours away, she was utterly at my mercy. “What do they want from me?” I ventured, although I did not expect a straight answer.
“Who?”
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” I spoke softly. The carriage, although noisy with piston and engine clamour, was silent of voices save ours. “Tell me what they want, and I will tell you what I am prepared to give.”
“Oh, Phil. You make it sound like an indecent proposal. Who says they want anything from you? Perhaps they simply want you to join us. Be part of a vision for the future.” Her hand slipped closer to my groin. My concentration wavered.
“Who, precisely, are us?” I laid my hand on hers, preventing further movement up my leg.
“People like you. Important people, lots of money and status.” She sat upright and removed her hand.
“I’m not important. I’m just a general practitioner – a doctor.”
“They know exactly who you are, your lineage, the abeyant Earldom, everything. All your family secrets.” She emphasised the word, everything, opening those big indigo eyes wide and accompanying it with the most disarming smile.
So, she was on team wealth, with Fletch and the Bentley. I hadn’t really considered them a credible threat. Short of bugging my house and trying to bribe me with ridiculous gifts, they had not made their intentions clear. Perhaps Tawnie was meant to elucidate, but misinterpreted their wishes. She certainly seemed to be amenable to seduction.
“Everything?” I needed more. What did they know about my family and me?
Tawnie leaned in and whispered. “They know about your granddaughter’s potential. Her latent abilities aren’t your average temper tantrums, are they?”
A chilling nerve impulse crept down my vertebrae. It was what I was dreading the most. My mind shot back to Mary and her effect on electronics. I sincerely hope that I have put that genie back in the bottle. If she can refrain from strong emotional outbursts and environments that may shift the transcription of her DNA, she may yet escape exploitation - or persecution.
I changed direction. “What is this vision that you talk of? Some grand plan of sorts?”
“Not so much a plan, more of a duty. We are in the top one percent after all. It is our duty to use our influence and considerable resources to manage a sustainable future for all.” Despite the slurring, her words flowed uninterrupted, a memorised pitch, delivered as if it were part of an extensive oath.
“And by manage you mean control?”
“I mean stewardship. Really it is just another way of saying philanthropy. We use our profits to help the poor and needy.”
“How?”
“A lot of our resources go into funding research. Medical cures, resistant crops, vaccines…you know the sort of thing.” She drank from my glass by accident. I didn’t stop her. I’d had more than enough.
“Vaccines for what?” It was starting to sound like they were collaborating with the British government. My brain flooded with memories of my recent trip to GCHQ Porton Down, and the ultimatum posed by the Defence Minister.
“The usual things. Polio, diphtheria, tetanus, contraception…”
“Contraception? Pregnancy is not a disease.” I could not help but look affronted.
Her response was to comfort me. She placed a gentle hand against my cheek. “In a way, it is. If the poor had fewer children, they would have a better quality of life. As it stands, there aren’t enough resources to go around. We are doing them a favour, if you think about it.” She kissed me, a brush of the lips that ignited a long dormant spark.
I weighed my options. An outright refusal directed at the delightful, Ms Tawnie Chambers, would undoubtedly result in a spectacular scene, one that had the potential to prompt notification of some kind of transport police at the next stop. She might also contact colleagues to lend her assistance at Milan or Lausanne. If I parted company with her and the train, my meeting with David would be further delayed in an attempt to secure alternative transportation.
My best bet was to temporarily submit, and enjoy anything that she had to offer. And my goodness, she had so much on offer.
***
Wildman would be proud of me, although I don’t think my back would share the sentiment. The logistics of carnal union in the confines of a first-class lavatory was more involved than I imagined. Mind you, Tawnie will feel her share of contusions when the booze wears off. When we returned to our seats, she nuzzled her face into my neck, and spent an hour or two dozing the trip away, waking only in acknowledgement of a rickety section of the track.
At any other time, I would have savoured the whole experience. The train eased through narrow graveyard passages, between eerie headstones looming into view with the light from the carriages. The ancient stone villages were illuminated in the glow of the sunrise. I could feel the warmth of her body and smell the scent of her hair that was against my face. If only she had been my Minnie instead. I shuttered a pang of guilt from my thoughts. This was not the time for censure or mourning. Eventually, I slept.
***
I saw a maid, dressed in an Edwardian gown and pinafore, soaking linen in melted wax and oil. She broke tallow candles into a pan over the fire and moved aside. Behind her, a young lady hunched over her writing desk. In the lamplight, she filled the last pages of her notebook, blotted the wet ink, and then reached for a single sheet of parchment.
In swirling script, the letter began:
My dearest grandson, Pip.
Though I am not yet one and twenty, I know that you will be the joy of my declining years. You must heed the words I send you, since you face the same dilemma as I…
The letter faded from my view, the words too distant to comprehend. As her mistress completed the message, the maid placed the leather book into the centre of the waxen cloth. Embedded into its cover, the china face of a doll, whose mouth was covered by a strip of calf skin.
My young grandmother, Phebe, pa
ssed the note to her maid, who then placed it beneath the cover slip inside the journal. With a careful touch, she wrapped the linen about the book, and shaped it with the warmth from her hands. On the floor, a lacquered tin lay waiting for the waxy parcel. As the maid closed the lid, Phebe poured the molten tallow, creating a watertight seal.
Together they stood, the maid clutching the tin to her chest, tears streaming down her pallid cheeks. Phebe squeezed the maid’s arm, and gathered her cloak and a carpet bag from her bed. Peeking out of the door onto the landing to see if the coast was clear, she disappeared into the night.
***
The vision left me flummoxed. How could I receive a warning from the past? Obviously, Grandma Phebe was blessed, or cursed, with a stronger ability than my own. If only I was able to see the contents of the journal now. To have the solution presented to me in actionable steps, I could save the future of my family.
While Tawnie slept, I related as much of the premonition as I could remember into this diary. I will need every detail of it, if I am to retrieve Phebe’s words and act upon them.
We breakfasted in the buffet car, on chewy pastries that had grown stale overnight, and coffee so strong it could have dissolved the enamel from my teeth. Tawnie looked especially pale. She downed two cups of espresso and some painkillers from her handbag. I searched her features for any hint of regret following our passionate interlude, but I detected none. If anything, she looked decidedly pleased for herself. Perhaps the reward for coercing me onto their hedonistic mission was far greater than I could imagine.
Before long, we shunted into Milan at a sober pace. The industrial taint on the city marred its beauty. Factories and warehouses lined our route. I helped Tawnie with her scattered and numerous bags out onto the platform and, in the cool morning breeze; we sought a table at a station café.