Vengeful emotion rained on Capitol Hill. The American President was recovering after surgery, and in his absence, the Vice President could not convince heads of state he was ignorant of the mysterious element poised to destroy humanity.
The United States was hobbled, the tendons of its hind limbs torn and useless. As it whimpered, black sentiment drove at its throat, crushing the cabling of gristle and vessels winding through its neck, till the last drop of its mighty blood ran red across its great white chest of justice and it slumped defeated in the dust.
Not only had the world turned against the United States, so had its own people. Seeds of anarchy sprouted across the country as calls for calm were ignored. No greater dilemma ever faced the land of the free, as a civil uprising spread uncontrollably.
The thinnest threads of restraint were stretching to breaking point, and Cardinal Venti watched with great joy at the opportunity it provided him.
He leant over his Bible and snorted another line into his brain.
75
‘Maybe now it will stop, Zachary.’ Father Stephen hung his head despondently.
‘Steve, I fear this is only the beginning.’
Zachary put an arm around Father Stephen’s shoulder to console him.
‘Venti is dangerous.’
‘He is powerless, Steve. Without the tabernacle and the codes, and under threat of the DNA evidence and the tapes from Firelight, he is dead in the water.’
‘Exposing Venti will exonerate the U.S. government and bring the Jupiters to account,’ Rachel said.
Zachary rang Inspector Rosa’s office and asked to speak with him. The call was answered by an efficient sounding woman.
‘Unfortunately, Mr Smith, it will not be possible. Inspector Rosa is dead from a heart attack.’
‘When did this happen?’
Father Stephen and Rachel exchanged inquisitive frowns.
‘At lunch, Mr Smith. Can I help you?’
‘I delivered a package to him this morning. Can you locate it for me?’
‘His personal belongings from the office will be returned to his wife, and anything the Inspector committed to police files remains state property.’
‘Did he file anything today, say after 11 a.m.?’
‘Excuse me a moment.’
Zachary rested his head in his hands while he waited.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Smith, the Inspector has added nothing in the last three days. Is there more you should be telling me?’
‘Unless you find that package it would be hearsay. It contains a digital file with damning evidence of corruption. Please call me on this number if you find it.’
‘We have dossiers on the Mafioso to last a dozen lifetimes, Mr Smith.’
‘This has nothing to do with the Mafia.’
Zachary thanked the woman and hung up.
‘The Inspector dropped dead within hours of receiving our transcripts. Isolating the tabernacle is now an absolute imperative.’
It perched on the coffee table, holding sway over mans’ existence.
‘Nowhere is safe,’ Rachel said.
‘There is one place.’
Father Stephen studied Zachary long enough to elicit the words of wisdom he knew would follow.
‘To truly safeguard humanity, the tabernacle must be sent on a one-way journey out of the solar system with only God to watch over it.’
From left-field, Father Stephen disarmed them. ‘Assuming this is the tabernacle.’
‘It has the chipped corner and contains the opaque frog we heard discussed at Firelight,’ Zachary said.
‘I feel a deception. If Venti still has the true tabernacle in his possession, pressuring him further could spell disaster. International tensions are escalating and there is still the Holy Father’s funeral and the conclave to negotiate. God knows why we didn’t take both ornaments,’ Father Stephen said.
‘You can help, Steve, by presenting Cardinal Grasso with the DNA evidence of Venti’s paternity.’
‘Cardinal Grasso has no jurisdiction over such matters, and it would only open an unholy can of worms. Venti’s DNA sample is worthless from a legal perspective unless he volunteers a matching sample, and there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that.’
‘I understand your point, Steve, but I want serious aspersions cast on his Cardinalship, enough to initiate an investigation into the activities of which I accuse him. There is an onus on Venti to prove his innocence. The Church must demand he supply a DNA sample to clear his name. A refusal would imply guilt, destroying his credibility.’
‘The Church would never make such demands of a cardinal, Zach.’
‘There is a moral obligation, and I fear there are others Venti has blackmailed into silence.’
