The 4th Secret

by R D Shah

  ‘Very good, Michael,’ Mythias mused. ‘I had not heard that one before.’

  The cardinal gracefully closed the door behind him and proceeded to scan the interior of the press room. Ever since Michael McKinnon had been appointed as the Vatican’s press director a few months earlier, he had set about placing his own personal stamp on everything under his control including the press office itself which now glittered with numerous photos of the director and a variety of well-known faces. At forty-three, Michael McKinnon was one of Sky News’s brightest political editors, with a belly that was equal in size to the man’s ego. A self-styled media guru, the ex-journalist had won award after award for his keen and shrewd ability to navigate the political and media landscape in order to get his story. This was of course not the only reason for his success in attaining the Vatican’s press directorship, as Mythias was well aware. The fact that he was a genuinely religious man, with connections to Opus Dei, had helped immensely in securing the position, but it was hard to deny the man’s talent for the job, even if Cardinal Mythias – as well as others – found his demeanour somewhat brash.

  ‘So was cancelling the trip your doing, David, or have I been hammering that little gopher press secretary of yours for no reason?’ McKinnon demanded uncompromisingly.

  ‘It certainly was, but haven’t you heard of the expression: Don’t shoot the messenger?’

  ‘I’ve heard the expression indeed, but personally I like shooting the messenger… It keeps people on their toes.’

  ‘And off your own no doubt,’ Mythias replied dryly.

  ‘Very amusing, Cardinal, but what I really want to know is why you have cancelled his holiness’s trip to Notre Dame Cathedral tomorrow?’

  Cardinal Mythias allowed a few moments to pass as he eyed the director sternly, with all the compassion of a traffic warden. ‘For two simple reasons, Michael. Firstly, because this attack appears to be against religion itself, full stop, and his holiness should be seen to act accordingly, in speaking for humanity as a whole and not just for Catholics.’ Mythias raised his hand to silence the press director’s opinion, seeing the man’s mouth was already open and ready to respond. ‘And secondly, because I just got off the phone with the chief of police in Paris and as of yet they have no idea what caused the deaths of those people – and so far it is the same for all the other locations where such attacks have taken place.’

  ‘Hold on ….’

  Cardinal Mythias was already shaking warningly his hand that was still raised between them. ‘And nor am I about to allow his Holiness to visit an area that, for all we know, could still be contaminated … I’m afraid his safety must come first and, until we have confirmation from the authorities that there is no danger, it would be incredibly irresponsible for us to put his holiness in harm’s way, wouldn’t you agree?’

  If McKinnon was in any way swayed by the cardinal’s reasoning, it didn’t show, and that was confirmed seconds later.

  ‘The humanity part I can get on board with,’ he reasoned, ‘but no one has died at any of those locations since this morning, and to not visit one of the sites today would mean losing out on an amazing opportunity for publicity.’ The director was already chewing his lips as if he could actually taste the prospect. ‘We have him visit Notre Dame and one of the mosques or synagogues affected, and we then push the idea that he is the … the People’s Pope. Or, even better, we promote the notion that he came as a Catholic but left as the leader of humanity.’ A deep smile crossed McKinnon’s face as he began to visualise it. ‘I’ve not got it quite right yet but if we play this thing correctly, the PR rewards will be huge.’

  As the director’s eyes continued to widen at his own brilliant idea, they were met by the cold stony gaze of Cardinal Mythias. ‘Of course, Michael, we wouldn’t want a multitude of innocent deaths to get in the way of a good news story?’ Mythias offered sarcastically. ‘That would just be short-sighted, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Cardinal,’ Director McKinnon replied bluntly, dropping his notepad back on the table, ‘the fact that so many people died this morning isn’t lost on me, and that loss of life is terrible but don’t forget I was brought in by this administration to counterbalance the truly disturbing series of events that have taken place on Vatican soil recently,’ McKinnon stated flatly. ‘And what would be truly short-sighted is for Pope Gregory not to be seen spearheading that sense of world solidarity that people are already demanding, and will continue to demand in the days to come.’

