The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  ‘And how is that, Father? We have never met.’

  ‘Perhaps, Eminence, but Zachary informs me he was doing some very important work for you at the time of his arrest.’

  Venti remained outwardly calm.

  ‘I know nothing of such work.’

  ‘Zachary plans to implicate you in the desecration of the sacred monument at Meroe and will encourage the President of Sudan to expose the Vatican’s involvement unless an agreement can be reached. A prisoner for cash arrangement seems the best resolution. You still have a last opportunity to preserve your unsullied reputation and save your own holy skin, Eminence.

  ‘You have two options: denial for which you will almost certainly be outed; or negotiation, which seems a logical and painless solution. Regardless, if on account of your inaction Zachary dies, I will hold you personally responsible. No court in Europe would acquit you with the information I have about your recent activities. The Vatican can hardly afford another public scandal on the heels of the Golgotha Sword.’

  Venti was clearly distracted.

  ‘You have read too many spy novels, Father, and fanciful ones at that. I pray fervently Zachary is delivered from the serious predicament he finds himself. Have a pleasant day.’

  Venti walked to a bookcase, extracted a heavy volume and absently flipped through its pages. Father Stephen edged out of his chair.

  ‘Eminence, Zachary Smith sends his regards.’

  Venti fumbled the book, clutching desperately at the pages, and was left holding a fist of torn paper as the Bible thudded to the carpet. Venti scrunched the paper into a ball and hurled it at the waste basket in the corner of the room, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He heard the door close and reached under his alb for the tiny canister. Now was the perfect occasion to try the special purple pills.

  Twenty-seven hours after Father Stephen met with Venti, Zachary boarded Sudan Airways flight 333 out of Khartoum International Airport bound for Rome. He was confronted inside the terminal at Leonardo da Vinci Airport by a barrage of media. The details of his release were not disclosed. Ten million Euros were electronically transferred from a private Vatican account into that of a Sudanese government official. U.S. and U.N. forces remained in Sudan.

  Zachary Smith read a prepared statement into a nest of microphones beneath hurriedly erected studio lights.

  ‘I am most grateful to be safely on home soil again. My disappearance and whereabouts in the interim period is as much a mystery to me as it is to you all. My first cognition in that time was waking in a dark underground cell just a few days ago. My inability to recall anything prior is both disturbing and frustrating, and I invite anyone with information in this regard, to come forward. I was well treated by Sudanese officials during my brief incarceration and offer deep appreciation for their cooperation in aiding a speedy resolution and my subsequent release. I now wish to spend time with family and friends for whom this has been a most harrowing time. Thank you.’

  The conference room erupted into a sound-wall of questions. Zachary ignored them and was escorted out a door by airport officials.

  Joseph Mutabe lay on his back in a bed inside Khartoum Teaching Hospital. A surgeon checked his medical chart.

  ‘You are a very lucky man, Mr Mutabe. Most car crash victims with injuries such as yours rarely survive, especially the burns.’

  Joseph couldn’t close his eyes since the lids were seared off. Instead he stared blankly at the ceiling; his mind filled with visions of General Zunti hovering over him; blowtorch in one hand; razor in the other. The ache of his shattered knees was a horrid reminder of the relentless hammer attack he endured at the hands of the good General. He said nothing to the surgeon, turning his attention to the tiny television suspended over the foot of his bed. Mr Smith was on the news.

  Death was foremost on Joseph’s mind, for without morphine the pain of his injuries was unbearable. His life was spared only on account of Mr Smith. The surgeon hooked the chart on the end of the bed and left the room as Zachary left the press conference.

  A man walked into Joseph Mutabe’s private room. He was neither a surgeon nor one of the many attentive nurses. Terror raked Joseph’s paralysed body, his heart pumped violently. Sweat enveloped him and he blacked out, overcome by undousable fear. General Zunti watched the wretched form of Joseph Mutabe shiver unconsciously, calmly admiring the handiwork he had dutifully inflicted. He gently rested a long envelope on Joseph’s rapidly heaving chest then stole silently away.

  After the meeting with Venti, Father Stephen had returned to his quarters, drained of energy, unsure if his display of bravado was wise.

  Now Father Stephen had a more immediate problem. Zach. Whatever his reasons for being in Sudan, he deserved the truth from him regardless of the implications. He sensed the glass ornament sitting next to the china nativity scene in the corner of his bedroom was the trump card and key to all that had transpired.

  He rang Zachary and heard people laughing and talking in the background when the phone picked up.

  ‘Hi, Steve, can you come over?’

  An uncomfortable silence befell them. Father Stephen suspected he had not been in Zachary’s thoughts.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Zach.’

  ‘Come up tomorrow.’

  ‘I have something to show you in the Vatican.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Top of Saint Peter’s Square - 9 a.m.,’ Father Stephen said.

  ‘See you then.’ Zachary said.

  Zachary walked into St Peter’s Square amongst hundreds of tourists. To Father Stephen he appeared none the worse for his ordeal. At exactly 9 a.m. they made eye contact under an endless blue sky, and Zachary strode toward Father Stephen, arms extended to greet him. They shook hands, Father Stephen offering a subdued smile.

  ‘Walk with me, Zach, Tell me everything.’

  They headed to the northwest corner of the square.

  ‘I’m not sure I can, Steve.’

  ‘Why Zach, are you still in Venti’s pocket? For the love of God, the viper gave you up in the middle of a foreign desert. You weren’t meant to come back. You know that. I was the last person you could turn to, Zach, and if I hadn’t intervened you’d be dissolving in a barrel of acid in the backwaters of Khartoum. Venti’s your enemy, Zach. He may have secured your release but only to save his own scaly skin. Do not trust him again. No matter how powerful Venti seems, he cannot touch you. He is impotent with the evidence I have against him. He’d have us both killed and not think twice about it, but I have something he wants and until it’s his, he will not act against us. It hurts me to say it, Zach, but how can I trust you? If I show you what I have, will you again conspire against me? What power does Venti have over you to destroy our lifelong friendship? He can’t be offering money. God knows you have enough of that. How is he holding you to ransom, Zach?’

  Zachary slipped a hand into his trouser pocket, disconnecting the transmitter from the mini recording device.

  Venti knelt quietly in the front pew of the Sistine Chapel, listening intently, when his earpiece fell silent.

  ‘Venti is blackmailing me. It is a complicated arrangement. He believes I will side with him even though he threatened my life. So strong is his perceived hold over me, he wants me to kill you the minute the object from the Meroe pyramid is in my possession. Steve, you know I would never do such a thing. He said he could dispose of your body without a trace. Forgive me, Steve. I’m in a dire predicament.’

  Zachary almost collected a lady wheeling a pram. She scowled at him, her screaming baby adding venom to her unkind stare.

  ‘Whatever you did, Zach, I’m sure the reasons were powerful enough to sway your better judgement. I know your heart, old friend, and it is a righteous one. It is not for me to condemn you. Tell me about your find in Meroe.’ Father Stephen tried to ease Zachary’s burden.

  ‘Venti monitored you via the concealed camera in the vault. He knew you’d discovered something of interest in t
he sword. He had you followed and when the tail reported you at the gate to my property, Venti rang me. Remember the little room with the red door? Venti heard every word. I’m sorry for lying to you, Steve.’

  Zachary summoned enough courage to look Father Stephen in the eye, relieved to unload the mountain of deception he’d built against his friend.

  ‘The police trap on the road was a setup. I faked the Taser attack and conveniently disappeared. With Venti’s considerable help I travelled to Israel under a veil of secrecy. A chance meeting led me to the map mentioned in the Golgotha scroll. In Sudan, I retrieved the object from a Meroin pyramid but gave it up under threat of death.’

  ‘Zach, I have the object, proving Venti had a hand in your intended demise. I removed it from a box hidden in his office.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘There is more than one key to the Kingdom.’ Father Stephen smiled at Zachary, the tension thawing a little.

  ‘When Venti left to say evening Mass I entered his den, then confronted him the following day, issuing him with an ultimatum to facilitate your release.’

  Steve, Venti knows I’m meeting with you now, and I’ll be seeing him this afternoon. He is fuelled by anger, finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything other than regaining the Meroe object.’

  Intense heat reflected off the square but it did not deter the thousands gathered to catch a glimpse of the Pope. At 9:30 he appeared on the balcony, waving to the cheering masses, blessing them repeatedly, praying over them. Then he retreated to a roar of approval, and like a pop star, left them wanting more, his next scheduled appearance a week away.

  Zachary and Father Stephen watched from the rear of the square, the Pope a distant speck.

  ‘Zach, I know what we need to do but I must have your total support. No deal with Venti is irrevocable.’

  ‘Steve, I know you are right but I must maintain the facade to protect us both. You have no reason to trust me and I don’t know how to restore that faith. I can only give you my word for what it’s now worth. Although I have no proof, I believe Venti had a hand in your poisoning at Gemelli.’

  The world went still despite the hum of tourists crisscrossing the sacred pavement, and Father Stephen made up his mind.

  ‘Follow me.’

  They walked side by side through the throng of pedestrian traffic and left the square.

  Venti genuflected, dipped the tips of his fingers in a font of holy water, crossed himself and walked out of the chapel into the warm sunlight. He believed the morning pills had put his mind on an even keel.

  41

  Zach’s collector’s eye was more attuned to fast cars than ancient terracotta and glassware.

  ‘Have you ever been here?’ Father Stephen said.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘This is room XV of the Gregorian Etruscan Museum, dedicated to architecture, pottery and glassware made between 100 BC and 100 AD. Take a few minutes to peruse the displays and pick out the piece that takes your fancy. I’ll be back shortly.’

  Zachary scanned the room. Panelled clay reliefs lined one wall. Brightly lit high ceilings illuminated two glass cabinets housing the ancient artefacts. He picked the aberration within the first minute, leaning smugly against a wall, hands in pockets, waiting for Father Stephen to return.

  ‘Your odd-one-out challenge wasn’t all that challenging, Steve.’

  Father Stephen expected nothing less from Zach.

  ‘What’s your favourite piece?’

  Zach pointed at a glass cube sitting on the top shelf of the central showcase.

  ‘Tell me about that one.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise it, Zach?’

  Zach was confused.

  ‘It’s from inside the Meroe monument. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why keep it here, Steve?’

  ‘No safer place. Public display, twenty-four-hour monitored security, tight as Fort Knox and the last place Venti would think to look.’

  Father Stephen unlocked the cabinet with a double-edged key, took the cube from its resting place and put it in a brown paper bag. Zachary switched on the transmitter in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Coffee-time, Zach. The museum complex is about to open.’

  Zachary and Father Stephen took a table in the sun outside the cafe gift shop and ordered coffee. Father Stephen took the cube from the bag and placed it on the table. Both men were mesmerised by the object, wondering what monumental revelations lay at its heart. Zachary picked it up, turning it on his palm.

  ‘What do you think it’s made of, Zach?’

  ‘The cube within the glass could be wood or ivory. The carvings on its surface are exquisite.’

  ‘It’s special, Zach, and it has an indescribable aura.’

  Zachary put the cube back on the table as his cell phone buzzed. He casually checked the number - Venti.

  Father Stephen interrupted Zachary’s thoughts. ‘Zach, I have a plan.’

  A large orange wasp with a black tail, alighted on the cube, its wings a vibrating blur as it walked over the impenetrable glass, tapping the surface with inquisitive antennae, trying to reach the spider. It explored down the sides of the cube to no avail, stabbing its abdomen repeatedly at the glass, smearing it with tiny drops of venom. Realising the futility of it all, it lifted into the air, hovered above the cube, banked and flew directly to a table where a couple with two chubby children were consuming cans of cool drink. The wasp landed unnoticed, ducking through the top of a Coke can as the boy put it to his lips and tilted his head to drink.

  Zachary shouted out with such urgency every person in the cafe turned to him.

  He ignored the stares, his eyes trained immovably on the boy holding the Coke can in front of his face. He made eye contact with the red-faced child whose mouth was agape at being singled out.

  ‘Put the can down, there’s a wasp inside!’

  The boy placed the can on the table, pushing it away. By now everyone with a view watched the Coke can. Oblivious to the fuss, the wasp poked its head out and crawled into the sunshine. With replenished energy, it lifted off, legs hanging like landing gear. The boy’s father took a futile swipe at it with a folded newspaper before it flew off toward Saint Peter’s Square.

  ‘Thank you,’ mouthed the father, giving Zachary an appreciative wave.

  The boy quickly demanded a fresh drink as the murmur of cafe conversation resumed.

  ‘The cube seems to invite drama, Steve.’

  Almost pre-empting Zachary’s comment, a young woman stood up at the next table, took two steps toward the museum complex and promptly collapsed to the ground, her long stockinged legs ungainly arranged on the pavement, skirt hitched half way up her thighs.

  Father Stephen and Zachary jumped to her aid. Father Stephen knelt beside her, pushing away the long dark hair covering her face. She was pale, her breathing laboured. He felt a strong pulse in her neck, yet her eyes were closed and she grimaced in apparent discomfort. Zachary saw her quickly open and close one eye, then suddenly stand, dust off her jacket and adjust her hair. She threw the pair a seductive smile, turned on her black high-heels and walked away, disappearing around the end of the building. No one thought to follow.

  ‘What was that about, Zach?’ Father Stephen said.

  ‘Strange is not the word, Steve.’

  They resumed their seats.

  ‘Where’s the cube, Zach?

  The coffee table was bare, save for their coffee cups. Father Stephen glanced around searching for a thief. Zachary already knew what had transpired.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Steve.’

  Zachary pulled the transmitter from his pocket in sight of Father Stephen.

  ‘Venti’s been listening in, but thinks you’re unaware. I believe the cube is on its way to him as we speak.’

  Father Stephen could not hide his annoyance.

  ‘A risky ploy don’t you think, Zach, and why can’t we solve the mystery of the cube together, excluding Ve
nti completely?’

  ‘I am meeting with Venti in an hour, Steve, and as long as he thinks you are out of the picture, I can conspire with him to find out what’s in the cube. Trust me when I say it is better for Venti to think he is in charge of the situation. With his anger appeased and without his dark spectre looming over us, I promise it will be to our advantage.’ Zachary was keen for Father Stephen to see his point of view, eager for him to believe he had their best interests at heart.

  ‘Zach, if anything untoward happens to me it will make it worse for Venti. A full account of his misdeeds is squirreled away for safekeeping. If I precede Venti to the grave, the contents of a most interesting letter will be revealed to the Pontiff and the world. Venti’s aspirations to the highest office will be snuffed out and he’ll find himself in a secure government apartment comprising three walls and a floor to ceiling grill.’

  Zachary threw ten Euros onto the table.

  ‘Come on, Steve, let’s get out of here.’

  The Swiss Guards at the entrance let him pass. Zachary walked into the Sistine Hall of the Vatican Library with all the wonder of a child in a lolly shop. It glowed with light, both natural and electric, highlighting the frescos covering the domed ceilings, igniting the colours and the grand stories they told. The thick pillars running through the centre of the hall were breathtakingly decorated and Zachary became acutely conscious of the knock of his heels against the marble floor, and the art assaulting him from every direction.

  Near the end of the hall, a pair of shiny black shoes poked onto the floor from behind the final pillar. He tried to suppress the fear rising in his throat and quell the thumping of his heart. A gold-leafed bench-seat, upholstered in purple silk, came into view. Resplendent in his finest vestments, Venti sat at one end, eyes closed in apparent contemplation, motionless, aware of Zachary without acknowledging him.

  Zachary stood in front of Venti. The slightest sound would have oiled the uncomfortable chasm between them. Like a demented clown, Venti’s eyes suddenly flicked open and a crazy smile split his lips.