by Scott Baker
David didn’t know how to respond. It was Shaun who had brought the diary to him, and they both knew that the whole time-travel thing was legitimate – they had seen the disc.
‘Maybe it was just lucky. Come on, read the rest of it, it might make sense. Maybe Fontéyne was exaggerating a little?’
‘Okay,’ replied Shaun with a heavy dose of sarcasm. ‘So, even if he survives the fight with Delissio, he’s fucked. He’s been cut to shreds in the Royåle and all the other fights, and has lost tons of blood. He’d need specialist medical attention to survive. Probably a truckload of antibiotics from all that crawling through sludge with open wounds, and a good tetanus shot.’
David saw that the stress of the past few days was taking its toll on Shaun. The guy had lost his wife. He was being hunted. He had been on the run and hadn’t had time to grieve. David didn’t take the outburst personally. Instead, he breathed calmly and continued to read while Shaun paced about the room.
Delissio stared down at his chest to see an arrow head protruding from where his heart would have been. His knees buckled as another arrow severed his spinal column at the neck and burst through his windpipe.
I lay back and breathed. I didn’t understand, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I just breathed. Then I passed out.
I woke to smelling salts, their acrid scent causing me to gag. I stared up at a man’s face. He was old. Much older than the age most people lived to in this era. He must have been eighty, but his eyes were clear and when he spoke it was with the life and vibrance of youthful vigour.
‘Ah, Graeme. My God, boy, are you okay? No, no of course you’re not okay. But you’re alive and that’s the way we like it. Come on, you bag of bones, I’m too old now to carry you. Get that saggy ass of yours up and follow me.’
The man spoke quickly in English. With an effort, I sat up on my elbows and looked around. I could just make out the forms of Malbool and Mishca being carried on crudely fashioned stretchers.
‘Who are you?’ I asked as I struggled to my feet.
The old man ignored the question and continued to speak. ‘Just round the corner and down the street. Fifty years I’ve been waiting for tonight. An old man starts to question his sanity after a while. But then I would look down again at my arm and I would remember. Still, it seems so long ago. The bastards sent me back too far – fifty years too far! I don’t think they’d worked it out as an exact science yet, if you know what I mean? Professor indeed! The bastard! Still, I’ve put the time to good use. Just because you were my assignment doesn’t mean that I couldn’t make a little profit out of the specialist medical knowledge I just happened to have, does it?’
I grabbed the old man by the arm to stop his rambling.
‘Who are you?’ I asked again. The old man turned and looked into my eyes.
‘Really, Graeme. Have I changed so much?’ he asked with amusement.
Then I saw it. The small mole above his left eyebrow, the defining dimple in the end of his nose … I recognised a man I had known once.
‘Miles?’ I asked, barely believing my eyes.
The old man smiled. ‘It’s not been more than a month or so for you, has it? But it’s been more than fifty years for me. The bastards sent me back too far. “Just need to make sure you don’t arrive late,” he said. “Gotta make sure of it; might give you an extra year.” Extra year my ass – try fifty of the bastards!
‘Five decades I’ve been waiting to put an arrow in that treacherous bastard’s back. Not a bad bit of shooting for an old boy, if I don’t say so myself. The Marines would be proud of me. Of course, I did know he was coming and he did have his back to me. Still, there would have been trouble if I’d missed. The bastard would have beaten the old shit outta me. And then he would have screwed you for good measure. Then we’d all be in the drink, wouldn’t we? Ah, here we are.’