‘Venti would sue you for defamation. The Church has exceptional lawyers. And Zachary, consider the hurt to your mother. Reigniting her pain after so many years is a cruel thought.’
‘It’s a difficult decision, Steve, but the disclosures would prevent him ever wearing the Fisherman’s ring.’
‘I believe with the guidance of the Holy Spirit; the cardinals will elect a righteous man to head the Church.’
‘He is a strong candidate, Steve, considered by many in recent years. His charm has fooled both the public and his peers.’
‘Two weeks from now he will be holed up in the conclave, cut off from the outside world until the election is complete, anywhere up to three weeks. There is our window of opportunity,’ Father Stephen said.
‘Can we still access his office, Steve?’
‘Difficult with the Swiss Guard posted there 24/7 in his absence.’
Rachel turned on the television. Every station showed news, headlined by the death of the Pope, the civil unrest in America which so far had resulted in three hundred deaths, and the mounting pressure from twenty-seven countries, on the U.S., with implied threats of nuclear attack.
Even the United Nations could not side with her. Like a mother crying for her dead son, the wailing was futile. The United States, in trouble and listing to starboard, took on water faster than it could be pumped away. Then it rained.
Amidst the trumpets ushering in the drums of war, Paris Vanderock was officially reported missing and absent from the annual board meeting of De Beers Diamonds, of which she was a director. Although her family were not unduly worried by her prolonged absences which were entirely common, failure to attend her most important business meeting of the year gave them some concern. There were no clues to her whereabouts, hampered by her propensity to travel on a whim and being notoriously difficult to reach by phone.
Zachary slipped away. With a headset on, he fiddled the dials on a black receiver. He listened intently, tuning in and out of the familiar sounds within Hobsgood Castle, and dwelling in the long silence of empty spaces. He persisted for an hour, systematically searching the castle via an imaginary grid. The RAISINs chatted to each other, plotting a matrix from which to explore every nook and cranny.
Zachary heard a soft sob, a feeble cry followed by the turn of a lock and the creak of a heavy door. Then a voice boomed through his earphones.
‘So, Miss Vanderock, have you reconsidered your position?’
‘They will find me, and you will be punished.’ She tried to be strong.
‘But at first you seemed so enthusiastic.’
‘We cannot kill innocent men and women.’
‘Then you would not be encouraged by the developments in the outside world.’
‘I am no part of Jupiter’s evil pact. I censured it with a clear conscience.’
Zachary listened intently, praying for her to mention Lord Jensen by name.
‘What am I to do with you?’
‘Release me and save yourself.’
‘And how do you propose I will ever be caught, Miss Vanderock? No one knows your whereabouts. However, you are free to leave.’
Paris Vanderock did not expect such a simple resolution, resigned to a gloomier fate in the bowels of H
obsgood Castle where day and night alternated with the flick of a light switch. She waited for him to continue.
‘My private jet will return you to California tomorrow, conditional on you maintaining silence in this matter. Your freedom will be rescinded if any Jupiters are implicated in unfolding events. Toby Bell kindly deposited a dozen of his ingenious TNT bombs throughout your body, and the good Cardinal has the codes to activate them. You control your destiny Miss Vanderock. Is there anything you wish to clarify?’
Paris Vanderock went numb with shock. She tried to transcend her body and feel the tiny foreign balls inside her. She rubbed her arms and legs, searching for entry wounds.
‘And how might the clever Doctor Bell have accomplished that, Lord Jensen?’ She strove to stay calm.
‘No amount of scratching or clawing will help.’
Her mind raced at the possibilities. She felt violated.
Lord Jensen left the room, extinguished the light then locked the door behind him.
Zachary threw off his headset and ran to the sitting room.
‘Paris Vanderock is alive in Hobsgood Castle. I heard her on the RAISIN scanner. Jensen has promised to free her tomorrow.’
‘Thank God,’ Father Stephen said.
‘But, according to Jensen, she’ll leave Firelight Estate with a dozen TNT dots inside her body as insurance against her talking.’
