The Pestilence (20 page)

Stefano couldn't help himself. “You know he's celibate like his Holiness.”

Dressler shook her head. “Nein, he is not a priest.”

“Well, he is definitely gay. As a man, you can immediately tell such things.”

Dressler laughed. “Nein, he gave me his number. After his Holiness is in bed, we are meeting for a late dinner.”

Stefano scowled.

***

“I see that Mariam cherishes her devotion to the Holy Spirit. Samuel, I sense that you do not accept our Father into your life?”

Samuel thought on the question before answering. “I would very much like to believe and it would provide great comfort for me to accept him, but I look and find no evidence, no proof of God's existence. I feel that science provides adequate answers for the big questions on creation and evolution and the laws of men now govern human behaviour. So I honestly don't see a place for the Holy Spirit, I can't see where God could exist in our everyday lives.”

The bishop sighed. “Does science have an answer for the miracles of your healing?”

Samuel was silenced by the simplicity and elegance of the question.

“Each of us has a need for succour, we are all deeply conscious of a yearning spiritual need. I see humanity tightly shackled in a dark cave, a light casting shadows on the wall in front of us. Our lives are consumed in the toil to decipher meaning in these moving images. But every so often somebody smashes their shackles and discovers freedom. They naturally look about them for the first time turning their gaze from the shadow-strewn cave wall. The light, they discover, floods in from behind, from the entrance of the cave and for the first time they can move towards it. As they leave the cave they feel the grass under their feet, see the sky stretching out above and hear the wind whispering around them. They are finally free, setting foot into the world as it is meant to be seen, the world of his creation.”

“Jesus used miracles to bring people into the passion of the Holy Spirit. Since you came our churches are full, people are beholding your example and once again falling into the arms of the Lord.”

“I don't wish to set an example. I don't wish to lead.” Samuel laughed nervously. “Last month I was tending my goats on a hill above Haran.”

He nodded. “And Jesus was a simple carpenter's son.”

The Rotunda echoed with the precise military footsteps of the approaching Commandant.

“I'm really sorry to disappoint you, your Holiness,” said Samuel gently. “Ever since that first night I have been asking myself what the purpose of all this is. Why have I been chosen? The Prophets, the messengers, they were all touched by the Holy Spirit. They were sure in their purpose through direct communion with God. There has been no burning bush for me. No dreams, no visions or prophesies, no angel Gabriel in a cave commanding me to read. For the first time in my life, I got down on my knees and begged for guidance but I haven't heard the calling of your Lord. I apologise for my behaviour earlier, but I feel cheated. I'm lost, alone, floundering in your cave. I am sorry your Holiness but I'm not what you hope me to be.”

“Your Holiness,” said the Commandant. “I apologise for interrupting, but it is time, we must go.”

He rose from the pew and placed his hands softly on Samuel's shoulder. He lent down and whispered for Samuel's ears only. “Sometimes he simply shows us the way. Have belief Samuel for I have belief in you.” He rose then turned and bade Mariam a fond farewell.

“Wait, your Holiness, may I?” Samuel was reaching out for him. “May I?”

The Commandant stepped forward moving Samuel's hands aside. “You're not permitted to touch his holiness.”

“Peace, my son. You care for your father too deeply.” He stepped from behind the Commandant. “Samuel has my permission to perform his miracle.” He straightened his cassock lining up the thirty-three buttons and then smiled at Mariam. “Samuel,” he said. “I am ready.”

In the Chapel of Mary Magdalene in the church of the Holy Sepulchre the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State and Servant of the servants of God joined the ranks of the Healed.

***

THE piano player was staring blankly at his sheet music. He was counting the minutes until the end of his shift, his thoughts and emotions elsewhere. His playing reflected his mood; autonomic, devoid of passion or depth of feeling. Seated on a stool in the open plan bar Stefano took a sip of mineral water, looked over to the hotel entrance and then up at the clocks above the head of the solitary receptionist. Four clocks presenting the time in Jerusalem, Paris, New York and bizarrely, for some unknown reason, Wellington.

