The Resurrectionist

by Jackson, Gil

  They arrived at a building that resembled a residential home for the elderly of means; and she was waved on through by the security officer on the gate without so much as a second glance; Hamilton realised she must be more important than he first imagined, in whatever circle of the FBI, or the Vatican, for that matter, she strutted.

  The building boasted three-storied elegance with well kept mature lawns and shrubs. The only clue that made him think that it was not what he first thought was the red and white post barrier attached to a lodge that the guard was disappearing into without so much as a backward glance.

  She drove them out of sight of the main road and onto a gravel area which surrounded the home, stopped, parked, and got out. He followed. Approaching a large front door which was immediately opened by a tall thinnish man with glasses on the end of his nose. He held out his hand first to Annie and himself who took his turn to shake it. Smiling at Annie he looked to Hamilton relieved that she had managed to get him here.

  ‘Delighted to see you, Mr. Fitch.’ He said still holding onto his hand with the both of his shaking it warmly and smiling. ‘An honour, Mr. Fitch, a real honour. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Me? I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage?’

  ‘Father Milligan, I’m in charge here. Yes, I have, Mr. Fitch.’ He nodded his head the smile gone, replaced by the look of sympathy, before his smile returned. ‘Come.’

  He ushered them into the house and closed the door. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mr. Fitch?’

  ‘As they go. What is this place?’

  Father Milligan turned to him. ‘We haven’t decided yet, have we, Miss Carter?’

  ‘You haven’t been here long?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘What do you do here?’

  He smiled at him again. ‘I’m in charge of what you might call a store, Mr. Fitch. You could call me a caretaker. Would that be an appropriate title, Miss Carter?’

  ‘She smiled back at him. ‘More than adequate, Father.’

  Hamilton looked around at the ornate décor of the foyer he found himself in.

  ‘Some store.’

  Annie Carter turned to them both.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me I’ll leave you two alone.’ Then turning to Hamilton. ‘Father wants to show what we have here, I’ve got work to do. Let me know when you’re finished.’

  She turned and walked across the marble floored foyer and disappeared through a door.

  ‘Come this way, Mr. Fitch, I’ve something to show you that you might find interesting.

  * * *

  Father Milligan took him to a part of the building that was more in keeping with his first impressions of it being a residential home, for that part of the building they had entered was a cross between a mortuary and a hospital ward; with the slant more towards a mortuary, for that, he could see, was what it was. The walls were doors of what he took to be body containers. Father Milligan pulled one of them out and slid the content onto a gurney. Wheeling it out into the centre of the room he pushed it under a bank of operation lights, switched them on and pulled the green cotton-plastic sheet off.

  What he had expected to see was the image in his mind that Annie Carter had put there. In reality it was not as he had expected. What he saw took his breath away.

  She was as she had described her — but without the reality this was astonishing! A woman or what he took to be, with perfect unblemished skin. The slightly native Indian look gave him an impression of somebody of this world, but there, the similarity ended, for she clearly was not. If such a thing existed the only thought that came to his mind was of ... an Angel. And if she had been a part of this world once, she certainly wasn’t anymore, for there was not a sign of mammary organs. Absolutely nothing. A shiver went down him like water from a shower. Father Milligan pulled the green sheet completely from her and watched for the expression on Hamilton’s face as he witnessed the impossible.

  ‘Where did you find her?’

  He hesitated. He would have liked to have said that she had turned up as she had in the past. But, ‘She was discovered in an archaeological site near California....’ He hoped that he would make no more of that. Not until—

  Hamilton studied her and looked at him and back down again to make sure that his eyes were not playing him tricks. But they weren’t. He could make out nothing that could indicate plastic surgery having been carried out. The only thought that crossed his mind was that she could be a wax-work, but not, to this degree of craftsmanship and why would anyone carry out such a deception. But what the hell was she?

  ‘Do you mind if I take a photograph?’

  ‘Not at all. She’s not a good subject. But, please, help yourself.’ He indicated the corner of the room where a cctv screen showed the two of them standing and where the girl should be. ‘But I don’t think you’ll have any more luck than we did. See for yourself,’ he said pointing upwards.

  Hamilton looked. The screen showed the two of them, but no girl. The shiver of the cold shower went to ice-chill.

  ‘She doesn’t photograph?’

  He pulled from his pocket a digital camera, held it in her direction. There was no image on its back screen.

  He put his hand on her head and watched the screen at the same time. She wasn’t there. He tried to control his instinct, but snatched his hand away from her in fear. Realising what he had done he apologised.

  ‘A quite understandable reaction, Mr. Fitch, no need to worry about your natural instincts coming into play in front of me, you’ve taken in what you’ve seen remarkably well considering you’ve been fed with the thought that she’s not of this world.’

  He looked at her again. Into her eyes. He listened at her mouth. He put his hands on her. She was neither cold or stiff with rigor that he would have expected, but neither was she as flexible as someone alive. And all the time he kept looking at himself on the screen trying to see her but there was nothing. Had it been a trick cctv; but his own camera, that wasn’t.

