by Peter James
‘Can’t God tell you?’
Wesley Wenceslas glowered at his MD. ‘How much longer are you going to let that reporter run rings around you? There are times when I think you’re treating this all as one big joke. How about I fire you – would that be so funny?’
Smilealot looked at him and smiled, very smugly. Both men knew that Wenceslas could never, in a million years, fire Lancelot Pope. Not if he didn’t want his entire empire to crash and burn, when Pope ran to the press with a closet full of skeletons. ‘Calm down, boss, this is not good for your blood pressure.’
‘You’re not good for my blood pressure.’
‘Be happy! We’ve got his every move covered – his conversations, his movements, his whereabouts, twenty-four-seven. And we’re following the followers. We know he took something to ATGC, and this time, when he goes to collect it, we’ll have it off him before he even gets out of the car park.’
‘If we don’t, your neck’s on the block.’
Pope shook his head. ‘No, my neck is never on the block. Don’t threaten me, I don’t like it. I think I should get you a book on anger management. Really.’
‘Lancelot, you know what the source of my anger always is? It’s you.’
‘You’re just transferring your frustrations onto me. Blame culture. It’s one of the things you preach against, Pastor. Tut, tut.’
‘I could actually throttle you.’
‘Thou shalt not kill – the sixth commandment.’
Wenceslas looked back at the screen. ‘You do really appreciate the seriousness of this situation, don’t you?’ he asked.
Pope turned to him. ‘You’re forgetting something in all your anger, OK? I found you preaching to a congregation of fifty people in a rusty shed in Tooting, when I was down on my luck. I’d just been made redundant and I’d come home to find my partner had gone off to Ibiza with another bloke. I was wandering down the street wondering what the hell I was going to do, when I heard your voice coming through the open door.’
‘The Lord brought you to me.’
‘No, He didn’t dislike me that much.’
Wenceslas had the grace to smile.
‘I watched you preaching and I thought to myself that you had potential. I saw the rapt faces of your audience.’
‘Congregation,’ Wenceslas corrected him.
‘Whatever. I saw a business opportunity. OK? Simple as that. Your skills as a preacher and my business head. All these years later, we’re doing pretty OK, aren’t we?’
‘And now we’re teetering on the brink. Ross Hunter is about to unveil the Great Imposter to the world. Do you realize what this means? He is going to unleash Satan upon us!’
‘Come on,’ Pope said. ‘You’re not talking to one of your suckers. You know you don’t believe that bollocks. You have a much deeper worry, don’t you, you old fraud!’
‘Who’s the bigger fraud?’ Wenceslas retorted. ‘The failed accountant who saw the road to a fortune through manipulating a humble preacher man? Eh?’
‘Or,’ retorted Pope, ‘the phoney man of the cloth who saw a way to turn worship into a global empire? And is now terrified that the real Lord is about to return, or may already be here, and will find him out? Pastor, you’re behaving like a spoilt kid. This is not the time for throwing your toys out of the pram. We need to be serious. To get real.’
After some moments, Wenceslas nodded, calming down. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m always right.’
89
Wednesday, 15 March
Thirty miles away, on the forty-fourth floor of the KK building, Ainsley Bloor and Julius Helmsley stared at the red dot, on the large screen, that was moving steadily south on the A23, approaching Brighton.
‘No way did Hunter spend two and half hours sitting in a multistorey car park in Vauxhall,’ Bloor said, angrily. ‘What a bunch of assholes you’ve hired. How could he have given them the slip for all that time – and more importantly, where did Hunter go? What’s around there?’
‘The South Bank?’ Helmsley said.
‘Oh sure – what did he do – go to a theatre and watch a play?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘The Houses of Parliament? Or Lambeth Palace – maybe he went to see the Archbishop of Canterbury! And His Holiness the Pope while he was at it?’ Bloor snorted.
‘I wouldn’t rule that out, either,’ Helmsley replied.
