A Sacred Storm

by Dominic C. James

  “Busy with funeral arrangements,” said Jennings. “What a crock of shit. There’s no way that Cronin and Stratton wouldn’t have let us know what was going on.”

  “Of course not,” said Kandinsky. “But like I said – there is nothing we can do. We cannot go storming into the Vatican making accusations.”

  Jennings got back up and went outside to the balcony for some fresh air. He closed his eyes and took some long, deep breaths from his diaphragm, just like Stratton had taught him. He had no idea why he was so edgy. Certainly the situation was bad, but he’d been through a lot worse and survived. His brain was telling him that his reaction was unhealthy, but his body was having none of it. Every time he tried to keep still and calm an internal force would take hold, agitating him and compelling him to move.

  Stella came out and stood next to him, putting her hand on his arm. “What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “You’re a right jack-in the-box today.”

  “I don’t know. I just can’t keep still. There’s this whole load of energy flowing through me and I can’t control it. If I’m still for more than half a minute I feel like I’m going to explode.”

  “Do you think it’s got anything to do with the Reiki you gave me last night?” she asked.

  Jennings thought for a moment. “I suppose it might,” he said. “The problem is that Stratton’s not here to help. He’d be able to tell me exactly why I’m like this. He’d probably be able to calm me down as well. I just wish we knew what was going on. I can’t stand all this waiting around.”

  Stella gently stroked his back. She wanted to say something comforting, but it would have been a lie. She knew as well as Jennings that something was wrong. As a result of his treatment her senses were heightened like never before. She had woken up feeling alert and in tune, as if she’d been wired into a grid. She felt closer to Jennings than ever.

  They stood in silence for a while, gazing out onto the city.

  Stella’s touch was soothing and Jennings finally began to relax. He wanted to grab her and hold her tight and never let her go. He was still playing with the idea when Grady joined them.

  “Right then,” he said. “I’m off.”

  “So soon?” said Jennings.

  “Yeah. The limo’s waiting for me downstairs. It’s almost five now and the traffic’s bad so I need to make a move. I just came to say so long.”

  “Well, I suppose if you really have to go,” said Jennings.

  “I do,” said Grady. “I know that things aren’t great, but I’ve already stayed away too long. There’s a point where you’ve got to think about what’s really important.”

  “I know, mate. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” He held out his hand. “Thanks for saving my life – again.”

  Grady took his hand and drew him in for a hug. “Not a problem, buddy. Not a problem.”

  After he’d gone Jennings sat down at the balcony table and looked sadly up at the sky.

  “Are you alright?” asked Stella.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I just…I’m fine.”

  “You’ve still got me,” she said. “I might not be as handsome as Grady, but I’ll do my best.”

  Jennings laughed. “Very funny. I’ve just got used to having him around, that’s all. He’s a decent bloke, once you’ve got through all the macho bullshit anyway.”

  “Yeah, he’s alright,” Stella agreed. “Although I never though I’d say it. Let’s not forget that he was quite happy to leave us to burn in hell last year at the cottage.”

  “You know what,” said Jennings. “I’d completely forgotten about that. It doesn’t seem like the same person though.”

  Inside the suite Kandinsky’s phone rang. Stella and Jennings jumped out of their seats and listened at the balcony door, trying to get a handle on who the caller was and what they were saying. But Kandinsky’s face and tone remained impassive. After a two minute conversation he hung up.

  “Who was that? What’s happening?” said Jennings excitedly.

  “That was the priest I spoke to earlier – a Father Panduro. He said that he has located Father Cronin and that he has passed on a message for us to meet him at the Vatican later this evening.”

  “Well that doesn’t sound suspicious, does it?”

  “Of course it does,” said Kandinsky. “But I do not feel we have any choice other than to accept the invitation. What else can we do?”

  “Nothing I guess,” said Jennings. “But if we go to the Vatican we’re playing right into their hands.”

  “And if we don’t we could be waiting here forever,” said Stella. “If we go we’ll at least find out what’s happened to them.”

  “We will,” said Jennings. “But walking into a trap may not be the best way forward. If we go then they’ve got all of us in one neat little package. There’ll be no-one left who knows the truth.”

  “I thought you wanted to find out what’d happened to them?” said Stella.

  “I do. But I’m trying to think objectively like Stratton now. Would he want us going in there blind?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Kandinsky. “But there is no doubt that they have been found out, and are either dead or being held captive. We have to do what we can. If that means putting ourselves in danger then so be it. Without Stratton the whole cause is lost. None of us can compete with the power at the Church’s disposal.”

  Jennings sat down on the settee. He knew that Kandinsky was right, but he also knew that going to the Vatican was suicidal. Once they were through the doors it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that nobody would hear from them again. And what could they achieve even if they weren’t captured? Nobody wanted to say it out loud, but the chances that either Stratton or Cronin was still alive were slim, bordering on non-existent. What was the point in risking everything just to satisfy their curiosity? He racked his brains for a solution. A few moments later an idea came. “I’ll go on my own,” he said.

  “What?” said Stella.