Walking briskly while he rambled, Miles showed me a small wooden door through which his aides had already carried Malbool and Mishca. Gesturing to what looked like an ancient doctor’s waiting room, he said, ‘I even built the bastard out here just to make sure I wouldn’t be too far away when the day came. Not too good for business, I’ll tell ya, but I got ’im! Right through the breather! Not to mention the wagers I’ve won from my staff who all bet me you wouldn’t be there. It took me a while to work out the spot, mind you, and I was about to go and take a piss when you finally showed up. Think of that! Fifty years of waiting to save your ass and I miss the chance because I had to take a piss. That would’ve been a good one. Now …’
He walked through to a back room and came to a padded bench in the middle. He tapped it with his old, bony hand and said, ‘Let’s have a look at that nose of yours and stop you pissing out all that blood. But first, take this.’ He held his hand out and revealed a small white capsule.
‘What is it?’
‘Just a potent little cocktail of antibiotics. You’re going to need a tetanus shot too, so I hope you’re not scared of needles.’
‘Needles? What are you talking about?’
The old man seemed to be enjoying this. He shuffled over to a drawer and unlocked it. When he returned he carried several vials and a syringe. When I looked at him blankly he laughed again.
‘Well, we’re not all cameramen, you know! They only told me what I needed to know, but when I arrived I had no clue who I was or what I was doing. All I had to go on was this.’
He pulled up his sleeve to reveal an old, bony arm. The sagging skin on his forearm was speckled with sunspots, but that’s not what caught my attention. On the underside, a faded scar was visible. It was a single word: VOMIT.
‘It was fresh when I arrived – still bleeding and stung like a bitch. I guess that was so I would notice it. None of these dull bastards believed me,’ he continued, nodding towards his assistants. ‘I tried telling a couple of them once, but they think I’m senile. Still, it was all I had to go on, so that’s what I did … vomit. Fingers down the throat and a big hurl. Bile and all – and there it was. A little piece of home. A little capsule of metal with instructions inside it. As soon as I touched it my head exploded with images and sounds and all the crap you would have been through as well.
‘So, there I was, every bloody year for fifty years waiting for you to show up in the Royåle. The bloody thing didn’t even exist when I got here, so I had to suggest the idea to an old games master when I treated him one time. Can you believe that? No one gave old Miles any credit for inventing the bloody Royåle, did they? No siree! But I did, you know; told them what a bloody good idea it would be to have a hundred of those poor bastards in there at once hacking away at each other. And I only did that ’cause I got sick of waiting for someone else to invent the bloody thing while I was waiting for you to arrive. Can’t show up in a Royåle if the bloody thing doesn’t exist yet, can you? Bastards. Fifty years. Fifty bloody years too early, the bastards!’
David stopped reading. This time it was he who didn’t want to turn the page.
Shaun was still pacing, talking to himself.
‘Shaun,’ David said from the bed, but Shaun continued to mutter to himself. ‘Shaun,’ he said again. More muttering.
‘Strickland!’ he shouted.
Shaun stopped. ‘What?’
‘You, ah, had better come and look at this,’ David said.
‘I don’t want to look at it. It’s crap. I even said, he’d have to get an arrow through his back and that’s exactly what happened! It’s like a bad action movie!’
‘Um … Yeah, and you also said that he should take some antibiotics and get a tetanus shot, your words … guess what happens next.’
Shaun finally stopped and looked at David. ‘What?’
‘Just like you said.’
Shaun raised an eyebrow, but his heart started to beat a little faster.
‘Come and read it,’ said David. ‘There’s something strange going on here.’
Shaun grumbled, then did so.
CHAPTER 40
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br /> Vincenso Raul Giovanni sat with his back to the sun. The man was late. He did not like it when people were late – in his line of work, it usually meant they were dead. He worked his fingers around the small paper tubes of sugar that sat on the table. Finally he gave in, tore one and added it to his coffee.
Giovanni did not wear anything to give away his position as a high-ranking cardinal at the Vatican. In the Jesuit order, he was second only to ‘the black Pope’, the term given to the head of the Jesuits, named for the robes he wore rather than any sinister connotations.
Forty-one degrees, fifty-four minutes north; twelve degrees, twenty-seven minutes east, Vatican City State. A completely independent, self-governed country in the heart of Rome.