‘Ha ha. So why did he go back to ATGC Forensics? What was he doing there again?’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘With the same ruthless efficiency with which you found out what that Birmingham solicitor was going to hand to Hunter?’
‘I’m flying to Monaco in the morning to get that, Ainsley.’
‘With the price raised by a further million, at least.’
‘Small beer. Very small beer compared to what it is worth to us.’
‘Our friend in Monaco knows that.’
‘He’s not a fool. He also knows that it has no value to him – he’ll have to do a deal. Leave it with me.’
Bloor stared at the screen. ‘Where did Hunter go in those missing two and a half hours?’
‘Look at the positives. He’s a man on a mission. Whatever he’s doing, it is ultimately for us. We just have to keep our cool. And when the moment comes, we’ll jump one step ahead of him.’
‘As of this moment, Julius, we are two steps behind him.’
Helmsley smiled at his CEO. ‘Never forget that old saying: “It’s the second mouse that gets the cheese.”’
‘Stinking Bishop?’
‘All bishops stink.’
90
Wednesday, 15 March
As Ross drove down his street, he saw Imogen’s car parked outside their house. She had reversed onto the drive, presumably so she could keep an eye for anyone approaching.
He pulled up alongside her and climbed out.
She opened her door and swung her legs out, then stood up. She looked terrible, with rings round her eyes, her hair a mess, wearing a baggy jumper and badly creased jeans. She gave him a strange look.
‘Hi,’ she said.
Instead of hugging or kissing her, he just nodded at her and walked towards the front door. Unlocking it, he pushed it open and instantly Monty came rushing towards them, holding a squeaky toy duck in his mouth, almost ignoring him and making a beeline for Imogen.
As she knelt and hugged the dog, Ross scooped the post up from the floor and dumped it on the table without looking at it.
‘Good boy, you’ve brought me a present!’ she said. ‘Good boy!’
Monty then bounded over to Ross, showing him the squeaking duck, proud as punch, his tail wagging wildly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Imogen having a quick rummage through the post. She picked up an envelope, opened it and removed a letter. Then she crumpled it into a ball.
‘You buy a bloody dress in a shop and five years later they’re still pestering you with special offers.’
‘You shouldn’t have given them your address,’ Ross said. ‘You’re not under any legal obligation to.’
‘We all do a lot of things we’re not under a legal obligation to do,’ she said, her voice brittle, walking over to the integral door to the garage, unlocking it and entering. She returned with a suitcase and closed the door behind her. ‘You’re not under a legal obligation to come and stay with me at Ben and Virginia’s, but it might be nice if you did.’
‘This is our home, here.’
She looked around at the scrawl on the walls. ‘It doesn’t feel like our home any more, Ross. It was our sanctuary. It’s been invaded, it feels horrible. I don’t feel safe here now. I won’t feel safe until you forget this whole Harry Cook business.’
‘Is that why you gave that creepy-sounding Vatican man, Silvestri, my number? In the hope that I might just roll over, give him everything I have?’
‘Ross, we have to get out of this danger. Let the Vatican take it over, they’re big enough to deal with it – you are no
t.’
‘You said Silvestri was offering to buy the items if I can show the evidence that what I have is real. He’s not making any kind of unconditional offer from the sound of it.’
‘Did you at least talk to him, Ross?’
‘He rang when I was having lunch. I told him to call me later.’
‘It never normally bothers you to talk on the phone when you’re eating.’
‘Yep, well, Silvestri did bother me.’
She shook her head. ‘Jesus, I can’t believe it. Our lives are in danger, out of the blue comes a possible solution – and you’re dismissing it.’
‘I’m not dismissing anything, Imo.’
‘So where are you at with the evidence?’
‘I’m getting closer to – I don’t know – getting closer to the final piece of the puzzle.’
‘Getting closer,’ she said, nodding her head in the very irritating way, for Ross, that she did whenever he said something she did not believe. ‘If they let you live long enough.’
