The 4th Secret

by R D Shah

  Alonzo fell back into his chair in exasperation, and it was Davidson who now seized his chance to reprimand Wilcox.

  ‘And now this debacle at Notre Dame Cathedral involving none other than that Harker idiot who you should have eliminated well before he even became an issue.’

  Wilcox still looked calm, even though underneath he was fuming, and he remained in control at this mention of Harker. ‘I don’t know what has happened there at Notre Dame, or if the professor had anything to do with it, but after this meeting I intend to have my people look into it.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Alonzo replied firmly. ‘We already have one of our own operatives following Harker even as we speak, and I have no doubt he will resolve any remaining questions for us.’ Alonzo had been shaking his head and tutting loudly. ‘Your stewardship of our holy organisation has proved nothing short of sacrilegious and at complete odds with the Magi’s holy codex, which many of us still believe was dictated by the Lord God himself.’

  Even Dietrich was nodding his head in support of the accusations being hurled at Wilcox, as Davidson continued with his attack. ‘Did it ever occur to you that the reason for your failure lies not in this fly in the ointment – this Harker person you have seemed so ready to place the blame upon in the past – but instead serves as a penance from God Almighty after growing tired of your continued attempt to desecrate his one and only son’s flesh with this cloned child?’ Davidson seethed. ‘The only person responsible for the deaths of your brothers, and the total mess you have contrived for us, is you yourself and your own baffling incompetence. You and the legacy of your father have betrayed us with your ungodly acts and far-fetched plans for too long now and there is only one punishment for a betrayal of the Magi. Death.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dietrich said, finally joining the inquisition and now looking encouraged by Davidson’s mention of treachery. He folded his arms across his swollen belly and eyed the accused through small beady eyes. ‘The codex demands it.’

  John Wilcox didn’t look troubled in the slightest by the charges that were being levelled at him. He calmly assessed each one of their condemning stares before getting to his feet and placing his hands lightly on the back of the chair. ‘You all speak of the codex and of betrayal,’ he said, pursing his lips, ‘and you would be right to do so.’

  His words drew a look of surprise from the other’s.

  ‘So you admit it!’ Alonzo stammered, obviously not expecting such a blatant omission.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Wilcox maintained. ‘But it is not a betrayal perpetrated by me but rather by someone else in this very room. And furthermore it is a betrayal that has penetrated to the Magi’s very core.’

  The other three men sat there in astonishment as Wilcox continued with this defiant revelation.

  ‘I have reason to believe that one of us has been working from the very start against our attempts to secure control of the Catholic Church, in a selfish and unforgiving act of deception. It is a deception that was intended to doom us all to failure, and to elevate this person high above us. A deception that I have managed to uncover and will reveal to you, my brothers.’

  All three other men were now glancing at each other suspiciously, but it was only Alonzo that spoke up. ‘I think you need to explain yourself, John.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Wilcox replied. ‘But first …’ The Magi Prime clicked his fingers and a group of six men wearing identical dark suits entered the room, each of them armed with a holstered handgun, hanging from his waists. Four of these men took up position on either side of the room’s two entrances whilst the other two stood on either side of Wilcox, who now sat back down and eyed the Council grimly. ‘None of us is leaving until this lone and traitorous fiend has been revealed. Then the only difference is that two of you will leave the same way you came in.’

  ‘And the third?’ Dietrich asked, looking particularly edgy.

  ‘The third will leave rolled up in that rug.’ Wilcox replied and indicated an expensive hand-woven tapestry hanging on the far wall. ‘As the codex requires, of course.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘So, is this your first trip to Israel?’ the taxi driver inquired with a glance back at his latest fare. ‘Because to truly appreciate the city you need about a week, and even then you’ll only begin to scratch the surface.’

  ‘No, I’ve visited many times before,’ Harker replied politely, ‘but never during the rainy season.’

  This reply drew a vociferous chuckle from the driver, who ran his free hand over his short black hair and he nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘We don’t get that much,’ the driver said, pointing out a group of children on the opposite pavement, all throwing their hands in the air and squealing with delight at the few meagre drops of rain that were falling. ‘It won’t last long, so you should enjoy it while its here.’

  Their flight to Tel Aviv had been uneventful considering what preceded it, and Harker was thankful for that. After watching Father Strasser plunge to his death from that grimy fifth-floor apartment window, he had hustled Chloe briskly out of the building through the fire exit and into the adjoining street. The fire alarm had immediately gone off but the area was void of any witnesses, and a few streets along he had managed to flag down a taxi to whisk them away. Harker had used the journey to leave a brief message for Brulet, so as inform him of their next destination. But he decided to withhold any mention of the Skoptsy’s involvement for fear of who else might hear it first. If the Templars were divided regarding the child, as Brulet had stated, then he didn’t want to make things any worse. Therefore, a face-to-face conversation with the Grand Master himself seemed the best move.