He looked out across the city towards the world’s smallest nation. The Vatican sat on a small rise in the old part of Rome, guarded by three thousand Corpo della Guardia Svizzera Pontificia, the pontificial Swiss Guard. Although theoretically only for show – responsibility for the defence of the State fell to Italy – the Guard provided an excellent means of incorporating highly skilled agents within the grounds. Ah, if the people knew what went on there. If the priests who worked and worshipped there knew what went on there.
Although small, the Vatican was powerful. Resources, influence; so much more than the outside world would ever know about. Even the officials at the Vatican didn’t know the secrets within its walls – and there was an immense secret that even the Holy Father himself was not privy to.
Giovanni enjoyed thinking especially about the Vatican’s unique place in the world. Three treaties signed with Italy on 11 February 1929 acknowledged the full sovereignty of the Vatican, among other things. The origin of papal states, however, could be traced back to the eighth century. But soon things would never be the same; Giovanni was certain of that. The world was on the brink of change, on the brink of war, though they didn’t know it.
Vincenso Giovanni was born in the south of Italy sixty-three years ago. He had shown extraordinary ability at school and was offered scholarships to three of Italy’s top universities, all of which he declined, opting instead to give his life to the service of the people. He had been fifteen when he had received ‘the calling’. Unlike most vocational priests, however, this was no intangible feeling. This was a very direct, very real calling.
The teenage Vincenso had just come in from his weekly football match, very disappointed that his team had failed to qualify for the semi-final. He had taken the defeat very personally and did not want to tell his father, but his parents were out when he arrived home. He had walked out to the back garden to fetch his clean shirt, and there he had seen a man sitting on the sandstone bench next to the clothes line.
Vincenso had stopped dead, his heart in his mouth. In trousers and a loose shirt, the man wore the fashion of the day. His skin was olive and his brown hair fell loosely around his face. And when Vincenso saw that face, that face he would never forget – he was changed.
Such a simple, kind face. Light brown eyes had looked out at the boy as the man stood up.
‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’ Vincenso had asked, trying to sound brave. He laughed now at the memory.
The man had smiled at him and said simply: ‘Bring me to my people.’
He had then walked around the corner of the house. Vincenso had raced around after him, but the man was nowhere. He was gone.
Later, people would try to tell him that he had imagined it. They would say all kinds of things and try to rationalise. But he knew straight away. Vincenso knew what he saw.
Now Vincenso Giovanni was a Jesuit. He had always endeavoured to do what he felt was right, but knew he was far from a saint. Life had been challenging. Because of his childhood experience, he had something that he found lacking in many who walked around the Vatican. He had knowledge. Many had faith, but there was no doubt in his mind.
At least there hadn’t been until the chance arose that he might be proved wrong.
‘How are the omelets today?’ he heard a voice ask him in broken Italian.
Giovanni didn’t look up, but answered in English. ‘The eggs are a little runny, but they taste as good as always.’
There was a moment’s silence before the owner of the question pulled up a seat at the small table. It was a cafe situated in the old part of town, and one of Giovanni’s favourites. The smells from the kitchen always made him hungry, and he often felt a little guilty when he ordered a second or third helping. Right now, however, his stomach was the last thing on his mind.
The man who sat in front of him was the man from the surveillance photos Giovanni’s team had provided. Good. But a moment later a second chair was pulled back and a third man sat at the table. Giovanni instantly grew angry. After all the trust and crosschecking they had done on each other, to bring another person to this meeting was beyond bad manners, it was dangerous. He started to speak a moment before he saw the second man’s face.
‘How dare you—’ His heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was … that you would be joining us today. I …’ Giovanni stammered.
David and Shaun both froze. Shaun was certain he had never seen this man before. The Italian priest wore a dark suit that fitted snugly. He was not overweight, but he knew that his heavyset shoulders often gave the impression he was not quite as physically fit as he really was. Giovanni didn’t mind. His life in recent years had been all about deception and subterfuge. He was relieved there was not an eleventh commandment saying, ‘Thou shalt not lie under any circumstances.’