  “I said I’ll go on my own. There’s no point us all walking into the lions’ den, is there? If we all get caught then the truth is going to be lost.”

  “No it won’t,” said Stella. “Grady will still be around.”

  “Grady’s got his own problems,” said Jennings. “And besides, by the time he got round to saying anything it would be too late. He’d be one voice lost in a multitude.”

  “You are right,” said Kandinsky. “And I think your plan is a good one. There is one small change that we should make though – it is I who should go to the Vatican. They know my name and are expecting me. And, no offence Jennings, but I am far more likely to come out alive than yourself.”

  Jennings looked up at the giant Russian and knew the truth in his words. If anyone was going to survive it was him.

  Seeing that his statement had hit home Kandinsky continued. “I will get my people up here and have them inject a transmitter under my skin. Then you will be able to track my every move. I will also let them know that in my absence Jennings here speaks for me. Then if anything happens you will still have a huge network at your disposal.”

  “But without you…” Stella started.

  Kandinsky held up his hand. “There is nothing more to discuss,” he said. “I have spoken.”

  Chapter 51

  It was almost an hour after Pat Cronin came round that his senses finally returned to something resembling normality. His head was still throbbing, but he could see and hear, and that was a good start. Next to him Stratton was either asleep or dead, he couldn’t tell which. He called to the men at the table and asked them to bring him some more water. The bigger of the two wandered over with a bottle and put it to Cronin’s lips. He glugged down as much as his weakened system could hold.

  When he was done the man rejoined his companion at the table and carried on their game of cards. They had talked between themselves, but had said nothing to Cronin apart from offering him water and bread. He had tried to engage them in conversation without
success. All he could tell was that they were English and professional.

  Beside him Stratton stirred and opened his eyes. Cronin was hit by a wave of relief. “I thought you might be dead,” he said.

  “No,” said Stratton. “Well, not yet anyway. Although from what I remember death’s a lot more pleasant than this.”

  “Any idea where we are?” asked Cronin. “I’ve tried speaking to Tweedledum and Tweedledee over there, but they’re not the most communicative.”

  “I’ve got no idea where we are,” said Stratton. “But I do know we’re here as guests of the Church and the British Prime Minister. We had a little visit from him when you were still out for the count. I’m afraid we’ve been found out.”

  “How much do they know?”

  “Just about everything. They’ve been onto your boss, the cardinal, for ages apparently. I guess they were waiting to see if he turned anything up before they did. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve had him watched for years. Probably bugged his chambers and his phones. I can’t imagine there’s a lot they don’t know about.”

  “Fuck it!” said Cronin. “We were so careful. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve swept that place for bugs. But I guess with all the money at their disposal they can always keep ahead of the game. Technology just moves on far too quickly.”

  “Yeah, it does,” agreed Stratton. “There’s no way you could have kept on top of it. In this day and age if somebody wants to keep tabs on you there’s no way to stop them.”

  “So where is the cardinal?” asked Cronin.

  Stratton fell silent.

  “What?” pressed Cronin. “What’s happened?”

  “He’s dead,” said Stratton. “They killed him.”

  Cronin bowed his head.

  Stratton continued. “For what it’s worth I don’t think he suffered. The official line is that he had a heart attack in his sleep, and it’s probably not far from the truth. A quick injection I expect.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel any better,” said Cronin. “I was responsible for him. He paid me to look after things. I should have been more alert to the danger.”

  “You couldn’t have stopped them.”

  “I could have at least tried. I should have been more cautious. I mean, what sort of fool allows himself to be drugged in his sleep?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question,” said Stratton. “But we’ve both been caught napping and there’s fuck all we can do about it.”

  Chapter 52

  The sun was setting and the streetlights were starting to flicker on. Tariq walked down the Middleton Road with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched nervously, his face covered by a hood. The traffic was unusually sparse and the air was heavy with intent. He hadn’t wanted to leave the house, but when Jenna had called him his heart had been unable to refuse. There was no gauntlet he wouldn’t run just to see her heavenly face.

  He passed the deserted Co-op and turned left at the traffic lights, looking nervously across to the railway bridge as he did so. A lone car came towards him and trundled past eerily like a mechanized tumbleweed. There were no pedestrians and there was no sound of trains. He’d never known the town this quiet. The silence of the streets unnerved him.

  The Causeway seemed equally destitute, with the exception that every now and then he could see shadows of human life projected through light curtains. It gave him some comfort to know that he was not entirely alone, but at the same time made him feel more isolated. He proceeded cautiously, his eyes and ears alert to every tiny movement or sound.

  Halfway down he stopped and turned. His ears had detected what he thought were footsteps. He peered into the orange dusk, but could see nothing except for parked cars and houses. After a brief wait to make certain, he carried on and upped his pace. The footsteps sounded again, this time more hurried. Once more he halted to check, and once more he saw nothing.

  He was only a hundred yards from Jenna’s flat when he finally saw them: a group of five sprinting towards him noiselessly, their faces covered by scarves. By the time he had a chance to react they were almost upon him. Without thought he sprang away down the path. He had never been the fastest of runners, but fear and adrenaline spurred him on with a rapidity that he would have previously considered impossible.