The three adjourned to the office where Zachary replayed the recorded conversation.
‘Can you pinpoint her exact position?’ Father Stephen said.
‘She’s in a subterranean room beneath the main turret.’
‘If we alert the police, Jensen will have to explain this recording and Paris’ imprisonment,’ Rachel said.
‘There is still a risk, even with the evidence, that confronting Jensen will place Paris in worse danger,’ Zachary said.
‘To ensure she leaves Firelight alive, it’s best we let Jensen deliver her as promised,’ Father Stephen said.
From his recovery bed the President addressed the world, the United States now in the inescapable clutches of dark-hearted terrorists, vile as all the devils assembled under the sun.
In the Bering Strait, a Russian submarine shadowed its U.S. counterpart. Nearby, a rogue submarine with stealth capabilities released a missile into the stratosphere that followed the curve of the earth and descended into the air space above mainland China, exploding above the Gobi Desert and incinerating two nomadic herders and their small caravan of camels.
When China assembled its war council to address the invasion of its country and point the finger of suspicion, the two Cold War protagonists denied involvement. Regardless of any U.S. decision to withdraw troops from foreign shores, the shackles were broken. The great Chinese juggernaut stirred from its slumber and would not sleep until it was avenged.
76
Paris Vanderock stared out the plane’s window into a cloudless sky. On the final approach to Los Angeles Airport she was comforted by the sight of the giant metropolis that stretched away to the smoggy horizon.
The only passenger on the small private jet with the sumptuously configured interior, she had slept on a proper bed and eaten exquisite food, attended by two of Lord Jensen’s staff. She eagerly awaited her freedom, not completely convinced of its reality, the spectre of sudden death ever present as long as Jensen, Toby Bell and the Cardinal were alive.
She reflected on recent events, vowing to apologise to the De Beer’s board of directors but not explain her absence from the annual meeting.
The landing wheels barked on the tarmac. So far Jensen had kept his promise. The jet taxied to a halt near the terminal, and was met by a black limousine. Paris Vanderock emerged into a hot and hazy day, greeted by an airport official who returned her passport, suitcase, cell phone, and graciously opened the limousine door for her.
She ignored the traffic outside while retrieving messages and news from her phone. The revelations on the screen were so extraordinary it seemed possible she had re-entered the civilised world in a place and time far into the future. Paris Vanderock checked the cars parked along the kerb to ensure they weren’t fantastic hovering vehicles rather than the tyred models she’d known only seven days before.
She read an article expressing fears for her safety, and her head ached knowing those responsible for the chaos.
Paris Vanderock was sickened by what she’d reluctantly become. She lost focus and stared vacantly ahead. Her daydream ended with the bump of wheels as the limousine turned off the road into a sweeping driveway, stopping outside a pair of tall white gates. The chauffeur removed Paris Vanderock’s suitcase from the boot, and left her staring up at the mansion.
She spoke into an intercom. A security guard jogged down to the gate and carried her luggage up to the residence through its imposing pillared entrance. Once inside, she made a phone call and told staff not to disturb her. She lay on her bed crying, all the diamonds in the universe unable to soothe her pain.
Paris Vanderock fell asleep, the blackness temporarily killing her thoughts until she dreamt she fronted a conference, rendering a heartfelt speech on the evils of blood diamonds and the monstrous cartels controlling them. Smiling humbly into the auditorium under the glare of the stage lights, soaking up the plaudits of the crowd, she collapsed and died and the dream replayed itself over and over, always ending the same way -strangely peaceful.
Paris Vanderock woke with a start. Someone was knocking at her door.
77
The Requiem Mass for the Holy Father was a global television event. The business of electing his successor began four days after his entombment beneath the great altar of the Basilica. The first and second ballots failed to achieve the two-thirds majority needed to produce the next Pope. In the late afternoon, black smoke rose from the Sistine Chapel chimney to show the unresolved vote. No clear front-runner had emerged. As many as ten candidates shared an even spread of support, an unusual situation, showing the lack of direction within the conclave.
