by Ian Young
All characters featured in this work are
fictional, and resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The right of Ian Young to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The Pillars of Abraham
Copyright © Ian Young 2016
Published by daisyPress Fiction
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Blessed be Abram
by God Most High,
creator of heaven and earth.
And blessed be God Most High,
who has delivered your enemies into your
power.
Genesis 14:20
Prague, 7 February
A hate crime, declares the Městská Police officer. Open and shut. Religious persecution, nothing more, nothing less. He jabs a finger at the dead man’s head. That’s why the killer stuck a crucifix into the priest’s ear.
The city cop groans to his feet, clapping his snow-dusted gloves together, shuffling from foot to foot, waiting for the State Police lieutenant to come to the same conclusion. The suspects are countless, he tells the lieutenant: neo-Nazis, immigrants, refugees, Romas – yeah, Roma Gypsies; that’d stick. The lieutenant doesn’t answer. Don’t waste time on this, says the cop; no one cares much for religion round here.
Standing beside the lieutenant, Zdeněk Hanzel listens to the Městská Police officer give his lazy opinion. The officer lights a cigarette and tramps back to his patrol car, leaving Hanzel and the lieutenant to consider his words.
Hanzel examines the crucifix still buried in the priest’s ear, the crossbar pressing against the bloodied lobe, the head of Christ nestling in the dilated opening of the ear canal. Judging by the size of what remains, Hanzel estimates the crucifix must have penetrated halfway into the skull.
‘It’s not the easiest way to kill a man,’ says Hanzel.
‘I guess that’s his point.’ The lieutenant flicks his head towards the Městská Police officer.
Hanzel notes the purple colour of the frozen blood around the priest’s ear, and the pallid skin untouched by the early sun. ‘Looks like he’s been dead a few days. Any priests reported missing?’
‘Not so far. I guess he hasn’t been missed.’ The lieutenant stands and pulls his Puffa jacket down over his waist. ‘
‘Or he isn’t local.’
‘In which case, Hanzel, it might be a job for you. This religious stuff freaks me out anyway.’
‘I’m just an interested observer, I’m afraid.’
Hanzel looks over the body once more. Every button on the priest’s coat is tightly fastened from the knees to the collar. If he’d been wearing the crucifix around his neck, it would still be there. There are no other signs of violence, no obvious wounds to the head or neck, no holes in the thick overcoat. A post mortem might reveal bruising from a blow that could have floored the priest, but Hanzel’s guess is the cause of death will turn out to be the crucifix sticking in the victim’s brain. Hanzel also guesses forensics wouldn’t find the priest’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. This crucifix belonged to the killer. Hanzel is sure of that.
‘What do you think?’ asks the lieutenant. ‘A hate crime?’
‘Well that would rule out the Roma community.’
‘These local cops think everything’s down to those poor bastards.’
Hanzel nods and puffs out a plume of condensation with a weary sigh. ‘Good to see you again, lieutenant. You know where we are if you need anything.’
Hanzel turns and retraces his footprints back to his car. The priest isn’t local; he knows that. He’s seen him before. And it isn’t a hate crime; he knows that too. This isn’t the first Catholic priest to wind up dead in Prague with a crucifix buried in his ear. But the last time was ten years ago, when Hanzel himself was a lieutenant in the State Police.
Prague, 8 February
Father Sean Unsworth fumbles at the lapels of his coat, numb fingers scrunching the two halves together against the Prague winter. He tightens his grip, but the stiff white collar of his faith digs at his throat and he lets go. It’s a long way from South America; he hadn’t expected to be summoned so soon.
Dry snow crunches under his feet like he’s treading on beetles; he shivers at the noise. A trolleybus scuttles past and Unsworth jumps, his foot sliding along the pavement until he can grab a lamp post.
Grey buildings line the street, tenement blocks with crumbling facades and rotting doors. Many seem empty, deserted perhaps, like the social system that built them. He puffs out a faint cough and a little cloud of moisture blooms in front of his face.
Third building from the end; Unsworth stops and takes a moment to study the door. The drab slab of wood is anonymous and unwelcoming like the rest on the block. But there’s a difference – he almost misses it: three panels of drab wood. This is the door they described. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a long iron key and rattles it into the lock. Three whole turns, they said. Three turns, three clunks. He puts the key back in his pocket, twists the tarnished brass knob and pushes.
The door opens into a dark hallway and Unsworth screws up his nose at the dank air. It smells like one of those squats he used to visit in Dublin forty years ago. A tied-up cable hangs from the ceiling like a noose, casting a grim shadow against the wall until he closes the door.
The priest creeps towards a door at the end of the hallway, tentative steps to the unknown. One day, perhaps, he might approach the fabled Pearly Gates in the same faltering manner. But not yet.
