by Barry Klemm
“Carrick, you are crazy.”
“Yeah, maybe. Only I reckon I’m slowly becoming crazy in just the same way Harley is.”
“If all this is so and Thyssen knows it, why doesn’t he just come out and say so?”
“Because most people will react as sceptically as you are now, and right now he cannot afford to have people not taking him seriously.”
“And you think that’s his hidden agenda?”
“Yep. I reckon he figured all that out a long time ago and he’s been working steadily towards it ever since.”
Wagner groaned. Did this truly matter? All this shoving populations around like chess pieces. There was part of him that wanted to believe what Carrick told him. But the rest of him was bloody determined to keep the situation earthbound and manageable.
“Okay. So let’s leave Harley to his fantasies and deal with the problem in front of us. What about the Brazilian end? How do they feel about copping all these Japanese immigrants?”
“Not a problem. They’re all on tourist visas, off to Joe’s El Rancho resorts. All them tourist dollars. Brazil said fine and dandy.”
“Tourist resorts?”
“Well, mostly they’ll actually be building the resort complex when they get there. But, anyhow, most of them are there already. They went like lambs, believing their troubles would be over. Of course, there were all sorts of religious rituals that they had to put themselves through and a hell of a lot of bureaucratic bullshit, but all that was just as well because the Japanese kept accurate records on them and at the end of the day, there were 1467 missing.”
“Missing how?”
“Missing any way they could. All the ones that didn’t want to go. Hiding under their beds, disguising themselves as someone else, or just taking off to the hills.”
“And we gotta round up every one of them?”
“That’s right. Just one gets left behind and the whole scheme turns to shit.”
“Surely, if we get most of them…?”
“No way. The random universe isn’t a democracy, Kev. We’re dealing with some sort of collective consciousness here. So if there’s just one bloke in a different place to all the rest, no matter how numerous the rest of them are, the focal point with fall halfway between the one bloke and the rest. The only way to control the position of the focal point is to get them all —every last one of them—to the same place.”
“Shit.”
“So every day, a few more are converted to the word of Lorna Simmons and turn themselves in, and there’s an army of riot police out there rounding up a few dozen each day. There’s down to eight hundred and something now, but its going too slow.”
“Which is where I come in, I suppose.”
“Yes, Kev. I’ve done all I can with my soft touch. Harsher and more direct methods are required now.”
“How much co-operation can I expect from the locals?”
“It’ll help if you can put the frighteners on them a bit. But anyhow, they have to be found and processed and shipped to Brazil by the 10th of April.”
“That gives us a month. And there’ll be another link before then, won’t there?”
“Yep. But the Zone will be in Iran, which no one fancied as a good place to gather pilgrims.”
“Still, it might have been interesting.”
“I think you’ll find you have enough on your hands here to keep you amused, Kev.”
Wagner was beginning to understand the point of all this. “Do I detect that you are saying me and not we? I thought I came to help you out.”
Brian thought that very funny. “I just wouldn’t be comfortable giving you orders, Kev. No. You’re in charge here. I’m pissing off.”
“Pissing off where, exactly?”
“Italy. I’m going to help Chrissie move the Italian pilgrims to Brazil.”
“Does she need help?”
“She might. Now that the Pope has said they can’t go.”
*
The wine tasted bitter in her mouth. She knelt before the icons and symbols of a religion that she no longer believed and Cardinal Luigi Valerno gave her the sacrament while speaking in Latin, not one word of which she understood. That had never seemed so appropriate before. She wasn’t at all sure why she was doing this, carrying out this pagan ritual for the benefit of a soul that had made its commitment to another God. But Valerno had insisted.
“It would be improper for you to leave here, after all that has passed here, without taking the Holy Sacrament before you go,” he said.
“But it no longer means anything to me,” Chrissie protested.
“It will mean much to me, and the sisters here. They would be very disappointed if they hear that I let you go without our final blessing.”
Anything to get out of here, she was thinking.
The wine tasted like poison to her, but she gulped it down and clasped her hands and bowed her head as if in prayer, and he placed his hand upon her skull. His hand seemed surprisingly warm and even sweaty. He spoke more Latin—she felt like a dog trying to comprehend spoken instructions. But all she was thinking was that in a few moments she would be able to leave this place, and Valerno, and all he stood for behind.
He had arrived in his red robes, full of reverent joy. “His Holiness is concerned about the Pilgrims, and believes they are in need of a strengthening of their faith.”
“Their faith needs no strengthening...”
“But it does, Christine. A great temptation has been placed before them.”
Chrissie chewed on her lower lip. In a weird way, she understood exactly what he was talking about. But she wasn’t about to admit that. “There is no temptation.”
“Look, I know Miss Simmons is a friend of yours...”
“A very good friend, Luigi, and more reliable than most.”
“A woman who walks in sin, I’m told.”
“That’s the trouble with you, Luigi. You believe everything you’re told...”
“But she has made false promises.”
“How do you know they are false?”
