A Sacred Storm (15 page)

“You wouldn't think that people could get away with stuff like that in this day and age,” said Stratton.

“No,” said Kandinsky. “But they do. I personally never dealt in human traffic, but the option was certainly there for me if I wanted. There is no level of government that is not corrupt, and there are plenty of people who will turn a blind eye for the right amount of money. Borders are easily negotiated with cash and influence. The average human would be surprised at what still goes on in our so-called civilized society.”

“Do you know where this sheik lives?” asked Jennings.

“Yes, indeed. I have been to his palace once before. It is very remote, and very heavily guarded. If, as I suspect, you wish to mount some kind of rescue mission it will not be easy.”

“Well,” said Jennings, “we've got to try something. We can't just leave her there at the mercy of some oversexed Arab.”

“Of course not,” Kandinsky agreed. “But we will have to be very careful how we approach the situation.”

“Can't you just offer him some money?” said Jennings hopefully.

Kandinsky laughed without humour. “If only it were that simple. Firstly, I cannot let on that I know about Stella as that would put Malik in an awkward position. He does much business in the Middle East and if there is even a whiff of indiscretion then he will no longer be welcome. Secondly, it is not really about the money. The sheik has more than enough of that. He will see a beautiful girl like Stella as a prized possession, and if she is putting up as much resistance as I suspect then he will see it as a challenge to break her. When you reach a certain wealth it is no longer enough to own material things, you must also own people's souls. Unfortunately, I know this from experience.” He paused with a look of regret. “Anyway,” he continued, “that is why we cannot bargain with him.”

“But you can get us in there I assume,” said Grady.

“Yes, I think I may be able to. The sheik and I got on well enough, and he did say that I was always welcome. But we shall have to think of a good reason. I do not think he will believe I was ‘just passing by'.”

“No,” chuckled Jennings. “Probably not.”

Two of Kandinsky's unfeasibly beautiful waitresses entered the room carrying starters for the table – braised wood pigeon with bacon and cabbage. After tearing his eyes away from the girls Grady took a deep smell of his plate and began to devour its contents.

“What about Pat Cronin?” asked Stratton. “Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes, I have,” said Kandinsky. “And it is not looking good. Word is spreading throughout the Muslim world about their redeemer – the Mahdi as you called him. And in Rome they are preparing their own man as we speak. Cronin predicts that within a week both will have announced themselves to the entire world. And then…Well, we shall see.”

“Within a week,” said Stratton, thinking aloud. “That doesn't give us much time to stop them.”

“I think it is too late for that,” said Kandinsky, between mouthfuls. “We have reached the point where their unveiling to the world is inevitable. I feel our only hope is to discredit them by giving the world the truth.”

Stratton washed some pigeon down with a little red wine. “I don't think the world will believe the truth,” he said. “We can scream until we're blue in the face, but it's going to do nothing against the wave of fanaticism that will accompany these new religious icons.”

“We could always shoot the fuckers,” said Grady.

“I think that would just make things worse,” said Stratton. “The outrage would be catastrophic. And besides, it's not in keeping with what we're trying to achieve. We want an end to violence, we don't want to encourage it.”

“It was just an idea,” said Grady. “And much as I admire your pacifistic stance, there's no way this is all going to end without some kind of violence. I'm telling you now – if it comes to a choice of ‘kill or be killed' then to me it's a no-brainer.”

Stratton smiled. “Fair enough. It's all hypothetical at the moment anyway. We can't do anything while we're twenty thousand leagues under the sea. I need to get to Rome and meet up with Pat Cronin.”

“What about Stella?!” Jennings said sharply. “Surely we've got to try and rescue her first.”

“I said ‘I' need to get to Rome. That doesn't mean that everyone else has to come too.”

“So you're not going to help get her back?”

Stratton sighed. “If I don't get to Rome, then rescuing her might well be futile. I need to find out exactly what's going on. You and Grady are more than capable of getting her out of there with Arman's help.”

