A Sacred Storm (2 page)

“Fair enough,” Stratton conceded. “But can you at least tell me if…”

“The panther is fine,” Majami interrupted. “He has been waiting for you.”

Majami left without another word, and a few seconds later the familiar sleek black figure of Titan trotted in and padded up to the bed, nuzzling at Stratton's outstretched palm.

“Hello boy,” said Stratton. “It's good to see you.”

Titan gave a friendly growl and laid a soft paw on his friend's chest. Stratton began to relax and took in his plain surroundings. He was in a room no more than eight feet square with rough log walls and a small glassless window looking out into the jungle. On the floor, in disarray, lay: a small table; a chair; a water bowl; and the remains of a spent candle next to a pool of wax. The doorway led into a narrow passage that bore left and out of sight.

Sixteen days! he thought, running his hands through the thickening growth on his face. Where had they gone? One minute he was fading to nothing on the jungle floor, the next he was here. Save for brief flashes of colour he remembered nothing. Over two weeks of his life lost, never to return. He imagined it must be how people felt coming out of a coma.

And then there was the not inconsequential matter of his friends. He shivered as he recalled the chilling screams echoing through the jungle the night he lost consciousness. He was as sure now as he had been then that Jennings was their source. What manner of sadism had produced such an outburst he dared not think, but he knew that those cries would haunt him for a long time to come, if not forever. He hoped that wherever Jennings was, alive or dead, he was no longer suffering.

And what of Stella? Was she still out there in the jungle with Jimi the guide, or had she too been captured along with Jennings? His stomach spasmed and shivered as twisted images shot through his overactive mind. Jennings' torture would be light compared to what a group of savages would do to a woman alone in the wild. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head to disperse the painful pictures.

At least there was a glimmer of hope for both her and Jennings. For Oggi there was none. He had met his doom on the jagged river rocks. Stratton replayed the scene in his head over and over again, wondering if maybe he could have held on a bit tighter or a bit longer. Did he really try his hardest to stop his friend from falling, or were there extra reserves he could have called upon to lift him to safety? Where was the superhuman strength that ordinary people found in such situations? Why had he not dug deeper?

His guilt-ridden musings broke as Majami returned with food. He handed Stratton a bowl of steaming vegetable stew and a flat bread similar to a naan.

Stratton thanked him and began to eat, dipping the bread tentatively and forcing a slow mouthful. But the meal was delicious, restoring his appetite as he ate, and it wasn't long before he was finished and sitting back with a full belly.

“That was fantastic,” said Stratton. “I didn't think I was hungry. What's in it?”

“It is a special recipe,” said Majami. “Made to stimulate the appetite and strengthen resolve. I use traditional vegetables and also rare jungle plants. It has taken years of trial and error, but I think I am close to perfecting it.”

“Well, it's certainly worked the oracle on me,” said Stratton. “I feel much better already. So perhaps now you can tell me exactly who you are and how I got here.”

“I think you should sleep first.”

“I've been asleep for over two weeks.”

“No,” said the monk. “I mean proper sleep.”

“I'll sleep better if my head isn't pounding with questions,” countered Stratton.

Majami smiled. “Very well,” he said. “If you must know, I am the head of an order of monks charged with protecting the secrets of life and healing. I believe you were on your way to find us.”

“Yes, I was…well we were – I was part of a group.”

“Indeed. You were being guided by my young friends Jimi and Tali.”

“Yes. I'm afraid Tali is dead though.”

“Yes,” said Majami. “It is most unfortunate. And even more unfortunate that Jimi too has joined him.”

Stratton bowed his head. “I'm sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

“Yes, a very good man.”

A horrible thought entered Stratton's mind and he looked up earnestly to Majami. “Jimi was looking after one of our party – a girl. Do you know anything of her?”

“No, no girl. We came across Jimi's body on the jungle path – he was alone.”