‘If who lets me live long enough?’
‘You know what I’m talking about, Ross. You know exactly. It might be nice if you lived long enough to see your son born – and perhaps help me to raise him.’
‘Imo,’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘Look, I know how this all appears to you, and I don’t blame you for going to the safety of your sister until it’s over, but I think you’re overreacting, I know you’re stressed because you’re pregnant.’
‘What?’ She practically shouted at him, her eyes blazing. ‘Don’t you dare try throwing that little number at me. I’m trying to be a realist here.’
‘I’m being a realist too, Imo. We’ve a huge mortgage on this house, and you’re not going to be bringing in any income for many months.’
‘So, maybe, just maybe, a deal with Silvestri could solve all our problems at once – our financial and our safety ones.’
‘Fine, why don’t I go to Kerr Kluge, tell them we’re holding an auction. Them and the Vatican and anyone else who’s interested. We’ll flog Christ’s DNA to the highest bidder. Is that what you want?’
‘I just want to feel safe,’ she replied. ‘I just want everything to be how it was, before you had that call from that damned man.’
‘It can’t be.’
‘No, of course it can’t,’ she said, picking up the suitcase. ‘Not now you have to save the world.’
91
Wednesday, 15 March
After Imogen had driven off, Ross felt very lonely. And exhausted.
And empty.
He sat down at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the scrawlings across the walls, and, as if sensing his mood, Monty came over, sighed and flopped down beside him.
Ross leaned down and stroked him. ‘You know, Monty, you probably don’t realize it, but you have it pretty cushy. You get fed and you get loved, and the only thing you have to worry about in the whole world is when your next walk’s going to be. Right?’
The dog sighed again, then let out a small whine and looked up at his master.
‘You want a walk now, is that what you’re telling me? You’ve been here all day just sleeping and chewing bones and you’re bored, right? OK! I think we both need some air.’
Ross jumped up and Monty barked excitedly.
He fetched the lead, pulled on his scruffy dog-walking coat and a baseball cap, stuffed a couple of plastic bags in his pocket, grabbed a torch, then took several goes to clip the lead onto Monty’s collar because the dog was so excited.
They stepped out into the damp darkness and Ross looked around, carefully, before he closed the door behind them. Turning left, he headed up the hill, waiting as Monty stopped to check out every other lamp post, sniffing and giving it a quick squirt of pee. Imogen once suggested, humorously, it was the dog’s version of email, picking up the scent of other dogs and leaving his own.
At the top of the hill was a small park, long and narrow, bordered by trees. He bent down and unclipped the lead. Immediately and excitedly, Monty bounded off. Just as he did so, a foreign accent, right behind Ross, startled him.
‘Mr Hunter?’
He turned, pulling the torch from his pocket, snapping it on and pointing it at the stranger who was just a couple of feet away, with both hands in his pockets. He was standing too close, right in his personal space, and Ross backed away a couple of steps. The man stood still.
In his forties, smartly dressed in an expensive-looking belted raincoat with epaulettes, the man was handsome and very assured.
‘Yes – who are you?’ Ross demanded.
‘Forgive me interrupting your evening walk, Mr Hunter. My name is Giuseppe Silvestri. We spoke earlier, you will remember?’
Ross recognized the cultured Italian accent. ‘I thought you were going to phone me?’
‘I do apologize,’ he said with such charm and sincerity Ross almost thought that he meant it.
Silvestri pulled a gloved hand from his pocket and held it out. Ross stared at it for a moment then shook it reluctantly, at the same time glancing around, checking on Monty. To his relief he saw a dog-shaped shadow loping along a short distance away, sniffing the ground, picking up the scent of something.
Next, the Italian proffered a business card. Ross shone his torch on it. It was embossed with a gold, crossed keys coat of arms and a Latin inscription, and bore the name Monsignor Giuseppe Silvestri, with a title below, Special Vatican Emissary.
‘Is this a convenient moment to talk, Mr Hunter?’