“They contradict Scripture. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Because Lorna, unlike certain popes and cardinals, wouldn’t lie.”
“You can’t be sure...”
“I can be sure. It’s one of the few things I can still be sure of.”
“But what she claims is ridiculous,” Valerno spluttered. Plainly he had not expected this level of resistance.
“It worked. The result of a properly conducted scientific experiment.”
“But what is being suggested here is the reversal of a miracle...”
“There was never any miracle, Luigi. The Shastri Effect was acquired. Now it can be unacquired.”
“Miraculously acquired, Chrissie. You told the pilgrims that yourself.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Which you are at liberty to do. But you are also implying that God has changed his mind, which is untenable.”
“Stuff and nonsense. Read Exodus, Luigi. And Jonah. God changes his mind more often than you change your knickers.”
“The quotation of Scripture is not your domain.”
“No, Luigi, that’s true. My job is to lead the pilgrims and that’s what I’ll be doing. All the way to Brazil.”
“Brazil.”
“That’s right.”
“To take the cure.”
“That’s right.”
“It will not be permitted.”
“You can’t stop it. Once the link occurs they’ll be going that way anyway.”
“I cannot allow this.”
“You can’t allow it?”
“The pilgrims must remain. They have become a symbol of... of...”
“Papal power, Luigi? That’s just exactly why I’m getting them out of here.”
“That isn’t what I mean. You will be exposing these people to great danger, and all for a supposed experimental cure...”
“I’ll be freeing them of t
he burden of these monthly pilgrimages.”
“I see. And what happens after that?”
“They’ll return here and continue their lives.”
“There is a rumour that attempts will be made to convert them to a new pagan faith.”
“Implying that Catholicism is not a pagan faith, I assume.”
“A faith to which it is suspected you have been converted yourself.”
“You mean Gaia?”
“If that is what the abomination is called.”
“It isn’t a religion. Just a rebalance of the facts...”
“That is not what we have heard. In Zambia, they tell me, millions of natives are following the false goddess Andromeda in a trek across the continent.”
“Andromeda is a goddess only in the sense that showgirls usually are.”
“You say it isn’t so?”
“What I say doesn’t matter.”
“How can I dissuade you from this folly?”
“You can’t Luigi. I may or may not be undergoing some sort of conversion to a new, more appropriate form of religious belief. I don’t know. Maybe Andromeda does fancy herself as a goddess. That’s up to her. But I do know one thing. I no longer have faith in you, Luigi, nor in your Pope. You have become meaningless and irrelevant to me.”
“I see. And when will you depart?”
“From here. Now.”
“Then you must allow me to offer you my blessing before you go.”
“Oh really?”
“And that of His Holiness.”
“I consider myself blessed.”
“And the sisters desire that you take one last sacrament.”
“You’re kidding.”
But he persuaded her in the end and she did it just to get rid of him. And when it was done, he crossed himself and turned abruptly and left. As he strode toward the nave and the side exit of the chapel, he dashed the contents of the sacramental cup on the floor and then wiped it with the sleeve of his red robe.
She was puzzled. Surely the cup should have been returned to its rightful place on the alter. Was he stealing it? Then she heard the clatter of its metal against the stone outside as he discarded it.
She suddenly felt strangely, ridiculously alone, kneeling there, for no reason, and still that very bitter wine taste in her mouth. But when she rose she found her knees unsteady. There was a nausea overcoming her, and a tingling feeling gushing through her bloodstream. She staggered a few steps and then looked back toward the alter. Was this God making one last bid to regather her faith? One last quizzical look passed across her countenance and then the pain gripped her and she screamed out as she doubled up, clutching her midriff, and fell to the floor. Somewhere out there, she could hear voices screaming, or perhaps it was the echo of her own...
*
Then they reached The Congo Republic. A fat man shrugged at them, standing outside the tin shed that was the border post. Behind him, thirty armed men stood in combat postures. Captain Maynard lined his men up in similar postures. In between, Andromeda and the fat man discussed the situation.
“It is impossible to enter The Republic of the Congo,” the man said in poor English.
Andromeda showed him the document Harley had brought her.
“It is a forgery. I must take it away to be examined,” the man said and extended his hand. Andromeda put the right of passage behind her back.
At that moment, one of Wagner’s C-130s passed overhead and six parachutes popped out. Rather than the usual food containers, six men dangled from the lines. Even the fat man was distracted from eyeing the document greedily.
The plane circled and then came in, to pass by only a hundred yards away, flying at exceedingly low height, so low in fact that it was almost touching the ground. The rear cargo bay was open and from in there, a large dark netted container, half the size of a house, slid out and dropped, skidding along the ground for a time before the lines towing it from the plane dropped. The C-130 lumbered away into the sky.
Spectators from both sides of the argument continued to watch the action pantomime play itself out before them. The six men, loosed from their parachutes, gathered about the container and went to work with heft haste, pulling away the netting, bursting the protective wrapping away. From in there, a Leopard tank emerged.