  Chloe had remained silent throughout the short taxi ride and, although still visibly shaken, the drive had helped calm her frayed nerves. But upon arriving at Warsaw airport the sight of armed guards patrolling the concourse had soon made her jumpy again.

  ‘Are they here for us?’ she had muttered, her paranoia starting to get the better of her. ‘Because getting arrested at gunpoint again is not how I saw my day ending.’

  Harker managed to reassure her that this heightened security was doubtless due to the global terrorist attacks and, as far as anyone here was concerned, they were just two holidaymakers making their way home. Unfortunately, and due to the heightened terror risk, many of the flights had been cancelled and they ended up spending the next twelve hours hanging around the main concourse for an available flight. The long wait had been long, tedious and full of dread that they were going to be arrested at any moment. Chloe had managed to get some sleep while Harker had used the time to reflect and try to make sense of events, with little success, and had also tried numerous calls to Brulet and the Vatican, but bizarrely neither his mobile or the airport’s landlines seemed to be working properly.

  Finally they had managed to board a flight to Jerusalem at about midday and once in the air and feeling secure Harker was able to pour over, methodically, the bizarre nature of their journey so far. Strangely, the unexpected death of Father Strasser had not primarily occupied his thoughts, but instead the terrible events at the Vatican. The story had been running constantly on all the airport monitors, then continued to feature solidly on the inflight TV. Seeing the images taken from numerous helicopters had been shocking: the entire front half of the basilica had literally disappeared into a dark chasm in the ground where St Peter’s Square had once been. The white rubble scattered at the bottom of the pit was barely visible through the thick clouds of dust that hung above it, spilling out across the famous via Della Conciliazione like an unnatural fog tainting everything it touched with filthy black residue.

  Harker had used the inflight telephone to call the Vatican numerous times, but unsurprisingly it had never connected, so he had reluctantly resumed his seat to watch the unfolding devastation along with everyone else travelling on the flight. As those same images of destruction looped over again and again, all he could think about was his friend Salvatore Vincenzo, better know
n to the masses as Pope Gregory VII. There was no way anyone could have survived such catastrophic devastation, let alone an old man in his seventies, and even though the death toll was now reported as over the eighty thousand mark, his friend’s life was the only loss he could think about. In truth, Vincenzo would have been wholly disappointed that Harker’s feelings were for him alone and not the many thousands of other dead, and oddly this had made Harker smile as he continued to brood quietly cocooned in his own little bubble of thoughts.

  Chloe, on the other hand, couldn’t stop commenting and exclaiming, even if the conversation had been totally one-sided. Harker had eventually turned off his own TV screen and opted to sleep for the rest of the flight, a choice he was inclined to resume under the bombardment of questions their taxi-driver was now throwing at them.

  ‘So what’s your profession, sir?’ the taxi driver continued, blissfully unaware of the lack of enthusiasm his questions were being met with.

  ‘I’m a lecturer in archaeology at a university,’ Harker muttered despondently.

  ‘A lecturer! Does it pay well?’

  ‘Pays the bills.’

  The man was already opening his mouth for another question when a motorway sign caught Harker’s attention.

  ‘Why are you taking us by route 6? Surely it’s route 1 that leads right into Jerusalem.’

  ‘Not today, I fear. There was a bad crash earlier,’ the man replied, following a turning for the nearest off-ramp. ‘A fuel tanker jack-knifed across both lanes, so we have to go round.’

  This answer elicited a double-take from Harker, as the vehicle continued down the curving exit lane that lead underneath the highway itself.

  ‘Go around what? The whole of Israel!’

  Before he could finish his complaint, the taxi came to an abrupt halt at a fenced-off area directly below route 6 and in between the highway’s support arches. Harker was already pulling at the door handle when the barrel of a gun, thrust over the top of the driver’s seat, stopped his escape attempt cold.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ the man ordered. He then exited the car and made his way hurriedly around to the passenger side, with the gun still aimed in front of him. He pulled open the passenger door and with a jerk of his gun ordered them both out. ‘Don’t say a word, and don’t try anything foolish,’ the driver growled, cocking the compact .22 calibre, semi-automatic model 71 Beretta as a reminder of the consequences if his order went unheeded. As the armed man now guided them through a metal gate into the fenced-off area, Harker was already considering trying to grapple the gun out of the man’s hands, but then thought better of it and dutifully did as he was asked. He was no commando and, even though the driver was small with a wiry frame, getting shot during a struggle was not going to do him or Chloe any good.

  Inside the fence, the area looked like a mini junkyard with a couple of cars stripped down to their chassis, and the remains of a number of old refrigerator units had been piled up at the far end. The only thing Harker could see of any significance was the large rusty shipping container in one corner that they were now being herded towards. The taxi-driver kept his gun trained on them both, even as he moved towards the container and pulled open the metal door with a creak. It was very dark inside and the only things visible were a couple of plastic chairs positioned by the opening.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the man instructed and, once they were both inside and had taken their seats, he swung the door shut behind them with a hefty clank.