Fumbling for a handle, his fingers scrape across the wooden door until they touch cold brass. With a twist of his hand, the door opens into another hallway, this one brightly lit by a pair of wall lamps. Unsworth peers through narrowed eyes at a set of shabby lockers standing in a line like a row of old soldiers, barely able to stand without the wall behind. Opposite the lockers, a long wooden bench that appears just as frail.
There are no names on the lockers, just the images of ancient religious figures – Legends of the Faithful. Unsworth moves down the row, mumbling the names as he passes each: Isaiah the Prophet, Adam the first man … Israfil holding the trumpet that would one day sound the end of the world. David, slayer of Goliath … St Peter, the great Rock of Christianity and then Abu Bakr, the first Caliph. Finally, he arrives at an image of the elderly St John, the only Apostle not to have been martyred.
Unsworth smiles at his choice and opens the locker. Inside hangs a grey robe. He checks the name is correct, then strips naked, shivering like a wretched animal, his damp feet beginning to stick to the cold cement. He slides the plain robe over his head, wriggling until the cloth hangs free from his shoulders.
There is another door at the far end. The priest opens the door and looks down a spiral sta
ircase. Casting his eyes around the curved walls and stone steps, he supposes this is the way he is meant to go. As he closes the door behind him, the steps fade into darkness and Unsworth stands staring at nothing. He senses, just for a second, what had existed in the beginning before God created the universe. But unlike then, this isn’t empty space; light from the corridor has shown that. Perhaps, Unsworth considers, God didn’t create the universe, but merely cast it into light.
It’s a brief moment; Unsworth thinks he can imagine what happened in the beginning, one of those moments of clarity that God gifts to his brethren, moments that underpin the faith that shepherds humanity towards him.
Unsworth begins to follow the stairs down, his feet guided by the knowledge of steps there, if not seen. There is barely a sound as he pads gingerly on the invisible floor. It feels like he has lost touch with his senses. Only a prickling smell of damp and the winter’s chill remind him he is still alive.
With each step, he spirals further from God, or so it seems. The temperature warms fractionally – perhaps it doesn’t, but he isn’t shivering so much now. His eyes begin to see again, shades of black just marking out the steps ahead. And then he is out, standing at the entrance to what looks like a crypt.
Three candelabra hang from archways in a vaulted ceiling, casting dim light on to a silent cellar. The light reveals crumbling walls of plaster and a dusty stone floor. Beneath the candelabra, three crescent-shaped tables form a fractured circle about five or six metres across. Three men sit at each table, except for one, where an empty chair waits. Space for him, he supposes.
Each man wears a plain grey robe with the name of a chosen religious figure stitched to the coarse material. They all stare at the space on the table between their upturned hands: a symbol of peace, Unsworth remembers, like the salute or handshake, showing no weapons are carried.
Beyond the tables is a raised floor like an altar. A single table sits beneath a frosted glass panel high on the wall behind, filtering light from the street outside. Three more robed men sit at the table. They too stare at the space between their upturned hands.
Unsworth takes his seat, places his hands on the wooden table and turns his palms up. Immediately the other eleven men retract their hands. The man at the centre of the raised table, Khalid ibn al-Walid, according to the stitched lettering, stands and looks around the cellar. When his scrutiny comes to rest on Unsworth’s bewildered face, Khalid takes a breath. ‘Her name is Dr Andreia Menendes. She lives in Los Angeles and she possesses something that looks like this.’
He holds a crude drawing up, directing it at Unsworth. ‘You have forty-eight hours to bring it here.’
‘And the woman?’ asks Unsworth.
Khalid stares impassively at the Catholic priest. ‘Kill her.’
Chapter 1
South Pacific, 4 February – four days earlier.
The ship dipped and sliced through the water like a marlin. I tightened my grip on the handrail and spread my feet. As the ocean fought back, the bow reared up and sheets of water streamed from the hull. I lifted my head to the sky and allowed the wind to loosen my long hair.
Beside me, my boss groaned. I looked at his blanched face and placed my hand on the back of his. ‘Are you going to be sick again?’ I screwed up my nose at the thought.
‘I’m thinking about it, honey,’ he said, glaring at the horizon and squinting at the sunrise.
He turned his hand over and wrapped his fingers around mine. I snapped my hand away and glanced around the deck. My boss gawked at me like I’d done something wrong. Then, perhaps realising his indiscretion, he twisted his head round to look over his shoulder. We were like teenagers defying our parents.
‘Damn!’ He spat the word through teeth that look glued together. ‘Dr Menendes – Andreia, whatever! Who the hell cares out here?’ He shook his head and turned back to the ocean.
‘It’s OK, Howie, there’s no one here anyway.’ I placed my hand back on his but he didn’t respond.