  As he approached the flats it occurred to him that he would have no chance of opening the communal door before his pursuers bore down. He had no choice but to bypass his destination and carry on running. With no more than a rapid glance he hurtled past Jenna’s building and off into the darkening evening. He couldn’t hear the gang behind, but he could sense them and they weren’t losing ground. He made a decision to swerve into the small park and head back through to the main road.

  The park was cloaked in near blackness. The one lamp in the centre had blown, and the only light to guide him was that shining through from the Middleton Road a hundred yards ahead. It was here that the relentless effort began to tell and he started to tire. He gritted his teeth and tried to force one last thrust to propel him through the darkness. Behind him the gang prepared to strike.

  The next thing Tariq knew he was tumbling forward in an uncontrollable dive. He’d been tripped from behind. He blindly held out his hands to break the fall. Hitting the path at speed he rolled forward and sideways onto the grass. Before he could get his bearings the kicks started to fly in. Cradling his head in his arms he curled himself into a ball and tried to weather the storm.

  The blows were fast and vicious and pointed, and came from every conceivable angle. The pain of the constant barrage to his kidneys and back quickly became unbearable. He started to scream loudly, but this only encouraged his tormentors to rain down harder. Boots penetrated his defences and hammered into his face. The beating continued mercilessly until he thought he was going to pass out. Then, with a solitary word the blows ceased.

  “Enough,” said a gruff voice.

  Tariq didn’t move. He could feel them stood around him, watching and waiting. He heard one of them clear his throat loudly and hawk a pool of spit. It landed on Tariq’s temple and dribbled through his fingers into his eye.

  “Muslim scum,” said the same gruff voice as before.

  It was at least five minutes before Tariq dared to move. He thought he had heard the gang leave, but wanted to make certain. During this time he just lay there in silence dreading the start of another attack. Eventually, convinced that he was on his own, he lowered his guard and sprawled out on the grass taking in shallow gasps of air. The taste of blood swamped his mouth and his two front teeth wobbled in battered gums. His steamrollered body ached with every breath.

  Reaching tentatively into his trouser pocket, he withdrew his mobile phone and held it up in front of his watery eyes. The screen was blurry, but he managed to find the right buttons to speed-dial Jenna. He put the phone to his ear and waited.

  “Hello honey,” said a comforting voice. “I’ve been wondering where you were.”

  Tariq tried to rasp a reply, but his throat was clogged with blood.

  “Hello,” Jenna repeated. “Hello? Tariq?”

  Tariq cleared his throat weakly and spat out some blood. “Park,” he whispered. “Park.”

  The phone slid from his hand and he blacked out.

  Chapter 53

  Arman Kandinsky strode purposefully up to the large arched gates and entered into a brief discussion with one of the Swiss Guards on sentry duty. He stated his name and announced that he had an appointment with Father Cronin. The guard had a brief gawp at Kandinsky’s size and then radioed control. After a swift conversation the gate opened and he escorted the Russian in. He led him across a large courtyard and then through a double oak door. Inside the building Kandinsky followed his guide down a maze of imposing corridors. He looked around as they walked, impressed but not overawed by the artwork and architecture. It was striking, but not half as inspiring as the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg, he thought. He did, however, very much l
ike the guard’s multicoloured livery. The red, yellow and blue striped uniform could easily have been over-the-top kitsch, but the tone and blend was such that it exuded imperious grandeur. A reminder of a lost age.

  The guard showed Kandinsky into Cronin’s office and asked him to wait while he located the priest. Kandinsky sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk, knowing full well that the last person who’d be arriving was Cronin. He patted his waistband, reassuring himself that if trouble emerged then he at least had his tranquilizer gun to take a few down.

  It was only a few minutes before a priest – who wasn’t Cronin – arrived.

  “Hello,” he said holding out a hand. “I’m Father Panduro. You must be Mr Kandinsky.”

  Kandinsky stood up and shook the outstretched hand firmly.

  Panduro looked up and smiled, trying to hide his fear. “I’m afraid Father Cronin is unavoidably delayed,” he said. “He shouldn’t be longer than ten minutes though. I’ll make you a coffee if you like.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Kandinsky.

  Panduro put the kettle on and fumbled about in the cupboard for some coffee mugs. “I’m afraid it’s been all go around here lately, as you can probably imagine. Our whole world’s been turned upside down by the appearance of Christiano. After some trying years, suddenly overnight we’re popular again.”

  “I expect you are,” said Kandinsky, only half listening.

  “There didn’t seem to be a lot of room for faith in this modern society,” Panduro continued. “People were more interested in worshipping footballers and pop stars than God. Congregations had dwindled to almost nothing in some areas of the world. The only way to fill a church would have been to have Madonna or Beyonce perform. Of course, that’s all turned on its head now.”

  Kandinsky watched Panduro’s hands carefully as he spooned in the coffee granules.

  “Would you like milk and sugar, Mr Kandinsky?”

  “No, thank you. Black will be fine.”