Stratton breathed a respectfully internal sigh of relief, and continued to probe. “So how did you come to be that far out in the jungle? I was led to believe that your temple was right in the very heart of the forest.”

“It is, and we would not normally venture so far, but one of my brothers had a terrible vision and it was decided that two of us should come and aid your party. Unfortunately we were too late to save Jimi, but we found you and brought you here to heal.”

“Where is here?” asked Stratton. “Surely you didn't carry me all the way back to your temple.”

“No, of course not. This is one of our way-houses. It is not at all far from where we found you. But it is off the beaten track and extremely well-hidden.”

“Is it?” said Stratton. “The men who were tracking us seemed to know all about Jimi's little hiding places.”

“Not this one,” Majami said assuredly.

Stratton wasn't convinced, but decided to take the monk's word for it. He was about to ask about Jennings when the monk interrupted him.

“No more questions,” he said.

“But I just wanted to know…”

Majami repeated himself. “No more questions. It is time for sleep – for you, and for me also.” He got up and bowed and bade Stratton a goodnight.

Stratton lay for a while, stroking Titan's head absentmindedly as he went through different scenarios in his head, each one becoming progressively worse. But then Majami's words floated gently into his visions and he knew it was time for sleep. He closed his eyes and vacated his mind, hoping that tomorrow would bring some much-needed answers.

Cardinal Miguel Desayer was troubled. He leant back in his chair and ran a weary hand down his weathered face. For thirty years and more he had been dreading this moment, ever since the day his mentor, Gabriel, had let he and Abdullah in on the secret. Over four decades of subterfuge and searching had followed: pretending to be the perfect holy man; obeying doctrines that he knew to be false; pedantically toeing the line to keep his cover. It had been torture at times, but he had kept his composure and held his tongue throughout so that his promise to Gabriel would be honoured. If the rumours coming out of Mecca were true, though, then it had all been for nothing.

Opening his desk drawer he drew out an old silver-framed photo and reminisced. The two boys in the black and white picture were barely into their teens, but both were strong and vital. They were barefoot and dressed in raggedy kit ready for a game of soccer. The boy on the left, the darker of the two, held the ball under his right arm. They were locked together and grinning like Cheshire Cats, their whole lives ahead to do with what they wished, or so they thought. But that was then. Now Abdullah was gone, and all that remained of him were fading memories.

A knock on the door stopped him dwelling. He put the photograph back in the drawer and beckoned his visitor to enter, hoping it would be Father Patrick Cronin with fresh news. He wasn't disappointed.

Cronin hobbled in on his crutches, greeted the Cardinal formally, then sat down and faced him across the desk. His boss tried to appear calm but the lines etched on his face gave away his concern.

“Well then, Father,” said Desayer. “What do we know?”

Cronin cleared his throat and proceeded. “It doesn't look good I'm afraid, Your Eminence. Our sources in Mecca have confirmed it – there is a man there claiming to be the Hand of Allah. He has been healing all manner of illnesses and deformities: curing cancers; restoring vision; remobilizing the crippled – the list goes on.”

Desayer's fists tightened as he tried to control his breathing. “Then they have found the sacred knowledge. They must have.”

“I can't be sure, Your Eminence, but it appears that way. Our sources have witnessed this man's healing powers for themselves, he's definitely the real thing.”

“So how have they come by it? I thought that the box and the parchment were safely on their way to Majami.”

“So did I, Your Eminence. And as far as I knew everything was going to plan. Kandinsky's man dropped them at the beach and they were last seen heading off with their guides.”

“But you've had no word since?”

“No. But then I didn't expect to until they came back out of the jungle.”

“Didn't they have a satellite phone?” the Cardinal asked.

“No. It would have been too dangerous for them to have contact with anybody once they were in the jungle. It doesn't matter how careful you are nowadays – there's always someone listening. And it only takes a few seconds to pinpoint someone's position from their phone signal.”

“Of course,” said Desayer. “You must think me terribly outdated.”