A wave crashed against the ship, sending flashes of spray high above the deck. I watched the droplets sparkling in the sunlight like tiny stars and followed them overhead to the stern. On the aft deck, nestling on an iron cradle, was the little submersible waiting to transport one of us to the bottom of the Pacific in search of some great discovery. I shuddered; the way things were going it could be me.
‘Howie?’ I said, gazing at the crested foam of a wave as it dissolved into the ocean. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to make another dive?’
‘There’s something down there, Andi,’ he said, ungluing his teeth, eyes recovering some sparkle. ‘Something at the bottom of the Trench that shouldn’t be there.’
‘We shouldn’t be there, Howie. The Challenger Deep’s for the geologists. We’re looking for organic compounds. There’s nothing for us that far down.’
‘Sorry, honey.’ He grimaced and placed a hand on his belly. It was like watching a man holding back death until he could deliver his final words. ‘One of us has got to go check it out.’
I looked again at the ship’s bow hacking at the ocean as though trying to find a way into the dark water. Seven miles, that’s how far the sub will have to dive – I might have to dive – if I’m to find what Howie had spotted poking out of the ocean floor. A journey to hell, my father might say – if he knew. I thought of him now, preaching to his congregation in São Paulo, perhaps wishing his only daughter was among them.
Howie let out another groan. ‘I’ve got to get back inside, honey. Give me a minute, then stop by my cabin.’
‘Sure.’ I released Howie’s hand and he dashed back to the port just behind us, stumbling through the doorway as the ship rolled with the waves.
Above the deck, a flock of gulls undulated in the wind, constant companions since we left Apra Harbor four days ago. I watched them jostling for space, their heads twitching as they searched the deck. There would be no fish for them on this trip. With the mid-morning sun in my eyes, I lifted my smartphone out from my jeans pocket and took a selfie – my one and only; well, it isn’t every day I find myself floating above the lowest point on the planet.
Movement towards the stern caught my eye. A port opened at the base of the superstructure and a man stepped through, bracing himself against the wind as though taken by surprise. I drew breath and rolled my eyes. Him again. He steadied himself against the swell of the ocean then began to walk along the deck towards me. He was still some way off, but I found my legs twitching as though preparing to hurry inside if he came too close.
Several times I’d seen him skulking around the ship, lurking at corners as I wandered around, appearing in the mess room as I sat down with a book, disappearing down the corridor just as I left my cabin. But he’d spoken to me only once: when we were introduced as I boarded the Pacific Challenger in Guam. ‘Mason,’ he’d said, rushing out his name as though it didn’t merit much breath. I didn’t catch it straightaway. His accent was unfamiliar – not American, that is – and his rapid speech caught me off-guard. After eight years in LA I was fluent in English, but sometimes I have to be ready for the words that come my way. There’d been no smile from Mason, just a curt appraisal of my face, or perhaps what lay behind. Captain Ortiz called him Gabriel – a real life angel sent to look after us on our voyage across the ocean. When I scoffed at the ancient Christian fable and reminded the Chilean captain that Mason was just a security guard, he’d shouted me off the bridge.
Mason stopped about fifty paces away and grabbed the rail again. He looked over the side, sweeping movements of his head as though checking for pirates clambering up ropes. Relax, soldier, it’s not the movies. After a moment he turned and walked the way he’d come. I watched his legs staggering along, feet wide apart like he was tackling an obstacle course. The ship rolled again and Mason’s left foot hovered inches from the deck as he held his balance. H
e looked like a dog about to pee.
The captain had said the seas would calm down later in the day and we could continue our research dives (yay!). I looked again at the sub designed for the journey to the depths of the Mariana Trench seven miles beneath me. Damn you, Howard Dyer. I couldn’t even swim.
The skin on the back of my hands had paled in the icy wind. For a moment I struggled to release my grip on the rail. With rising panic, I willed my fingers to uncurl as though trying to counter a hypnotic spell. Once free of the cold rail, I clapped and rubbed my hands together to recover the soft caramel hue that my boss said made me look so exotic – to him, perhaps, but I’m from an overcrowded city in Brazil, not the goddamn rainforest. My father would wince at the blasphemy, if he still spoke to me. If I ever dared to use language like that to him, he would go crazy. Why do you abuse his name, he would shout, if you don’t think he exists? It’s just an expression, I would tell him (a goddamn expression).
When the ship rested between surges of ocean currents I dashed across the narrow deck to the port and the safety of indoors. Most of the ship’s crew lazed around in the mess, playing cards or watching DVDs. One of them shouted out in Spanish as I passed, inviting me to watch porn. I skewed my face and let out a puff of air; what could I say to that?
I reached Howie’s cabin and leant my ear to the door, listening for sounds of him straining at the toilet bowl. Nothing.
‘Howie?’ I said, opening the door.
‘Professor Dyer to you, young lady.’ Howie lay on his side on the bunk, both hands clutching his belly. He groaned the words out like he’d been stabbed. ‘Close the door.’