  With an emotion approaching anger he said: ‘Why have I been brought here, Father, I’m no scientist, and I’m certainly not of your faith. I couldn’t possibly begin to contribute any possible debate about this that would have any credibility in the scientific world — and if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell her story. The only theories that I could possibly put forward would be of a totally negative nature: that this was an elaborate hoax; and that my position was needed to prosecute some cover-up.’

  He stared into the eyes of the Father.

  ‘You don’t believe any of this, do you?’ he said. ‘You do not believe what you see with your own eyes. I cannot say I blame you, a magician couldn’t pull off what we have here, I know. I am no illusionist I assure you. What you are seeing is what you’re getting, and it’s doing what it was sent to do.

  ‘And what exactly is that, Father?’

  Father Milligan, with the benefit of history of the matter, had concluded some time before the only conclusion that they had, could run with. ‘That she is a messenger from God.’

  ‘I could not possibly comment on such an issue, Father. This isn’t right. What you say....’

  ‘No, you’re quite correct, it isn’t right. And yet, you’ve seen for yourself. And I like it no more than yourself. As to why she’s here, I don’t know that either, because it doesn’t gel with what we believe. Unless ...’ He hesitated to say the words. ‘We go down the road of an imminent second coming, or a first ... according to your scriptures. Either of which, is not going to be comfortable for any of us, especially someone like yourself.’

  He thought he was going to bring his Jewish-ness to the table sooner or latter. ‘What’d you mean, Someone like me?’

  ‘You’re a newspaperman, aren’t you...?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh. I see ... Well we’re not all cynics, but newspapers do have a habit of looking for the truth.’ He didn’t labour that point. ‘But tell me, Father, why have I been privileged to witness what you have h
ere. I presume Miss Carter has been involved in this through her connection with the FBI .... She was a Carmelite nun, before that, wasn’t she?’

  He smiled at him. ‘You’ve done your homework, Mr. Fitch. Yes she was. In fact, she still is.’

  He pulled back the green sheet that had been covering the body. ‘We would like to be in touch with again, Mr. Fitch, if you are willing?’

  His family’s past came to his mind. The reason his father and mother having had their lives cut short had never been explained to him by his grandmother. Except to say, keep away from anyone connected with the FBI. But he was intrigued, not by the apparition he had been witness to, but more the Carmelite nun, known as Miss Annie Carter, BA. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Father.’

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 20 – 1997

  If you strike a child take care that you strike it in anger,

  even at the risk of maiming it for life.

  A blow in cold blood neither can nor should be forgiven.

  GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, Man and Superman, 1903

  For over sixty years he had plied the trade of causing suffering to children. There had never been a shortage of raw material or antagonists for such a business; and saw no reason for this not to continue. It was a trade that had made him the richest man in the world and one that his alter ego had been comfortable to live with.

  The driver for this alter ego gave him power that was not easily broken. Suicide had been the usual way out. This pleased him, as shame caused implication to cast no shadows over him or his activities. If it was at all possible, however, there was a darker side to all of this and it had an obsession.

  SHE was the obsession that had haunted him. Even though he knew SHE was not the end herself but the means to a climax that would exalt him far beyond what was left of his human soul? Still! There enveloping him like dust that could not be shaken off; its presence clung to old beliefs and memories that had no right to exist. The preventative that had eluded him from the dawn of time and, until now, the mechanics to fulfil would not so easily go. The irony was that it was man — His creation — that had provided the means to settle this quandary until HER! and HER! accomplice appeared putting a greater distance between HIM and his pathetic creations that time and time again had proved incapable of loving Him for His own sake all by themselves and with the influence of no one; driven for a mortality that would be no more than tissue paper thin. He needs help for their salvation and puts the onus on so-called Evil! for His failure!

  He spat the thoughts. Cursed the damned intervention that would once again bring man from the brink if he could not get it right. They would sink only so far into His so-called evil before they would arise — this time it would be different. There would be no arising — no salvation, only his. The bait has appeared; the trap could be sprung and his imposition was to be released.

  * * *

  His phone rang. Absent minded he turned his back on Staten Island spread out twenty-five storeys below him, walked to the other side of his desk sat down and picked it up.

  ‘Mr. Spannocs, Mahon here.’

  Spannocs stuck an unlit cigar into his mouth and listened.

  ‘Kilkenny International—’

  ‘Good of you to call me so promptly, Mr. Mahon.’

  ‘Major—’

  ‘Of course, Major.’

  ‘I’m calling about the job you’re wanted doing, Mr. Spannocs.’

  ***

  Kilkenny International was a mercenary company that specialised in covert operations of a sensitive nature. Sensitive, that is to the countries that used them — the East being not the least. Known among those familiar with their kind of operations as the Kilkenny Cats — if you employed them you had to be sure of your motives and an overall picture of your operation and any implications — Major Mahon was not above exploiting for any additional profit. It hadn’t always been thus. A product of the English establishment: educated at Eton, following in his father’s footsteps into Sandhurst, the Guards, before getting bored and seeking out life with a bit more bite than his peers. Finding a life of adventure in the Special Airborne Service where he had cut his teeth in several theatres of war and ambition — the last Baghdad.