“Of course,” said Kandinsky. “You must go to Cronin's aid.”

After a long and delicious dinner Grady and Jennings went back to their respective rooms to get some sleep. Stratton joined Kandinsky for a nightcap at the bar in the recreation room.

“I am not used to seeing you drink,” the big Russian observed.

“No,” said Stratton. “And as of tomorrow I won't be. I just felt like having a few before the shit starts.”

“I do not blame you,” said Kandinsky. “I feel that we are approaching the point of no return. I have felt it for a long time now.”

Stratton drank his cognac down in one and nodded to the barman for another. “Yes, the point of no return,” he echoed. “Destruction or salvation? Which will we choose? Is it human nature to self-destruct?”

Kandinsky swirled his drink pensively. “Sometimes it is very hard not to self-destruct. It is often the easier path. At certain junctures in life oblivion can seem like a blissful release compared to the constant trials of existence. I have been down the darkest ways, and it is only through great force of will that I have survived. Not everybody is fortunate enough to be endowed with such strength.” He looked across to Stratton. “I hope you do not think I am boasting, it is merely a fact.”

“No, I don't think you're boasting Arman. You're not an arrogant man. You're just very aware of your own strengths and weaknesses, and by looking inside yourself you've developed a strong insight into others as well. Too many people spend their lives picking holes in others' personalities without taking a good hard look at themselves first. Searching inside and admitting your own shortcomings is a painful process.”

“Yes,” Kandinsky agreed. “But a necessary one if you wish to move forward.” He signalled the barman to replenish his drink. “So, you wish to get to Rome as soon as possible?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall have my private jet meet us when we dock in Aden. You will go straight to the Vatican, and we shall endeavour to rescue Stella.”

“Thanks,” said Stratton. “You'll be doing me a great favour. I just hope I can be of some use. My body's all over the place at the moment – one minute I feel invincible, the next I feel drained. Majami did a fantastic job on me in the jungle, but even he can't stop the will of the universe.” He shrugged philosophically. “But I accepted the limitations when I came back, and I'll just have to live with the consequences.”

“I do not envy you,” said Kandinsky. “Having your health attached to the minds of the human race cannot be pleasant. There are some very dark people out there, men and women with hearts of sheer blackness and hatred. Anger and fear, and greed and jealousy spread like bacteria. They are subtle and insidious.”

“You're not wrong Arman. But I've got to believe that as a race we're essentially good, and that faced with a final choice we'll come through and take the right path, however hard it might prove. It's my belief that whatever darkness overtakes a person there's always a light inside that will never go out. A light that's been there since the beginning and can never be truly extinguished no matter how hard the wind of time blows. It will always be there, like a diamond waiting to be discovered in the coalface. If I didn't believe it then I wouldn't have agreed to come back.”

Kandinsky took a long puff on his cigar. “I am glad that you have so much faith, my friend. As for myself, I would like to think as you do, but I have seen far more of the darker side of humanity than you, and I am quite sure that some lights have gone out for ever. I do hope that I am wrong.”

“Your light never went out, did it?” said Stratton.

“No, not totally,” admitted Kandinsky. “But I am one of the lucky few. And the destruction I caused in the meantime may never be eradicated.”

“Oh well,” said Stratton, raising his glass. “Let's forget about it for the moment. Here's to lights that never go out!”

“Indeed,” Kandinsky enthused. “To lights that never go out!”

Jonathan Ayres turned off the television and leant back into the deep sofa with a sigh. There was no news as yet, but it was only a matter of time before the media got into a frenzy over the coming of the Mahdi. He hated to think what it would be like when their reports gained substance as the ‘Hand of Allah' started performing miracles in front of the camera. Time was heavily of the essence and they were left with very little to get Christiano ready for his grand unveiling.

