by Peter James
Ross stood still, staring at her. ‘If Cook was such a loony how come the Vatican – what was the guy who came to see you called – Spinoni –?’
‘Silvestri. Monsignor Giuseppe Silvestri.’
‘How come he was prepared to offer us money?’
‘Only if it’s real, Ross.’
‘Fine, that’s just what I’m trying to do, find out if it is real.’
She pointed at the walls again. ‘Isn’t this real enough? Weren’t the messages I had on my computer screen real enough? Someone’s sending some pretty clear signals they don’t like what you’re doing, Ross.’
The image of Robert Anholt-Sperry at his desk came flooding back, shaking him to the core.
Then the rheumy, pleading eyes of Harry Cook.
You and I have to save the world.
He looked at his wife. And at the small bulge in her midriff. Their child.
Could he argue with what she said?
He stared up at all the crazy shit scrawled around the walls of his home, and anger rose inside him. He thought about the helicopter in Egypt. Harry Cook’s tortured body. The dead solicitor.
The world that awaited his unborn child.
His dead brother.
The bastards who had kicked him in the face as he’d emerged from Chalice Well.
Who could he trust? Stuart Ivens, from MI5?
Or the man Imogen had told him about earlier, Monsignor Giuseppe Silvestri, claiming to represent the Vatican?
Could he just drop this story, walk away from it and go back to writing about politics, war and climate change? Did any of that matter in the bigger picture he potentially had?
Possibly the biggest story ever?
Big enough to try to kill him, to murder Dr Cook and perhaps his solicitor in Birmingham? Had the man in motorcycling leathers taken the final piece of the puzzle? The one that Anholt-Sperry was planning to hand him?
He found it hard to look back at Imogen. To tell her what he had to. He knew it sounded absurd to anyone. Except the evidence that it might not be absurd was written all over the walls of their house, their home, their sanctuary.
They’d been invaded.
By whom?
Religiously motivated fanatics? Was he going to permit himself to be cowed by them? Maybe that was just what they had wanted. For him to be cowed. To walk away. But he didn’t walk away, could never walk away, from anything.
He turned to face his wife. ‘Imo, I understand, I get how you are feeling.’
‘You do? Great. Then we leave now. I’m already packed. Go and throw some stuff in a bag, I’ll wait.’
‘And put Virginia and her family in danger, too? And what would we do with Monty?’
‘Put him in kennels.’
‘Babes, look –’
‘Look what?’
‘I need you.’
‘You do? I don’t feel I know you any more, Ross. You’re a man on a mission. And it’s not a mission I want to be on any more. You’re on your own now.’
80
Wednesday, 15 March
Ross woke in the morning, tired, his head muzzy and filled with a sense of dread. He lay still for some moments before opening his eyes and reached out to touch Imogen, but all his hand felt was a cold pillow.
She really had gone.
He felt hollow.
It was a bright, sunny morning. Full daylight was streaming in through the curtains. He heard the voices of workmen across the street.
It hadn’t all been a bad dream. The writing was there on the wall beside the bed.
LET HIM THAT HATH UNDERSTANDING COUNT THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST . . .
Who had done it? The same creep who had sent the emails?
But this was more than the work of a solitary person. There were at least two and possibly three different handwriting styles across all the walls. How had they got in without triggering the alarm or being captured on CCTV? Had they sat in a vehicle outside and calmly and silently shot out the CCTV cameras before disabling the alarm?
Who knew about what he was doing?
How many people might Cook have contacted before approaching him? Clearly people at Chalice Well – and in turn Kerr Kluge had learned about it. Now MI5 knew and apparently the Vatican. Could last night’s intrusion be the work of KK? Trying to scare him? Or a gazillionaire evangelist like Wesley Wenceslas? Some other fanatic religious sect?
He doubted it was the same people who had tried to kill him in Egypt. Who’d tracked him to the cave then tried to take the tooth. It was likely to be those people who had tortured Cook, too. This trashing of the house was an altogether different style. It smacked of someone trying to put the frighteners on them for a reason.
To make him sell the information?
Someone like Monsignor Giuseppe Silvestri?
He rolled over and to his shock the clock radio showed 7.20 a.m.
Normally, Radio 4 woke him sharp at 6.30 a.m.
Shit.
The radio was on, and must have come on nearly an hour ago. He’d slept through it. A Radio 4 presenter was interviewing an arrogant-sounding scientist.
‘We have identified the genes responsible for empathy,’ the scientist said. ‘We believe that in a short while – within many people’s lifetimes – parents will be able to choose the levels of empathy of their child. Do you want a sweet, gentle little boy? But he could be trodden on later in life. Do you want a strong, tough little chap? But he could end up being the school bully – and perhaps a sociopath.’
‘And where does God fit in with all this?’ the presenter asked.
‘Well, that depends on which side of the faith fence you are sitting,’ the scientist continued, smoothly. ‘Intelligent Design or Natural Selection.’
‘So, on which side are you sitting?’
‘Ask me that question in a few months’ time and I might have an answer for you.’
‘Really? Can you expand?’
‘Not now.’ The aloofness, the arrogance in his voice was palpable.