  Cardinal Mythias was already nodding. ‘On that point, Michael, we are in total agreement and that is why this evening his holiness will address the people of the world directly from the balcony of St Peters. But,’ the cardinal continued with a firm gesture of his hand, ‘the coverage will be handled in a respectful and sombre tone, and not as an excuse to incur the throwaway tabloid headlines that you seem to be suggesting. Furthermore, he will visit the affected houses of worship you mentioned, but not until they have been deemed free of any potential dangers to his holiness.’

  Mythias had already opened the press office’s door and was on his way out, as the director called after him. ‘OK, that will work, but you can’t blame me for looking at all the angles. And don’t forget that I was brought into protect his image, and I won’t allow you or anyone else to compromise that.’

  ‘Then don’t you forget that I am here, amongst my other duties, to protect his holiness’s life,’ Mythias replied, lingering in the doorway, ‘and I will not allow you to compromise that either.’

  McKinnon waited for the door to shut then allowed his shoulders to slump. ‘Dick,’ he uttered under his breath, before noticing from the corner of his eye, a figure standing at one of the side doors. He glanced over to see his young press secretary staring at him with the hint of a satisfied grin beginning to form across his lips. ‘Back to work, smiley,’ McKinnon barked impatiently. ‘Those toilets aren’t going to clean themselves, are they?’

  Chapter 16

  ‘Look, I won’t say it again; you either pay monthly or by the hour,’ the sweaty-faced reception manager advised. ‘You can be a resident or a visitor but, whichever way, you’re not getting in here without paying, so either you show me the cash or get lost!’

  Harker took a step backwards and watched disconcertingly as the overweight doorman slammed down the reception desk’s metal security grate and folded his arms, that simple motion causing another fold of sweaty fat to form under his more than ample neckline. When Harker had first noted down Father Strasser’s work address as ‘31 Rue Decord, Praga district, Warsaw’, he had imagined somewhere far more impressive than the filthy-laden rat shack he now found himself standing in. He had always prided himself on not being too fastidious but the speed with which the taxi driver deposited them here and then drove off coupled with the numerous used condoms they had passed on the pavements outside, was straining this tolerance to breaking point. Chloe clearly wasn’t coping much better, and had kept rigidly to the centre of the narrow entrance way as if trying not to brush against the walls for fear of picking up something moist and unsavoury.

  ‘OK, fine,’ Harker replied, pulling out his wallet. ‘How much for the hour?’

  The obese receptionist scratched at the neckline of his stained white T-shirt, which only managed to cover half of his impressive belly, before rolling the security grate upwards again. ‘Two hundred euros.’

  ‘Two hundred!’ Harker choked. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

  ‘Look, Englishman, if you want in, you pay the price,’ the fat man replied with a snort. ‘And decide today because I’m far too busy for your bullshit.’

  A rolling tumbleweed was all that was missing from the otherwise empty reception area, and Harker pointedly took a moment to glance around the empty void. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he replied sarcastically.

  The fat man just shrugged and once again began reaching for the roller shutter.

  ‘Fine,’ Harker growled, pulling the notes from his wallet and
dropping them on to counter where they were keenly scooped up, then placed quickly out of sight.

  ‘Fifth floor,’ the receptionist announced with a false smile as he handed over a single key clipped to a grubby yellow disk with the number 53 scratched on to it. ‘And you two have fun now.’

  This last comment drew an offended look from Chloe, who hadn’t said a word since entering. ‘Oh, please, I’ve only known him for a couple of days,’ she objected, referring to Harker.

  ‘And I’m an ex-priest.’ Harker followed up hastily.

  The receptionist eyed his latest customers from head to toe. ‘Kinky,’ he observed, grinning sleazily.

  Harker was already guiding Chloe up the first flight of stairs before she could say more.

  ‘What a lovely man,’ she remarked facetiously. ‘Remind me to leave a star review on Trip Advisor, would you?’