  The interior of the container was chilly, so the beads of sweat across Harker’s forehead from the heat outside made the droplets feel like frost stinging his skin. In the gloom he could just make out Chloe seated to his left, her hair swaying from side to side as she surveyed their surroundings.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘That depends on what comes next,’ Chloe answered and with a remarkably calm tone given the circumstances. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In a storage container.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, you fool,’ Chloe gasped. ‘I mean what are we doing here? Are we about to get shipped somewhere.’

  Up ahead, there was a scuffing sound and the metal floor creaked as someone or something shifted its weight.

  ‘I don’t think this is used for shipping, Chloe,’ Harker replied, straining his eyes to catch any flicker of movement. He was about to call out when a gruff voice with a thick Israeli accent sounded out from the blackness.

  ‘That assumption would be correct, Professor Harker.’

  Overhead a single strip light flickered into life, bathing the interior in yellowish light that forced them both to look downwards. It took a few moments for Harker’s eyes to adjust as, in front of him, a blurry figure gradually took form. At a guess the man was in his late forties, totally bald but with a thick bushy moustache that covered a good expanse of his extremely pudgy face. A white linen, short-sleeved shirt complete with darkening sweat marks underneath the arms, was tucked in at the waist, revealing an ample barrel of a stomach which protruded flabbily over dark khaki trousers.

  ‘So, then, Professor,’ the fat man said coldly, ‘and you too, Doctor Stanton… What brings you to my country?’

  Harker was already considering jumping up and rushing to attack the newcomer but the sight of a black 9mm Glock holstered at the man’s belt made him to reconsider. ‘We’re here on business,’ he replied calmly. ‘Official university business.’

  The answer drew an amused sneer from their host, who raised a finger to his lips and tapped them. ‘Official university business? Well, that kind of authority might transcend UK borders but it has little weight in this part of the world. I am afraid I’ll need something a little more precise.’

  ‘I’m here to negotiate an exchange of exhibits with the University of Jerusalem,’ Harker continued, unflustered, the smooth delivery of this lie serving to increase his confidence. ‘I was recently behind the discovery of Caesar’s death mask in Italy and, amongst other items, we are looking to promote an exhibit exchange programme sometime in the near future.’

  His response was received with a look of disbelief from the fat man, who raised his eyebrows. ‘I read an article about your discovery of the mask in Time magazine. It was intriguing but I find it hard to believe that our university would have any interest in such an artefact.’

  ‘As I said, Mr …?’

  ‘Mr will do just fine.’’

  ‘Very well,’ Harker continued grimly unfazed by the man’s wish for anonymity. ‘As I said, that was just one of many items that The University of Cambridge, alongside the British Museum in London, wishes to offer as an exchange. If you want, you can call your own university and check with Professor Malik Phipps. He’ll be able to confirm my visit.’

  This was, of course, a lie. Harker knew the professor by name, though he had never met the man let alone organised a meeting with him, but it was certainly worth a shot. ‘So perhaps it is you that should be doing the explaining, and why you are interrogating us?’

  The fat man looked wholly unconvinced and ignored the question, then he turned his attention to Chloe who was also managing to look sincere. ‘And you can confirm this story as well, Doctor Stanton?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ she managed, offering a polite nod in the fat man’s direction. ‘I am his assistant, after all.’

  The use of the word ‘assistant’ drew a surprised look from Harker, who automatically threw her a brief glance that was immediately seized upon by their interrogator.

  ‘Now, you were doing well up until that point,’ the fat man stated unsympathetically. ‘But, for future reference, when you are being questioned you never take your eyes off the interrogator, and you should never look at one another except in mutual surprise.’ A smile began to emerge from underneath his bushy moustache. ‘That only induces curiosity in an interrogator and makes him think you are hiding something. OK, my name is Mendel Rabin and we have a mutual friend, Professor,’ the man continued. ‘A friend who has the ability to see things oth
ers do not.’ Rabin motioned towards his face with two chubby fingers. ‘It is all in the eyes, you know.’

  Harker let out an unguarded sigh of relief, for it had to be Brulet their new acquaintance was referring to. ‘He’s a good friend.’

  ‘Yes, he is. But before we go any further I need you to understand that although you will be allowed all the co-operation that his friendship deserves, you must be aware that I am not happy to have you in my country.’

  The last few words were said with such a ferocity that Harker tensed up again for a moment. ‘And why is that, Mr Rabin?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Because death seems to follow you, Professor, wherever you go.’

  Rabin reached down and pulled a single A5 photograph from a leather satchel lying on the floor next to him, which he then placed it in Harker’s waiting hands. The black-and-white image exhibited all the tell-tale signs of having been taken by a security camera. It showed the front entrance of Notre Dame Cathedral littered with dead bodies and there right in the middle, looking shocked, stood Harker with his arm around Chloe and surrounded by armed police.