A Sacred Storm (3 page)

“Very well, tell him I shall be along directly.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” He bowed his head deferentially and exited the room quickly.

“Well then,” said Desayer. “I suppose I must go and see what this is all about.”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” said Cronin. “I shall return to my office and make some more enquiries.” He struggled to his feet and shuffled out of the Cardinal's chambers.

As he turned into the corridor, his mind elsewhere, he was knocked back into the wall. His head jerked in confusion and his left crutch clattered to the floor. He was about to follow it down when a firm hand steadied him.

“I am very sorry, Father,” said a voice. “Are you okay?”

Cronin looked up and stared at the man. He was a civilian with sharp features and looked very familiar.

“Yes, I'm fine,” said Cronin. “If you could just pass me my crutch.”

The man obliged and Cronin thanked him, brushing off more apologies politely, and trying to place his accent. He watched him head down the corridor accompanied by Cardinal Vittori's messenger. As they moved out of sight he furrowed his brow in contemplation and started back to his office. Just where had he seen him before?

Stella stared up at the ceiling and traced imaginary faces in the elaborate mouldings. It was something she did at home; trying to pick out shapes in the stippled paintwork, or maybe animal forms in the clouds. If you looked hard enough at something it would invariably distort and reveal a hidden treasure, a bit like the ‘magic eye' pictures that had been so popular in the nineties. Perhaps if she focused all her energy into one point she could create a hole from which to escape through, but even her imagination she felt would not extend that far. She was trapped, and no amount of dreaming or wishing was going to free her.

Of course, there were worse places to be held captive, and she shuddered as she remembered the cold cellar within which Augustus Jeremy had incarcerated her and Stratton, but a prison was a prison, mink-lined or not.

Having grown tired, and with her eyes beginning to strain, she shuffled across the substantial bed and sat on the edge with her toes dangling on the cool marble floor. She stretched her arms and yawned, blinking a couple of times to restore her blurry sight, and then allowed herself a brief smile as she took in the wondrous surroundings. She didn't know how long she'd been there – a week, maybe longer – but she still couldn't help but be impressed by the sheer unadulterated luxury of the place. With the finest furniture, hand-woven silks and original art on the walls, and solid-gold fittings in the almost cavernous bathroom she felt like a storybook princess. And the ornate, probably priceless, porcelain just added to the indulgence. But if she was a princess then she was one locked in a tower awaiting her Prince Charming to come to the rescue.

It seemed like a lifetime since she had been captured in the jungle. If only she hadn't been so bloody stupid. Jimi had told her to stay quiet and still in the undergrowth, but as soon as she heard the horrific howls of pain she knew she couldn't just lie there. But what had her rash actions achieved? Nothing.

The image was etched in her brain now, an indelible tattoo of her sorrow. She hoped that Jennings had died quickly, and that his pain was short-lived, but she knew the reality would probably be very different.

Beginning to dwell, she forced herself from the bed and took a walk around the room, bending and stretching her legs with exaggeration as she moved to shake off the stiffness. After a couple of small circuits she went to the bathroom and refreshed her face with cold water. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked, unsurprisingly, pale and drawn. A close inspection of her hair revealed a few strands of grey creeping through into the black as well. When she returned to civilization she would do have to do something about it. But for now it could wait, because despite the fact that cosmetics, including hair-dye, had been made available to her, she was determined to look her worst. She wasn't going to give her jailer the satisfaction of her beauty.

The mere thought of him angered her to the point of explosion. His false smile; his creepy, clammy, wandering hands; his foul breath that mingled noxiously with the smell of frankincense on his clothes; and most of all his unwillingness to accept that what he was doing was wrong. His constant referral to her as a guest was infuriating, not only because it was a million miles from the truth, but because he actually believed it. The reality was, though, that she was a prisoner, a white slave, and it wouldn't be long before his advances became more pressing and brutal, until eventually he would go ahead and take what he wanted without her consent. And so it would go on, day after day, week after week, maybe allowing his friends and business associates to have a go as well. Any resistance on her part would probably just make it more fun for them.

She took a determined look in the mirror, pursing her lips resolutely, and promised herself that she would escape or die trying. She then returned to the main room and started her daily workout. With nothing but time on her hands it had been easy to get back into a fitness regime. After an initial bout of cramps her body had accustomed itself and each day since had been a progression. She was starting to feel strong again, like she had been at her peak in the Met. Every strained press-up and sit-up was accompanied by a grunt and a burning likeness of her keeper and the men that sold her to him.

And what of Stratton? What the hell had happened to him? One minute they were racing along the track, and the next he and Jennings had disappeared. She had been trying so hard to keep up with Jimi that she hadn't noticed them falling behind. He had been in a bad way, so if Jennings was captured why wasn't he? He certainly wasn't the guy hanging next to Jennings on the branch – that, although she couldn't figure how, appeared to be Grady.

So where was Stratton now?

Many scenarios streamed through her head, but the one that pleased her most was the idea that he had survived and was at this very minute planning a rescue mission. She pictured him crossing the desert with a group of crack mercenaries, each one ready to do battle with the sheik and his cadre of bodyguards. They would scale the walls and Stratton would come bursting through the barred window in a cloud of explosives to save her from peril. She smiled at the thought, but knew in her heart that no such thing was going to happen. If she wanted saving she was going to have to do it herself.

Stratton woke to the sound of jungle chatter. It was some time after dawn, but light was only just beginning to filter through the thick canopy. He yawned loudly and stretched his arms wide, accidently hitting Titan's head as he did so. The panther paid little attention and continued to snooze happily by the side of the bed.