  ‘Will do,’ Harker replied with a smile, as they continued on up to the second floor and then towards the third. ‘Good manners and pleasantries obviously aren’t requirements for working in a place like this.’ He directed Chloe’s attention to an unpleasant-looking foamy puddle she was about to step in. ‘What possessed Strasser to live in a place like this?’

  ‘I thought it was listed as his working address?’ Chloe replied, proceeding more cautiously.

  ‘It was but unless Father Strasser swaps his dog collar each night for a red velvet suit and pimp’s cane, then I’m guessing that info was wrong.’

  ‘Then what the hell would he be doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know but the sooner we find him, the sooner we can get out of the place,’ Harker said just as they reached the fifth floor. ‘And for two hundred euros it had better be worth it.’

  He grabbed the fire-exit door handle and paused. ‘You know that could be a world record.’

  ‘Record?’

  ‘Yes. The most a person has ever paid not to have sex!’

  The fifth floor was just as grimy and unimpressive as the reception area. The only sunlight came from a small arched window at the end of a long and gloomy corridor and the only working light seemed to be a green fire-exit sign above a door next to it. Harker couldn’t help but admire how, even in this dive of a hotel, EU health and safety regulations had prevailed. Game set and match to the bureaucrats. He steadily proceeded along the fifty-metre corridor, with Chloe in tow, the sticky carpet fibres producing an unhealthy crunching sound with every footstep until they reached number 53.

  ‘Let me do all the talking,’ Harker whispered, ‘if something happens and it starts to get out of hand I want you to just leave here and meet me at that coffee shop we saw a few streets along.’

  ‘What are you expecting?’ Chloe asked, clearly a touch nervous.

  ‘I don’t know but, whatever Strasser’s part is in all this, he was the one that got me involved in the first place, and considering what happened at Notre Dame I don’t want to take any chances.’

  ‘Understood, Alex.’ Chloe agreed dutifully, taking a step behind him as he moved to within knocking distance of the grubby doorway.

  Harker rapped his fist heavily against the scratched wood and then let his arm drop to his side, tensing in apprehension at the greeting he might receive. Ten seconds passed before he thumped on the door again and then resumed his cautious pose. They waited like this for what seemed like an age but no flicker of movement disturbed the strip of dull light escaping under the bottom of the door. No shadow fell across the peephole in front of him either. Nothing.

  Harker glanced back at Chloe, who not only stood completely motionless but was breathing as quietly as she could. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to wait,’ he whispered and was about to step away but instead grasped the door handle and gave it a twist just in case. To his surprise, the door clicked open and slowly swung back with a creak, revealing a short hallway beyond lit by a single bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. There was a closed door on either side of the short passage, which itself opened into what looked like a living room, with a brown polyester sofa protruding from one side.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone in here?’ Harker waited for a reply but was met only with silence. ‘I’ve got a message from the manager,’ Harker continued in his best Polish. After a short wait, and a gentle nudge from Chloe, he ventured onwards towards the main room.

  The living room was devoid of anything except for its peeling yellow wallpaper and the muddy brown sofa he had seen from the entrance. A small open kitchen adjoined the main room, accommodating a pathetic-looking single cooking hob and an ancient refrigerator which would have looked more at home at a landfill site than in a contemporary apartment.

  ‘He’s not much of a homemaker, is he?’ Chloe commented softly as she pushed her way further into the main room. ‘And what is that stink?’

  Harker pointed over to something in the far corner as he wrinkled his nose. ‘That would be the pile of shit over there, I assume.’

  Chloe craned her head to get a closer look at the offending object. ‘Oh, that’s vile,’ she said with disgust. ‘He could at least take the dog outside.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s from a dog, Chloe.’ Harker winced before making his way back into the hallway, leaving Chloe to take one last look at the nauseating mound of human excrement.

  ‘And this man’s a priest you say?’ she grimaced and made her way back to join him just as he was preparing to investigate one of the side doors.

  ‘I’m not sure exactly what this man is, but I intend to find out.’