  It was said at the time that if the Allied governments had given the nod, Sadam Hussein would be dead at the hands of Mahon and his two man team. Instead of which, he and his fellow officers still wearing the uniforms of Republican Guard had their fingernails removed in time honoured fashion and without the aid of any anaesthetic before being tied to electric fans that hung from the ceiling of the dirty concrete prison cell. The temperature in the building was 42 degrees; the fans were totally useless for what they had been designed in the matters of temperature comfort. Captain Pat Beamish, a brave but not physically strong man died of trauma and Mahon never received any apology from the British authorities for their decision that resulted in such an outcome. Surprisingly Saddam Hussein apologised though, through his commanding officer and cousin. In charge of the prison, Abdul-Sah-Macca (ex Sandhurst). ‘We are not all as uncivilized as some will have you believe, Major Mahon, and there’s more to this between us than will ever be written in your Daily Telegraph.’

  They went on to give Capt. Pat Beamish, the son of a padre, a funeral with full Iraqi military honours; saluted him and them for what they were, what they had gone through, before releasing them into the hands of the Americans at a military meeting and stand-off where no arrests or captures were made — only conditions.

  * * *

  Mahon listened for a response but all he got was the sound of a lighter being flicked, a puffing, a slight cough and the blowing out of smoke. He judged him to be a meticulous man that thought carefully of what he was doing. Someone that took pleasure in planning — a nuts and bolts man like himself. A rare commodity these days and was anxious to meet such a man.

  Spannocs satisfied that the Cuban half lighted was able to take care of itself, began to speak. ‘And, Major?’

  ‘A little confused as to the freshness of the shopping. You want me to lift a patient that’s in a coma? Surely you don’t need the services of my organisation to do something as mundane as that, Mr. Spannocs. I don’t mind, but it’s your money, and you could get that done cheaper than what I will charge you.’

  ‘I’ve always believed in getting a simple job done by experts, and to that end I get a job done properly and you get a job without having to think too hard to get it fulfilled.’

  Mahon made nothing of the man’s philosophy. There was no such thing as a simple job and the time for deciding how easy it would be was after it had been completed. The world’s battlefields were lined with the corpses of complacency and carelessness. Half a million dollars told him that the job called for more than ‘simple’ if it were done ‘by experts’.

  ‘The other point you speak of, Mr. Spannocs, that there’s no security guards. Surely there must be something; it is after all a Government establishment?’

  ‘It’s part of the Catholic Church, that’s what makes it so safe for what goes on there, but make no mistake, Major, its security is state-of-the-art. The place is crawling with cameras, sound sensitive equipment; sniffers that can identify the presence of your body odour; cut yourself it’ll analyse your dna and identify you. The whole is linked to the US Government’s central identification computer. Make a mistake Major Mahon — and you could well finish up doing just that — and it’ll mix-and-match you in seconds.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because it was my company that installed it, Major.’

  ‘Your company! How am I supposed to get away with it, if they’ve got what you say they have, they’ll know who I am as soon as I piss on the road outside?’

  ‘That’s what you’re getting paid so much for.’

  ‘They’ll know who I am? Have I missed something here?’

  ‘You’ll disappear. From you company, your country, everything — it’s a one off last job for Major Mahon.’
/>   ‘Are you out of your mind, Spannocs?—’

  ‘No. I am not out of mind as you so crudely put it. Let me spell it out for you. You’re thirty-five and a bit over the top to be playing soldiers for much longer. You’re suffering physical and mental problems from old campaigns. Iraq and Saddam Hussein did you no favours and you’ve been let down by your precious army and government. You made fundamental errors of judgement in your capture which, had you been ten years younger you would not have done. In short, Major, one more operation is all you’re good for — I, however, am offering you last chance saloon and I personally guarantee you will not be bothered by your government or anyone else.’

  Mahon listened to what he was being told and knew it to be true — he was over the ridge; and he was finding it hard to make decisions that would have come easy a few years ago. His reactions were not what they were and hadn’t been for a number of years that he had been confronted with it. The world was getting smaller; governments were having to come to terms with different wars these days. The war of terrorism could not be fought easily with armies. The type of organisation that he had was little more than protection units for drug traffickers against other traffickers. Most of it in countries he wouldn’t waste pisses on. The game he had felt had been up for a long time and Spannocs was offering him an honourable way out.

  ‘A million?’

  ‘Dollars,’ Spannocs replied. ‘There will of course be a penalty clause should you not deliver, personal to you. I do not want your organisation involved, this is a one man job, yours.’

  ‘Naturally. But I shall require a quarter up front, win or lose.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind, Major. You can have the money, that’s not a problem. The penalty is your soul.’

  Mahon thought for a moment and smiled.

  ‘For a million dollars, Spannocs, you can see my arse.’

  ‘Splendid, we have a deal, Major, I’ll send your orders and a bank draft by FedEx today. Good luck.’