Stratton strained to see in the gloom. He reached out to the small table and fumbled for the water bowl, being careful not to upset it. His throat was burning dry and he drained the vessel in several prolonged gulps. Thirst quenched, he propped his back against the wall and closed his eyes for a brief meditation.

The fever that had held him for so long seemed all but gone, and for the first time in ages he could feel blood and energy coursing once more. He tried to remember when he had first started to ebb, and figured that it must have been just after he and Oggi had arrived at the motel. From then on it had been a downward spiral until his resolve completely gave way that night in the undergrowth. Technically speaking, however, it wasn't actually
his
resolve that had capitulated.

His mind drifted back to his time in between worlds, after Jeremy had killed him, and before Oggi had brought him back. He recalled the improbably vivid colours, the almost unbearable light, and the constant current of the cosmos pulsating through his soul like a climax without end. He also recalled the choice he had been given, and the conditions attached when he decided to forego his ascent and return. There could only be two explanations for his recovery: either the world had suddenly become a better place, or Majami had somehow managed to override the limitations imposed upon him by the universe. Neither seemed very likely.

Suddenly feeling a presence in the room he opened his eyes. Majami was standing next to the bed holding a candle. He bent down and lit the one on the table from his own.

“Did you have a good sleep?” asked the monk.

“Yes thanks. I feel a lot better. I could do with getting up and having a walk about though – if that's okay with you, Doctor?”

Majami smiled. “That is fine, as long as you feel up to it. You can join us for breakfast if you like. Unless you would like me to bring it to you?”

“No thanks. I think I've spent long enough in bed. I could do with a wash before I eat though.”

“Of course,” said Majami. “I can bring you some water, or there is a stream at the back of the hut.”

Stratton had an urge to get out into the open air. He put on his T-shirt and trousers and followed Majami out of the hut and down a small slope to the water. His legs were surprisingly stable considering his long incapacity and, after supplying him with some leaves to act as soap, Majami appeared happy enough to leave him unsupervised. The water was cool but not unkind, and he immersed himself fully to expel the inertia. Within minutes he felt revitalized, and after a thorough scrub down he dried off on the bank and headed back up to the hut. The only thing missing had been a shave. He would have to ask Majami if he had salvaged his rucksack, which contained a blade.

The hut was divided into four rooms; two on either side separated by a small corridor. On returning Stratton found Majami in the front left section, stirring a rice dish over a small stove.

“Please, sit down,” said the monk, motioning to a rustic table surrounded by four equally basic chairs. “Help yourself to some tea.”

Stratton poured some hot liquid from the copper kettle into a wooden cup. A wonderful, invigorating fragrance wafted up to his nose and he savoured the scent momentarily before taking a sip. It was quite unlike any tea he'd tasted before.

“You like?” said Majami, turning from his pan.

“Yes, very much,” said Stratton. “What's in it?”

“Ah, that is a secret. Special jungle herbs, similar to the ones in the stew I made you.”

“Well, whatever it is, it's absolutely delicious.”

Stratton relaxed back in his chair and gazed out of the window. The sun was just peeking into the clearing, lighting it up in a misty gold. In the branches of one of the banyans he spotted a curious monkey staring straight at him. He stuck his tongue out at the creature and found the gesture returned. He laughed and proceeded to make comical movements with his hands and arms, all of which were mimicked by the little simian.

“I see you have found our little friend Samson,” said Majami.

“Yes. Interesting little fellow, isn't he? Does he ever come in the hut?”

“He has been known to occasionally, but he usually stays out there in his tree just watching us.”

Stratton heard footsteps behind him and turned round to see another monk, similar in size and looks to Majami, come through the door. The new monk bowed his head and clasped hands in greeting. “Namaste,” he said.

Stratton returned the compliment.

Majami introduced his friend. “This is Tawhali,” he said. “And Tawhali, this is Stratton.” Both men nodded in acknowledgement. Majami continued, “Tell me Tawhali, where are our other guests? You have not lost them I hope.”

“No, they are washing down in the stream. They will be with us shortly.”

“Other guests?” said Stratton.

“Yes,” said Majami. “You are not the only person we picked up on our little journey.”

Cardinal Vittori's office was much like Desayer's own: grand, imposing and rich in religious detail and iconography. The two grave men sat opposite each other across the desk in a respectful silence. Desayer stared up at Jesus on the large rosewood crucifix and, not for the first time, wondered what he would make of the overly opulent surroundings that had been built in his name. He didn't doubt for one moment that the carpenter's son would find it grossly indulgent, and in no way a fitting testament to the message he had propagated, particularly when so many of his children were starving around the globe.

Desayer was first to break the silence. “So, Fabio, what is the matter that needs my attention so urgently?”

Vittori sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers. “We have, Miguel, what I would call ‘a situation' – a rather delicate situation.” He paused, then added, “Or maybe not so delicate.”

Desayer raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” he said.

Vittori leant forward earnestly. “I am about to tell you something very important, Miguel. Something that very few people in this world know about. I have watched you, Miguel. I have watched you for many years. You appear to be the model of Catholicism: you say all the right things; you make all the right moves; you write the correct words. But there's something about you, Miguel, that doesn't quite add up…”

Desayer felt his chest contract but kept his composure.

Vittori continued, “…The thing is, Miguel, I believe you are different from the other cardinals. I think you see things that the others do not. I think you feel things that the others do not. I think you sense things they do not. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I think you credit me with more than I deserve, Fabio.”

“No, no. Do not be so modest, Miguel. You have vision. You can see beyond this material world. And I am sure in your heart you must know that there is some great secret out there waiting to be unearthed.”

Desayer tried to look perplexed. “I am still not following you, Fabio.”

“Very well,” said Vittori. “I am going to let you in on this great secret of which I speak. Possibly the greatest secret ever kept from mankind.”