  Harker pushed open the door and poked his head inside but retracted it just as quickly as a fresh stench assaulted his nose. ‘Well, at least there’s a bathroom,’ Harker gasped closing the door firmly shut again, ‘but he seems to have used everywhere but the toilet!’

  Chloe began shaking her head in distaste as Harker lurched towards the opposite door. ‘That’s just nasty,’ she remarked. ‘I wonder if he has some type of clinical bowel issue.’

  Her comment drew a light smile from Harker who was about to open the second door. ‘Bowel problem I doubt, but a clinical problem most definitely.’ He glanced back at her challengingly. ‘You’re the psychologist, you tell me?’

  Chloe opened her mouth as if about to deliver her professional opinion, when Harker cut her short by raising his finger to his lips and then gesturing to the closed door. He slowly turned the handle before cautiously taking a step inside.

  A haze of red light immediately engulfed him and in that instant a wave of panic flooded into his chest as he attempted to make out the darkly crimson-lit interior. The room was the biggest of the three and the small mattress on the floor suggested the room’s true purpose, even though the red lighting exuded the ambience of a chill-out room in some sleazy nightclub. A series of white bed sheets, bathed red by the light bulbs, hung from the ceiling by clothes pins, splitting the room into different sections and the window set in the far wall was covered by a blanket which only added to the claustrophobic atmosphere. Home sweet home.

  Harker warily made his way deeper into the room and his attention was immediately drawn to a series of framed black-and-white photos firmly secured to the wall. The people depicted were all random; men, women and children dressed in a variety of old-style suits, bowler hats and long, ill-fitting dresses complete with full-length undergarments. The style was unmistakeably late nineteenth century, but it wasn’t this attire that commanded Harker’s attention. As he struggled to make out the various faces under the crimson light, he became aware of an odd-looking slant to their eyes and the peculiar way in which the bodies seemed to be propped up. He finally realised what he was looking at: these people were all dead. Corpses re-dressed and specially posed for the camera? Harker felt an unpleasant feeling of nausea seep into his stomach. He had seen these types of photos before; they were known as post-mortem photographs and had been all the rage during the Victorian era. Photos were taken as family mementos – or memento mori to be accurate – and it had even been common to place liv
ing members of their kin in the picture. Harker had seen more than one picture of an extremely uncomfortable-looking child having to pose with a dead family member, a practice that would undoubtedly leave the subjects with a few choice mental scars for the rest of their lives. Seeing such images had always unsettled Harker, but having them as part of historical record was one thing. Whereas hanging them in your bedroom was just grotesque. He was already pulling himself away from this morbid little exhibition when a loud screech erupting from behind caused him to lurch forward in shock and smack his forehead on the wall display he was examining. Rubbing his brow, Harker spun round to find the doorway behind him was empty.

  ‘Chloe?’

  ‘Over here,’ came the answer from further back in the room.

  Harker pushed aside the nearest hanging sheets to find Chloe standing in front of what looked like a small wooden altar only a few feet in diameter, with her hand raised to her mouth. He immediately stepped over to her side, until over her shoulder he could see what had caused this outburst. A metal-cast cross, complete with Jesus Christ, hung above the altar, while three glass jars with metal screw-top lids filled with liquid were distributed evenly across its surface. Each of them bore the unfamiliar symbol of a half circle containing a triangle in the middle.

  Initially Harker’s stomach began to tighten up with the expectation of seeing further examples of Father Strasser’s bodily excretions but, as he leaned closer, he began to wish that was all they were. In the left jar a small toe hung suspended in what must have been a preserving solution, and the middle jar contained two fingers in much the same state. But it was the final jar that really gave him a chill, and he instinctively cupped his groin. The small shrivelled penis floating aimlessly in the jar’s solution had all the sorrowful appeal and charm of a dog suffering chronic mange.

  ‘What the hell!’ Harker gasped as, outside the room, the click of the apartment’s front door unlocking could be heard, quickly followed by the sound of footsteps making their way down the hallway and stopping at the bedroom entrance.