‘Have we met?’ Shaun asked the man, knowing the answer. The Italian stared at him long and hard through his thick spectacles.
On closer inspection Giovanni began to doubt himself. This man was much younger. His hair was not the silvery grey of the man he thought it was, and there was no scar on his forehead. No, it was maybe not the same man, but still, they could have passed as brothers.
‘I’m sorry. Forgive me, I thought you were someone else.’ Giovanni turned his attention to the other man, the one he had had followed for more than two years now. ‘It is highly unorthodox to bring another party to our meeting; this is not what we had arranged.’
‘You said you had information. Do you want to speak or are you wasting my time?’ Shaun was taken aback at David’s abrupt tone. Giovanni, however, didn’t flinch.
‘I may have information, yes. But first, coffee.’ The old man signalled to a nearby waiter, who came and took their orders. Giovanni noticed that the second man was extremely pale, his face showed the strain of ongoing stress and little sleep.
‘You know about me, I assume. You are a clever man, Mr Black. I assume you have run background checks on me, no?’
‘I have,’ David replied shortly.
‘And what is it that you found?’ the Italian asked with interest in his voice.
‘I saw you were a Jesuit priest who worked at the Vatican.’
‘Anything else?’ the Italian pressed.
David paused. This was no time for games. If this man was going to help them, he had to play straight.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing,’ the priest repeated. ‘Good. Good.’ He pulled a manila envelope out of a small black briefcase. He slid it forward on the table, allowing a pile of photographs to spill out. David picked up the first of them, then skimmed the rest. They were all of him: in Spain, in France, in Germany and in Holland. His every move had been monitored.
‘This is …’ the Italian priest began, rubbing his temple with his index finger, ‘proof for you that I know about you, who you are, where you have been. Proof for you too that if I meant you harm, I could have inflicted it at any time. It is proof that you can trust me and what I have to say.’ The Italian sat back and waited for a response.
Shaun looked over at David, who in turn looked through the photographs, feeling fear, anger and shame. He was furious with himself for allowing this to happen, for not knowing it had happened. He was a smar
t guy, and he had been so careful.
‘Don’t be upset. Your skill is commendable considering you had few resources. There is not a human being on this planet the Vatican cannot find, follow, and if necessary, terminate.’ Again the Italian spoke with no hint of emotion.
Shaun sat and listened. This man was a priest, so what was this talk of ‘terminate’? He knew he was naive to the worlds of religion and espionage, but there were some things he had hoped were a given.
‘Okay,’ David said. ‘Why do you want to help me?’
The Jesuit stroked the small white goatee on his chin. At that moment the waiter returned and placed a cappuccino in front of Shaun and a long black in front of David. When he was out of earshot the Italian continued.
‘I want to help you, naturally, because you can help me,’ Giovanni said as he fixed on David’s eyes. Shaun remained silent.
‘What do you know about The Journalist Project?’ Giovanni asked David.
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘Do you know what it is?’
‘Do you know what it is?’ David shot back.
Giovanni smiled. ‘Mr Black. Let me be, how you say? Fred with you?’
‘Frank,’ Shaun piped up, then immediately fell silent. Giovanni smiled.
‘Yes, let me be frank with you. I did not come here to fuck around.’
Shaun swallowed.
‘I did not come here to waste your time, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t waste mine. As I have said to you, and as I have proven, I mean you no harm. I have the ability to help you. You can start by answering my questions truthfully. I will do the same. It is my hope that at the end of our conversation we are both a lot closer to reaching our goals.’
David felt like a chastised school boy. He had come to this intending to play hard ball, but deep down he knew he was not a negotiator. He was a computer geek, and he had just been schooled by a professional.
‘Okay,’ he conceded.
‘Good. Now, what do you know about the project?’