Ayres lit up a cigarette and took a swig of scotch. He wondered how many non-Muslims would be converted before he and Vittori could unleash their own ‘Messiah'. With the modern world being as suspicious as it was he guessed that most educated people would consider the Mahdi to be some kind of street magician until they witnessed his efforts with their own eyes. And this, together with the West's acquired fear of anything Islamic, led him to believe that any major religious shift would be a long time coming. But he also knew from years in politics that it was dangerous to predict the mood of the public, and that ultimately anything could happen – so it was wise to get Christiano out there as soon as was viable.

He blew an impressive chain of smoke rings and contemplated, raising a toast to his late friend Henry Mulholland. It was a shame that Yoshima had killed him because Henry probably knew nothing about the box at all. It was also a shame that Augustus Jeremy's plan had failed, precipitating a disastrous course of events that had nearly cost him everything. But that was all behind him now, soon Christiano would be hailed as the second coming, and quietly pulling his strings with the real power would be the Pope, Vittori, and of course the new leader of the free world – Jonathan Ayres.

Stella gazed out of the barred window at the setting sun. Judging from its position she guessed the time to be roughly eight o'clock. The sound of music and laughter drifted across from the other side of the palace, exacerbating her feeling of isolation. The sheik had invited her to join him at his little party, but she had politely declined, citing a headache as her excuse. He had been most disappointed, but a heartfelt apology and an assurance that she would make an appearance at his next gathering seemed to lift his mood. Of course, if he knew the real reason for her absence then he might not have been so forgiving.

Turning away from the window she paced about the room, rehearsing the plan of action in her mind. She would have to be quick and she would have to be brutal. She had only one shot at escape, and if she fucked it up tonight the sheik would have her so heavily guarded she wouldn't be able to pee without his say so.

As the servant knocked on the door her heart started to thump. He entered with a tray of food and shuffled over to the table to lay it down. Stella paced casually across and positioned herself at his unsuspecting back. She lifted her arm and brought her hand down swiftly in a chopping motion, stiffening it at the point of impact for maximum power, the blow hitting the back of his neck with such force that he dropped to the floor without a sound.

Without stopping for breath she picked up the fork from her dinner tray and glided silently across to the open door. She could see nothing of the guard except for the butt of his AK-47 hovering at the side of the jamb. After watching the CCTV camera turn away she steadied herself and shot out into the corridor, at the same time swinging her fork-laden hand round into the general direction of the guard's face. There was a loud scream and his hands shot up to shield his eyes. Now in front of him, Stella removed the fork and stabbed at the side of his neck aiming for his jugular vein. The bewildered guard moved his hands across but could do nothing to stem the spurting blood. His knees buckled and he slipped to the ground, his life fading with every shallow, stuttering inhalation.

For a moment Stella stood there in a daze. The sight of the dead guard's mangled features was almost too much. That she could do something so hideous made her want to throw up. But just as she felt her stomach begin to retch she remembered where she was and the task in hand.

First she leapt up and disconnected the camera, and then hoisted the bloodied AK-47 from the guard's shoulder and set off down the long corridor with caution. The sheik and his household may have been partying in another wing but it didn't mean the rest of the palace was totally unguarded. She knew a patrol could be along at any minute.

Stopping only to avoid the glare of the cameras she made her way stealthily through the maze of passages. Luck appeared to be on her side as she navigated one hallway after another without encounter. Within a matter of minutes she was standing at a door that led to the front courtyard where the sheik's guests had parked their vehicles. She opened it just enough to get a good look at the terrain.

To her right the main entrance to the palace was guarded by two of the sheik's men, both armed with the same weapon as herself. In front of them was a team of valets, taking it in turns to park the guests' cars. To her left was a set of open metal gates that led out into the desert and freedom. These too were flanked by a couple of armed guards.

She pulled the door to, grounded herself, and visualized her next move. Then, after a few steadying breaths, she opened it again and slipped out into the makeshift car park, ducking in behind a new Ferrari 453. Peering cautiously over the bonnet she began watching the valets. As she hoped, they were parking the cars in meticulous order, giving her the opportunity to make a pre-emptive strike.