‘What about?’
‘Perhaps you would rather we went into your house – or my car – to be more private?’
‘Here is fine.’
‘Of course.’ He continued the charm offensive. ‘I think you know, perhaps, why I have come to speak with you?’
‘My wife only told me a little. Would you like to start from the beginning?’
Monty began barking. A woman, who Ross didn’t recognize as one of the regulars here, had come into the park with a schnauzer. She walked right past them. Both men fell silent for a moment.
‘Good evening!’ she said.
‘Good evening,’ Ross replied.
When she was out of earshot Silvestri said, ‘There is much talk of the mission you are on, Mr Hunter. Discoveries you have made. Objects that might be of great historical significance. But which might place you and your wife in very great danger.’
‘Are you saying this to threaten me?’
‘Please do not take what I am saying the wrong way. But if what you have is what I am told it is, you must understand the consequences are immense – and extremely dangerous. Not just for you and your family, Mr Hunter – far beyond. It is necessary for you to understand this.’
‘Who has told you – and what have you been told?’
The Italian smiled. ‘Please, Mr Hunter. With something so important, believe me, I know. There are many people who know.’
‘How? How do they know?’
There was a long silence. Silvestri looked at him, still smiling. ‘Mr Hunter, discoveries like these do not stay quiet.’
Ross was momentarily distracted by a vehicle driving down the street, slowly. He glanced over and saw it was a police car.
‘Wooky! Wooky!’ the woman called out.
He turned and saw Monty play-wrestling the smaller dog.
‘Wooky!’ she called again, imperiously.
‘You’re going to tell me that God told you?’ Ross said.
‘You have a mortgage you are struggling with, I am informed,’ the Italian said. ‘And people have been inside your house and written bad things.’
‘What else did my wife tell you?’
‘She did not tell me, Mr Hunter. I have been sent by a very high authority to help you.’
‘Sure, the Pope himself?’
‘Wooky!’ The woman walked towards them as the dogs continued wrestling. ‘Excuse me, could you please control your dog?’
‘Monty! Monty!’ he called. �
�Monty!’
After some moments the dog broke cover again and bounded over to them.
Ross knelt and clipped his lead back on.
‘I think it might be better to continue this conversation somewhere more private, perhaps?’ Silvestri suggested.
Ross turned away from him and, gently tugging the lead, headed out onto the pavement and back down the hill. The Italian maintained a steady pace beside him.
‘Please understand, I mean no harm and no offence. I wish to help you, that is all.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, I don’t think you are, Mr Hunter, if what you have in your possession is genuinely a tooth belonging to our Lord, Jesus Christ, and the vessel from which He drank at the Last Supper – and into which His blood was poured, whilst He was on the cross – then I am authorized to pay you a great deal of money. Sufficient not just to clear your mortgage, but to make you a wealthy man. It would be discreet, of course. Payment could be made into a Swiss account. No one would ever know.’
‘Really? If God is informing you what I have, then why do you even have to question its provenance? And if you are questioning its provenance, why should I believe you?’
‘I would like to understand a little more. A little more information. To see these items, of course. To have them examined.’
‘Your religion is the richest on earth,’ Ross replied. ‘The Roman Catholic Church has assets greater than all the Russian oligarchs combined. Are you worried that proof of God might impact on that? That your religion would no longer be, to all your followers, the exclusive gateway to God?’
Silvestri smiled. ‘Not at all. Proof of God would be a wonderful thing. But, to come to know God is not to know God.’
‘So, you have to be a Catholic, not an Anglican or a Muslim or a Jew or a Sikh or a Hindu, to know God?’
‘The human experience of love, truth and beauty – these are what are required to know God,’ Silvestri replied, calmly. ‘The Second Coming will be the moment when no one will be able to deny God’s existence for better or worse. It will be unmistakable. The absolute proof of who Jesus claimed to be. If there were an absolute proof, we would like to think that everyone would rejoice.’