“Not at all, Your Eminence. Most people don't realize how vulnerable technology has made us.”

“Yes, indeed. Soon there will be no secrets left.” He gazed thoughtfully out of the window. “What about Kandinsky? Are you sure he was telling you the truth? Perhaps he took the box and sold it to the highest bidder.”

“With respect, I think that's highly unlikely, Your Eminence. I've known Kandinsky for a number of years and, although he wouldn't be first in line for canonization, I've always found him to be a man of his word. He has never been anything but honest with us from the start, and he wants to see the sacred knowledge safe just as much as we do. And besides, even if he had taken the box it would be useless without the key to the symbols; and they were taken by a different route.”

“Yes, yes, of course they were. Sorry, Father, I am just not thinking logically at the moment.” He took a sip of water and a deep breath. “So, Father, have you any ideas as to what has actually happened?”

Cronin shrugged. “To be honest, Your Eminence, I'm as in the dark as you are. I can only really hypothesize.”

“Well then – go ahead.”

“We have to assume that the Muslims have managed to acquire both the box and the symbols – it's the only way this man could have gained his power. Therefore it stands to reason that they waylaid both our parties in the jungle. I don't know how they did it, but it's the only explanation I can think of.”

Desayer raised his eyebrows. “But the box and the parchment were taken by separate paths.”

“Yes, they were. And I didn't for one minute think that both would be found, but I guess that whoever took them was one step ahead of us. I suspect treachery somewhere along the line.”

Desayer digested the information for a moment. “What about this man who took your place? What was his name again – Brady or something?”

“Grady, Your Eminence. Scott Grady.”

“Yes, that was it, Grady. Well, is there not a chance that he may have betrayed us?”

Cronin looked to the floor awkwardly. Grady had been a gamble on his part, a big gamble. Stratton and Stella seemed to trust him which is what had swung it for him in the end – well, that and the fact that there was nobody else available – but he'd had reservations about the guy from the start. It wasn't anything personal, it was just an inbuilt mistrust of anyone from American intelligence. He'd experienced first hand how they operated, and it certainly wasn't on an ethical basis. On the outset Grady appeared to have seen a brighter light, but the temptation to make a small fortune from what was effectively just a piece of paper may have proved too much.

Cronin looked back up to the Cardinal and decided to keep his concerns to himself. “Theoretically he could have done, Your Eminence, but I doubt it – he didn't seem the type. Anyway, with respect, I think we're getting away from the main issue. It doesn't matter how they got hold of the artefacts, the point is that they did. We've got to figure out what to do about it.”

“You are absolutely right, Father. You must forgive me. Like I said before – I am not thinking logically at the moment. Have you got any immediate suggestions?”

Cronin sighed. “I'm not sure what we can do at the moment. According to our sources this man – the Hand of Allah – has already built up a massive following in Mecca. It won't be long before his legend spreads right across the world.”

“Is there no way of getting to him?” asked Desayer.

Cronin raised his eyebrows. “You mean an assassination?”

Desayer nodded.

Cronin shook his head. “Not really, Your Eminence. But even if we did manage to get to him they'd just replace him with someone else wouldn't they? Or bring him back to life. Then they really would have a Messiah on their hands. The only thing we can do is watch and wait, and hope that a solution presents itself.”

“Yes, I think you are right, Father. Although I fear we are fighting a losing battle. As soon as they got their hands on the symbols we were beaten. It will not be long before Islam has conquered the globe. And I do not believe for one minute that it will happen peacefully.”

“Don't despair, Your Eminence, nothing's happened yet. There's always hope.”

“Yes, hope...” He said the word reflectively. “There is always hope.”

Preceded by a quick rap on the door a young priest walked in with a message for Desayer.

“Cardinal Vittori requests your presence at an urgent meeting, Your Eminence,” he stated.

“Right this minute?” asked Desayer.

“Yes, Your Eminence, it is a matter of some importance.”