‘Well, you are leaving me – and many listeners, I’m sure – intrigued. Your company is today announcing a major breakthrough in gene therapy treatments. Can you explain what this will mean?’
‘Certainly. The breakthrough in gene therapy treatments that Kerr Kluge is announcing is a game-changer for medicine.’
Ross sat bolt upright, and increased the volume. Kerr Kluge. He could hardly believe his ears.
‘It will mean two things, John,’ the man answered calmly and confidently. ‘The first is that within ten years we will be able to cure many of the world’s biggest killer diseases. I’m not talking about extending life expectancy of, say, cancer victims, through pharmaceuticals. We’re looking at total cures through changes in DNA structures of individuals.’
‘Speaking cynically, Dr Bloor, you are running a company dependent on the global sales of pharmaceuticals. The medical conditions that are the most profitable for a company like yours, I believe, are the chronic ones, where people are medication-dependent for years or decades. Wouldn’t you be shooting yourself in the foot to offer an instant cure for these?’
‘Quite the reverse. And the second thing, John, is how we will be creating a massive paradigm shift in the way we all regard human existence. For the first time in the history of the human race, thanks to the work we are doing at Kerr Kluge, humans will be freeing themselves of all kinds of the tyranny that has dominated human existence since intelligent life, as we know it, began. Through identifying the ageing genes and reversing them we will no longer have to suffer the indignities of old age or of incapacitating ailments. We will be liberating everyone from the tyranny of Mother Nature. We believe that Kerr Kluge will be the forerunner of a whole new age of man.’
‘For those who can afford to pay?’
‘The choice will be there for everyone,’ Bloor answered glibly.
‘Everyone who can afford to pay? Isn’t this going to create a twotiered world – for the haves and have-nots? Are
you not in danger of creating a genetic underclass? I’m afraid we’re running out of time. Can you give us a very quick response?’
‘On the contrary, John, to what you are saying, we will be offering a kind of equality the world has never seen before.’
‘Ainsley Bloor, Chief Executive Officer of Kerr Kluge, we’ll have to leave it there. Thank you for talking to us.’
‘Thank you, John.’
‘And now here’s Rick Anderson with the latest sports news and racing tips.’
Ross turned down the volume.
Ainsley Bloor. The CEO. The man running the company which may have been behind trying to kill him in Egypt. For what reason?
It was making more sense now. He could more clearly see the value of what he had, to Bloor and his company. How much did Sally Hughes’s uncle, Julius Helmsley, know about this?
He could imagine the cynical marketing campaign.
Brought to you by the custodians of Jesus Christ’s DNA!
He stared at the graffiti on the walls of the bedroom. It was obviously an attempt to frighten him off. It had certainly succeeded in frightening Imogen.
Was he being stupid not to be frightened off himself?
In truth, he was concerned. Equally, he was angry and determined not to be cowed. He’d been threatened before in the course of his investigative work. A few years ago, he’d door-stepped the owner of a fraudulent Spanish timeshare scheme at his Essex mansion. The man had punched him in the face, giving him a black eye, and set two Rottweilers on him, one of which had bitten a chunk out of his leg, drawing blood, which required him to have stitches and a tetanus jab. Another time, investigating a child-sex ring involving Romanian street kids being made to work in a Bedford nightclub, he’d been threatened with a handgun, beaten up by two henchmen and thrown out through a back door into a rear yard. That had cost him two broken ribs and fifteen hundred pounds in dental repair work.
But maybe his brief time in Afghanistan had hardened him to fear.
Instead of scaring him away, such reactions just made him even more determined.
And at this moment, that determination was stronger than ever. Whatever the cost.
There was a new text on his Apple Watch. It was from Imogen.
Miss you. Come to your senses and join me. I love you.
XX
Picking up his phone, which was easier to reply from, he messaged her back.
Love you, but I have to deal with this. X
He went downstairs, his anger at KK intensified by the smug arrogance of its CEO’s voice just now. As he entered the kitchen, Monty climbed out of his basket and walked slowly, almost hesitantly, towards him, his tail down. The dog’s behaviour was strange, totally uncharacteristic. Normally in the morning Monty would come flying to him, tail wagging and with a big, soppy grin.
He knelt and put his arms round his neck. ‘What happened, boy? Who did you see last night? Who came here? How did they get in? You didn’t let them in, right? You didn’t open the door for them?’
Where was the police patrol Tingley had arranged, he wondered?
The creature was shaking.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not putting you into kennels. I’ll take care of you, we’ll get through this together. Right?’ He pressed his face close and felt the dog’s damp nose against his cheek.
What had the bastards done to Monty that he was still so freaked out? Had they given him something doped or poisoned? Not that they would have needed to, he was a total softie and would have welcomed any intruder as a long-lost friend.
‘I love you, Monty.’ He pressed his face close to the dog’s again. ‘I really love you.’ He smelled his warm fur. ‘Calm down, it’s OK. It’s OK. It’s all OK.’
He wished he could believe it.
81
Wednesday, 15 March
Ross stood in the shower, turning the heat up as much as he could bear. Despite his exhaustion, he was beginning to think with more clarity.