By then, Maynard had strode down and was speaking to the men. With well-practiced movement, they scrambled aboard, and immediately the gun turret swivelled and the huge barrel came around to point exactly at the fat man. Harley’s toy had arrived.
“What is this?” the fat man blubbered, when it was all too plain what it was.
“A present for us from the President of the Republic of The Congo,” Andromeda Starlight smiled.
The fat man and his troops immediately fled into the bush. Maynard came striding toward her with a huge smile on his face while the tank crew emerged to sit all over their machine and light jubilant cigarettes.
“Your turn to make a big impression, Captain,” Andromeda laughed.
“Bigger than you think,” Maynard chuckled. “The tank needs its batteries charged before has any electrics so the crew had to rotate the turret into position manually. And it can’t move it anywhere because it hasn’t been fuelled yet. And they couldn’t have fired anyway, because the ammunition isn’t expected to arrive until sometime tomorrow.”
*
When Brian Carrick arrived at the hospital in Salerno, Fabrini was there to meet him, in the company of a tall man, elegant in his dress and manner, white hair and beard immaculately trimmed. Fabrini introduced him as Enzo Severni, who Carrick presumed was a senior doctor or hospital administrator. Joe Solomon could have told him who he really was.
“An appalling tragedy, Mr. Carrick. Such a fine young woman.”
They shook hands. Brian wondered how anyone could have such cool hands in so warm a climate.
“What the fuck happened?” Brian demanded.
The first thing he had seen when he arrived at Rome Airport was the smiling, serene image of Chrissie Rice on the television screen, and others of policemen and cardinals, saying things that, although he understood not a word of it, were all too plain. He bullied people until he found someone who spoke English and understood his panicky demands sufficiently to explain. Then the media who were gathering to ambush incoming dignitaries realised who he was and thrust microphones in his face as he pushed his way through to a taxi, abandoning his luggage to its fate.
“Get out of my fuckin’ way,” he grumbled and physically hurled them aside. The hated paparazzi—he wanted to slug one or two of them, or anyone really.
“The bastards killed her,” Fabrini snarled, his eyes as dark as his drooping moustache.
“Now, Mr. Fabrini,” Severni was saying. “There has been no post mortem examination at this stage. There is no evidence to support your claim at this stage.”
“I don’t need any evidence,” Fabrini muttered, but to himself.
“Evidence of what?” Brian demanded.
Severni put an arm around Brian’s shoulders and turned him to walk along the corridor, speaking in low tones.
“Eyewitnesses reported that the blood that ran from her nose was of a very bright coloration, and that her tongue was a strange shade of blue. My experience of such matters is slight but not to be completely discounted. I believe these symptoms strongly indicate cyanide poisoning.”
“Jesus.”
“And in such a strong dose that death must have been relatively instantaneous.”
“Poor bitch,” Brian said, but he was slowly realising that Severni’s inexperience might not be so great as he suggested. “Okay, so let’s have an autopsy. But why are you bothering?”
“There are many of us who had a very strong regard for that young woman.”
“Yeah. It takes a very special sort of bastard to kill someone like her.”
“Very special indeed,” Severni agreed. “I understand from the nuns that a papal envoy administered her the Holy
Sacrament shortly before she died. I have managed to obtain the goblet involved for forensic examination.”
“You think the envoy poisoned her? On the orders of the Pope?”
“I doubt any such order could have been given, but perhaps Cardinal Valerno interpreted the Papal will that way,” Severni said grimly.
“This Valerno,” Fabrini muttered. “Where do I find him?”
“In the Vatican, I assume, Mr. Fabrini,” Severni said. “But I believe we can leave that matter to the proper authorities.”
“I just can’t believe that anyone would kill her,” Brian said, shaking his head as if trying to settle the idea into place.
“Christine was a person to whom one always suspected martyrdom would come naturally,” Severni said reasonably. “Perhaps the killer believed he was carrying out the will of God.”
“So they just hurried the inevitable along a little, huh?”
“Indeed. She had, I understand, become something of an embarrassment to the established order.”
“Had she now?”
“I understand it was her wish to remove her flock from this country, and perhaps try to convert them to some new religious order.”
“The first part is true. The second is irrelevant.”
“Good. Then I believe it would be best if her wishes were carried out.”
“I’ll have a ship waiting for them in Naples on the 18th. The pilgrimage will carry them in that direction anyway.”
“Fine. Mr. Fabrini. You will remain here and lead the pilgrimage. I shall make whatever other arrangements are necessary to ensure they reach Naples.”
“I have business in Rome,” Fabrini muttered.
“You will remain and lead the pilgrims, Mr. Fabrini,” Severni said without adding any severity to his tone. “The people associate you with her. They’ll follow you better than anyone else.”
Fabrini said nothing. His eyes took on a sulky look that he dared not express.
They had arrived at a room where a nurse and a policeman stood like sentinels either side of the door and two burly individuals sat on chairs opposite.