Sister Dorothea took it upon herself to clean Cardinal Venti’s private chapel in his absence; her holy gift to him during the sede vacante. The conclave provided her relief from the usual onerous chores to which she was interminably bound in service of the cardinals.
She knelt in quiet prayer at the foot of a marble altar, knees aching against the cold floor. She made the sign of the cross then locked the door at the back of the chapel and immersed herself in the sanctifying ritual of tending the tabernacle.
From the sacristy, she gathered cleaning equipment and found the key to unlock the holy receptacle. She applied polish to it, inside and out, using a fresh rag to buff it bright in honour of the flesh and blood of the Son of God.
She removed the ciborium, its gold-plated surface intricately engraved with grape-laden vines. A thin snake wound down the stem, and around the base were tortured faces in a sea of flames. A tangle of arms reached imploringly for the snake, searching for solace.
Cardinal Venti had commissioned the ciborium with its unconventional themes. He once explained them to Sister Dorothea to quell her disquiet at the images. The vines represented the toil of man on Earth and the Holy Blood of Christ. The snake symbolised the great temptation of man in the Garden of Eden, and the divide between heaven and hell. The anguished faces showed those lost to God’s eternal favour, a grim reminder of the need for perpetual vigilance to attain His glorious kingdom.
Sister Dorothea removed the ciborium’s lid to reveal a jumble of white hosts. She emptied them into a plastic dish then rubbed the cup until it glowed in the light. Resting it on the altar, she glimpsed a large hairy spider walking across the ceiling directly above her. She let go of the ciborium, thinking it stood safely, but it fell, striking the floor where something split from it and rolled away against a wall.
Sister Dorothea sank to her knees, mortified. She crossed herself repeatedly, reciting supplications of remorse.
Father Stephen heard a bang as he walked past the chapel
, supposedly unoccupied since Cardinal Venti was secure inside the conclave. Father Stephen had a master key to the kingdom of rooms within the Vatican labyrinth but first he tried the handle.
Sister Dorothea panicked at the rattle of the door. She picked up the ciborium and its base plate, dumping them into her habit together with the polishing rags and the dish of hosts. Darting into the sacristy, she shut the door, extinguished the light and hid in a cupboard with a vacuum cleaner and a pounding heart her only company.
Father Stephen entered the chapel and turned on the lights that were far brighter than those in the corridor - Venti’s symbolic attempt to re-create the omnipotent and unapproachable light of God. Father Stephen closed the door, walked down the short aisle, genuflected and blessed himself in front of the altar. He opened the sacristy door and turned on the light. Perhaps he’d imagined the noise, or Venti was exercising his supernatural talents from within the confines of the conclave. Nothing appeared beyond the Cardinal, and Father Stephen worried, as did Zachary, at the power he wielded in the subconscious hearts of the men assembled in the Sistine Chapel.
Sister Dorothea saw the strip of light along the bottom of the cupboard door evaporate. She held her breath then let out a quiet sigh of relief when she heard the sacristy door shut seconds later.
Father Stephen knelt and prayed, imploring the Holy Spirit to guide the Church, begging God to cast a worthy man to lead it. As he went to leave he spotted two small rolls of paper beneath the altar. Closer inspection prompted an improbable thought. Cradling the scrolls loosely in his left hand, he genuflected and hurriedly left the chapel, switching off the light and locking the door behind him.
Sister Dorothea waited a further hour before emerging from her cramped cocoon. It was all her tepid soul could tolerate. She would abandon her cleaning duties until garnering enough faith in her clumsy ways to try again. She slowly opened the door to the darkened chapel to ensure she was alone then turned on the sacristy light. After unloading the polishing rags, she examined the ciborium. It was undamaged. The base was hollow with a groove around its rim where the disc had fit. Sister Dorothea put the cup upside down on a bench top, rested the disc above the groove and leant on it until it snapped back into place.
The Jesus Germ Page 31