He’d been all around the house looking for signs of where the intruders had broken in, but could find nothing. No broken windows, no forced door frames. He had checked underneath a flowerpot in the toolshed in the back garden, where they kept a spare key hidden, and that was undisturbed, the key still there. Then he had gone around again photographing every graffitied wall.
A bunch of weirdo fanatics would have probably just smashed their way in. The fact that the entry was skilful, indicated even more to him that this was professional. The work of people with resources behind them.
The whole place was going to have to be redecorated, every room, and that would run to several thousand pounds. Plus anything that he and Imogen discovered had been stolen, in addition to his computer backup. Hopefully the insurance would cover it.
He stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself. The doorbell rang and Monty barked.
Wrapping the towel round his midriff, he hurried downstairs as the bell rang again, and across the hall to the front door. He peered through the spyhole and saw a man standing there, with a van parked behind him. He checked the safety chain was in position and pulled the door open a few inches.
‘Delivery,’ the man said in an Eastern European accent, holding up a cardboard box with AMAZON stencilled all over it. It looked like a book – he had several orders with them for a variety of religious books he wanted to read.
He slipped the catch, took the package, signed electronically then closed the door. Stroking the dog with one hand, he watched through the spyhole again as the man walked back to his van and drove off. Then he carried the box through into the kitchen and put it on the table. It felt quite light, almost too light to contain a book, unless it was a very slim volume. He shook it and something inside rattled. And as he looked at the parcel more closely he recognized that this wasn’t the normal, neat Amazon package. There was black gaffer tape round it, as if it was old wrapping being reused.
Hesitating, he stared at it uncomfortably. Could it be a bomb?
He turned it over, examining it carefully for any clue as to the sender. But there was nothing. Should he leave it, call the police? Let them come and make their own decision about it?
Maybe he was being paranoid.
He took a knife from a drawer and carefully slit through the black tape, then prised the two halves of cardboard apart, very slowly. Stupid, he knew, he should call the police and ask them to deal with it. Yet he was almost at the point of not caring. He tore the packaging open, and stared at the object it contained.
A small plastic crucifix. With an envelope pinned to Jesus’s heart by a broken-off cocktail stick that resembled a dagger.
He quickly took a picture on his phone, pulled the dagger out and opened the envelope. Inside was a typed note: For the wrath of God is revealed from Heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness. Romans 1:18.
Turning the note over, he saw typed on the reverse: I did not appreciate your post on Twitter. You are in dangerous, blasphemous waters, my friend. I suggest you return to your day job.
Ross had long been immune to nasty tweets and had been trolled several times in the past over controversial pieces he had written. But this note, particularly, disturbed him and he was glad Imogen wasn’t here to see it. He put it all inside the Amazon packaging, carried it up to his office and slid it into a drawer in his desk. It might be something to show the police or just to keep as evidence in case . . .
Back in the bathroom he wetted his face, patted gel onto his stubble and began to shave, thinking about what to do next. He had to assume that the coordinates Robert Anholt-Sperry had been going to hand to him were now in someone else’s hands.
He had a pretty good idea whose. Kerr Kluge’s.
The crucial third set of coordinates that Cook had implied were related to the Second Coming.
But without the DNA results, were they of any real value to the company? Perhaps there was a negotiation to be had? Playing off MI5, the Vati
can representative, Monsignor Giuseppe Silvestri, and Kerr Kluge?
How dangerous would that be? The Vatican had a reputation for not taking prisoners. Reforming popes were short-lived. Roberto Calvi, known as God’s banker, was found in 1982 hanging from Blackfriars Bridge in London. His death elegantly removed the prospect of an unpleasant scandal for the Vatican Bank.
Was Imogen right when she told him that he was punching well above his weight? Was there any way out, other than to keep going forward?
He dressed, then went up to his office and picked up the black leather wallet Imogen had given him two Christmases ago. He ran his finger along the dark-brown lining and felt the reassuring crinkle of the piece of paper he had put inside, along with the minute, sealed test tube, and then glued the lining back.
It contained, reduced to little bigger than a postage stamp, details of the standard DNA, mitochondrial and Y-STR that Jolene Thomas at ATGC Forensics had obtained from the cup and the tooth, along with a tiny amount, as a backup, of the remaining fluid from the crushed tooth that Jolene had returned to him, and which he had subsequently given to Uncle Angus for safekeeping.
The DNA of Jesus Christ?
Could he ever find out without the missing third set of coordinates?
Would anyone let him live long enough?
He called the electrician’s mobile and the man answered almost immediately. Ross gave him a quick summary of the break-in and vandalism, and asked him if he had any time today, or in the next couple of days, to get the CCTV camera lenses repaired or the cameras replaced. The electrician said he would take a look at them sometime today, and sort them first thing tomorrow morning.
He went downstairs, fed Monty, made himself a strong coffee, then put a bowl of porridge in the microwave. Whilst it was cooking, he sliced an apple and put a Berocca tablet into a glass of water – Imogen had recently convinced him to take one daily. It was a fine, sunny day. He took his drinks out onto the patio, then went to the front door and picked up the bunch of newspapers lying on the mat and carried them outside, too, glancing at a newspaper headline:
