The Lucifer Code (17 page)

Despite the heat, fumes and noise that filled the stifling air, St Peter's magnificent dome shimmered against the sky. The outstretched arms of Bernini's flanking colonnades seemed to draw him into the bosom of the Mother Church. As Catholicism had declined this fortress of faith had become little more than a stunning theme park, a museum to a once great empire. Few of the crowds who thronged here were pilgrims; most were tourists attending the cultural equivalent of Disneyland. The final humiliation was that many wore the red crucifix of the Church of the Soul Truth.

As he entered the quiet cool of the great cathedral and looked up at Michelangelo's vast dome, Fleming felt no instinct to gloat. St Peter's ageless beauty was humbling, the fabric of the place so saturated with its past that he had only to press his ears to the pillars to hear its secrets. Rome had existed as a city for over twenty-five centuries, and for fifteen of those this had been the centre of the Christian faith.

He lit a candle for his brother and watched the flame send curls of wispy smoke high into the air. Whatever he thought about religion, scholars here had been studying matters of the soul for centuries. Fleming was an atheist embarked on uncharted seas with only some scientific certainties to guide him.

But that wasn't why he had contacted Father Peter Riga. He had called him because Amber had cited him as next-of-kin on her Barley Hall admission form. He was Fleming's only remaining link with her. Although Riga had been guarded on the telephone he had agreed to see him.

He left St Peter's and went into the sweltering streets to the nearest taxi rank. The cab took only a few minutes to cross the Tiber and deposit him outside the world headquarters of the Society of Jesus: the begrimed baroque splendour of Borromini's Collegio di Propaganda Fide.

He entered the building - and stepped into a different world, away from the bustle, glare and noise of the Roman streets. Inside, all was marbled stillness. He identified himself at the reception desk and was led up the grand staircase by a young man in black robes.

Father Peter Riga's office was on the top floor at the end of a long, dark corridor, and Fleming could tell by the deference with which the younger Jesuit knocked at the door that Riga was of high status within the Society.

'Come in,' boomed an American voice.

The room was simple yet comfortable: a desk with a brass reading lamp and a laptop computer, crammed bookshelves, two high windows, a worn rug on the marble floor, and two simple chairs flanking a small table. Each item was beautiful in itself - the bookshelves were carved with arabesques, the books bound and tooled in leather - but the antique walnut desk was exquisite.

Sitting behind it, framed in the golden light from one of the high windows, was a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped curly grey hair, a strong, weathered face and piercing blue eyes. When Fleming entered he stood up: he was short, no more than five foot six, with a barrel chest like a wrestler. He had to be about seventy but he looked in good shape. Beside him on the desk was a simple silver frame containing two photographs. One showed a younger Riga standing beside a smiling couple with two small girls apparently embracing. The other, more recent, picture was of Riga with Amber Grant and her mother. In both, as now, he was attired from head to toe in black.

'Welcome, Dr Fleming,' he rasped. Riga wasn't the classic soft-spoken priest - but then Jesuits, the intellectual Special Forces of the Catholic Church, rarely were. His accent reminded Fleming of a friend at Harvard, a scholarship boy from the streets of New York. Fleming shook his hand firmly.

Riga's intelligent eyes fixed on his, appraising him. 'So, how's my goddaughter?' he demanded, a protective note in his voice.

'I rather hoped you could tell me.'

Riga nodded slowly but his expression didn't change. 'Saw her a few days ago in San Francisco. Said you were testing her for phantom headaches and that she'd had a dream of dying - a dream she didn't believe was a dream. She believed Ariel's soul was somehow tied up with hers. Last thing she said was she was going to see what you and your technology made of it. You discovered something?'

Fleming studied Riga's face but couldn't fathom how much he did or didn't know. The Jesuit would probably have discovered by now that he had been suspended from Barley Hall so he'd better start at the beginning. He explained about the Neuro-Translator and the experiment with his brother. He told Riga about the night he had heard Amber's disembodied scream in the Think Tank, and that he had been suspended, pending an investigation into his brother's death.

Riga's poker face gave away little, but when Fleming explained about the soul wavelength he thought he caught a flicker of something cross the Jesuit's impassive features . . . something that looked like fear.

'And she left before you could explain all this to her?'

'To go to her mother, yes.'

Riga nodded. 'Yeah, Gillian's real sick. So you ain't spoken to Amber since you left your clinic?'

'No.'

Riga narrowed his eyes. 'Okay, so how come this soul wavelength of Amber's has got you so fired up?'

'Isn't it obvious?'

'But what's it to you, Dr Fleming? Amber didn't figure you for a religious type.'

'I'm not. I'm a man of science. I don't believe in God or an afterlife and don't want to believe in one. But I'm also someone who likes to understand things and this has given me an itch I can't scratch. It's put me in a position where 1 need to reassure myself that I'm right. For my own peace of mind I've got to prove that this wavelength is some kind of aberration - a mental last gasp or trace signal of the dying physical brain. And I can't do that without Amber.'

'What if you're wrong? What if you find there is an afterlife? What if your scientific questioning finds proof of it? What then, Mr Atheist?'

'I'll deal with that when I come to it. The point is, with Amber's assistance I might be able to help answer mankind's biggest question - and that's something I can't walk away from. I thought you'd understand that. You Jesuits are famous for your intellectual rigour and curiosity, your desire to know.'

'It's more a desire to understand,' Riga said. 'We don't want knowledge for knowledge's sake.' He flashed a wry smile. 'That's why mankind got thrown out of Eden in the first place. The Society's motto is ad majorem Dei gloriam - to the greater glory of God. Everything we do is aimed at revealing His glory, not ours.'

'What are you saying? That there are some things God doesn't want us to know?'

'What I'm saying, Dr Fleming, is that some knowledge is dangerous and easily abused. Particularly nowadays.' For the first time the Jesuit's rock-like calm deserted him and his words were laced with controlled anger. 'My Church is at risk of extinction. And the threat doesn't come from atheists, Jews or followers of Islam, but from fellow Christians, inside and outside the Mother Church. Our current pope is weak and the right-wing factions within the Holy See cling to their power and wealth by ignoring necessary reforms and becoming even more controlling and dogmatic as the Church erodes around them. All the time the Red Pope's Church gets stronger. I knew Xavier Accosta when he was a cardinal in the Vatican, and there was a lot to admire. He was a bright, passionate guy. He'd have made a good Jesuit. There were many parallels between him and our founder St Ignatius Loyola - both Hispanic, highly charismatic, warriors whose wounding in battle converted them to devote their lives to God. But where Loyola strengthened the Mother Church from within, Accosta had no qualms about leaving it and exploiting its weakened state.

'He set up his rival ministry when infighting was rife within the Church. Pope John Paul II was ill, and had become a puppet of the powerful reactionary right. In Europe and the United States Catholic youth were falling away in vast numbers. In Latin America there were huge losses of Catholics to evangelical Protestant teachings. It was a terrible time. Accosta should have stayed and reformed the Church from within, but instead he put himself first. His obsession with technology and what he calls truth is no less dogmatic than the blind arrogance of those fools in the Curia.'

Riga paused for breath and his voice became softer, but no less passionate. 'We in the Society have one clear goal. Survival. We gotta save our Church from itself and those like the Red Pope who'd destroy us. Dr Fleming, you've stumbled into a war zone and you gotta be careful what you do with the technology you've found and the knowledge you seek. There are those in the Vatican and those near the Red Pope who'd do anything to possess it and control it.'

'But that's the whole point,' said Fleming. 'Once we know what awaits us after death no religion can control us.'

Riga released a dry, humourless laugh. 'You figure that's gonna fill the Vatican or the Red Pope with joy? Just think about the spiritual as well as the scientific implications of what you're seeking. You're putting yourself in the way of powerful forces - and you and Amber in a ton of danger.'

'Shouldn't Amber decide for herself whether she wants to get involved? She came to me for help and this wavelength might be vital in curing her headaches.'

'Maybe. We ain't talked since I visited with her in San Francisco a week ago.'

Fleming frowned. 'She hasn't called you since?'

'I figure she's got a lot to think about, with her mother. But I'm hoping she'll call soon.'

'When she does call, will you ask her to contact me?'

'Sure.'

Fleming stood to leave, disappointed that he had achieved nothing by coming here. 'Thanks for your time,' he said, extending his hand.

Riga took it. 'Likewise, Dr Fleming. You still gonna go looking for her?'

'I've got no choice. There's nothing else I can do.'

'God speed, then, and watch yourself.'

Shortly after Fleming's departure, Father Peter Riga closed the door, returned to his desk and dialled Amber's number for the eighth time since Fleming had contacted him. The voicemail kicked in, but he left no message. Instead he dialled a three-number extension within his own building. On the third ring a voice responded. 'It's Father Peter. Get me the Superior General.' He didn't have to wait long before the rich voice of the head of the Society of Jesus was on the line. 'Superior General,' Riga said, we gotta talk. Urgent.'

*

Leonardo da Vinci Airport. Rome.

Three hours later

Fleming struggled through the milling crowd towards the British Airways check-in. As he approached the desk, he realized that the self-confidence he had always taken for granted had deserted him. His career, which had sustained him throughout his working life, was slipping away from him, his personal life was non-existent and he had nowhere to turn. He used to call his brother when something personal was troubling him, and talk through professional matters with the director of Barley Hall. But they were the source of his troubles.

There was only one person who could help him make sense of all this and she was inaccessible. All he could do now was go home and wait for Amber Grant's call.

Fleming looked around him, feeling the chill of paranoia as he remembered Riga's warning. A bland, mousy-haired man in a lightweight jacket suddenly averted his gaze, and for a second Fleming thought he might be following him. He retrieved the return ticket to Heathrow from his jacket pocket, looked up at the departures screen and suddenly had an irresistible urge to talk to someone who cared that he existed. He delved into his briefcase, reached for his cellphone and dialled his parents' number. His mother picked up.

After reassuring each other that they were okay, he asked to speak to Jake.

When he came on the line the six-year-old sounded breathless and excited. 'Hi, Milo. I played soccer today'

Fleming's mood lifted. 'That's fantastic, Jake. Well done.'

'When you come back I'll race you.'

'Oh, I don't know about that. You've got bionic legs now:'

'Don't worry' said Jake. 'I'll give you a head start if you like.'

'We'll have to see about that. You still looking after the legs like we talked about?'

'Yes.'

'How's everything else back there?'

'Okay' Jake's voice changed, becoming more pensive. 'Milo?'

'Yes.'

'Where are you?'

'In Rome.' At that moment he heard his flight to London being called and he glanced up at the departures screen. But it was another entry that caught his eye. Noting the gate and departure time, Fleming checked his watch. The idea was so obvious that he was exasperated with himself. He had spent the last few days agonizing over how to contact Amber when what he should have done was take the most direct course of action. Even if it proved futile he had nothing better to do.

'You coming back soon, Milo?'

'Not just yet, Jake,' he replied, filled with fresh purpose. He headed for the Alitalia desk. 'Soon. But there's something I've got to do first. Give my love to Grandma and look after each other, okay?'

'Okay, Milo.'

' 'Bye, Jake. Miss you.'

' 'Bye, Milo. Miss you too.'

Seven minutes later, when Miles Fleming left the Alitalia desk and hurried to the departures gate, he didn't notice the bland, mousy-haired man punching a short text message into his WAP phone.

Fleming no longer on flight BA 671 to Heathrow.

Now on Alitalia AL 102. ETA. 09.15 a. M. local time.