Stefano was pouring through the latest report on the hunt for the Church of the King of Light. The flat they had raided was registered to a Japanese corporation wholly owned by the church. The apartment was the corporation's only Israeli or Middle Eastern asset so the assassins had to be staying at a hotel, but where? Stefano was staring into a big black hole. His team had tried tracking the cell phone signals that were emitted from the property at the time of its occupation, but they had all been traced back to local residents. By far their most promising lead was the mirror set up on Mariko's email account. From the correspondence it was clear that in two days the church would return to Jerusalem and execute their attack. In two days Stefano would bait his trap with Mariko and he would finally have the church in his grasp.

Stefano powered down his laptop and called for the cheque. Dressler was on her date with her Swiss Guard. Stefano, as he had subconsciously done every few minutes, glanced over at the clocks above reception and again to the hotel door. It was long past midnight. He checked his phone for messages, nothing urgent and more importantly, nothing from Dressler.

Stefano was about to cross reception to the elevator when the hotel bellhop absent-mindedly cut in front of him pushing a hotel trolley. Stefano let the man pass. The three large dark-grey plastic cases riding the trolley were not the usual tourist fare. They resembled shipping containers and were obviously transporting some delicate equipment. Shuffling after the porter were two Japanese men looking tired and stiff from their journey. Their personal carry-ons were piled upon the grey cases except for a single wheeled holdall. One of the men held Stefano's gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Stefano paused and regarded the party once more. Whatever was in the wheeled bag, he thought, was too precious to trust to the bellhop's trolley. Stefano shot another look at the grey cases and spotted a label etched into the bottom case.
Caution: Film-Making Equipment. Fragile. Handle With Care.
They were a film crew. Stefano crossed the lobby to the lift and punched the button for his floor.

Ashen kept Stefano in his peripheral vision as he stepped into the lift. With the lift doors closing Ashen pretended to fish something from his inside jacket pocket all the while watching the floor indicator above the lift count up to the fifth.

Stefano was an obvious and continuous presence in the rolling news footage surrounding Samuel. Ashen, on entering the hotel, recognised him instantly. His heart rate soared and it took all of Ashen's composure to resist the instinct to turn and flee. Black, however, was oblivious to the immediate danger. They had spent most of the day training with the CineStars and after another long day in the desert the drive up from Beersheba had wiped him out.

There must be over a 100 hotels in Jerusalem thought Ashen, they had chosen this one at random and had almost walked straight into the False Messiah's head of security. He smiled, reigning back his momentary elation for this had to be a sign, an opportunity presented to him by his King.

Ashen whispered instructions to Black, who nodded in acquiescence. Ashen strolled away from reception into the main lobby and picked up a hotel telephone. He dialled switchboard but at this late hour the call was redirected as he expected to reception. The solitary receptionist was busy checking-in Black when her phone rang. Human nature dictated her next course of action. Despite serving a customer standing in front of her she broke off her conversation and answered the phone. Ashen quietly asked for Stefano. The receptionist took a moment to look up Stefano's room number. Black watched closely as she transferred the call but before it connected Ashen hung up and walked back to join Black.

“Five eighteen,” whispered Black.

Ashen was now faced with a simple choice; they could alter their strategy once more and move against the False Messiah's head of security or simply proceed as planned. Ashen was a cautious man. He knew that striking at Stefano could draw unwarranted attention but in his gut he felt that perhaps the King of Light had provided him with an opportunity that was too good to miss.

***

STEFANO didn't hear the first faint knocking on his door. His mind was locked in the desynchronised, low amplitude pattern of deep sleep. The knocking proceeded to get louder and more insistent, dragging Stefano into semi-consciousness. His eyes opened and took a moment to focus on the electronic alarm clock on the table beside him. A number appeared out of the haze; 1.43 a.m. The room's voracious air conditioning had parched Stefano's throat so he instinctively reached for the water bottle next to the clock momentarily forgetting why he had woken. The caller knocked again. Stefano tried to get out of bed but found it difficult to move. The neurotransmitter GABA and glycine released during sleep to paralyse the voluntary muscles of the body were still being flushed from his system. He shuffled slowly and deliberately across the room to the hotel door. As he approached, he could discern a figure blocking the light that seeped under the door. Stefano had no reason to be cautious; for this assignment his job was to run a protection team, effectively playing the part of a 95-kilogram babysitter. His mind was dulled by sleep; it simply didn't occur to him that he could possibly be a target. Stefano didn't bother with the spy hole or even in attaching the chain, he threw open the door and the hallway light flooded in.

***

VICTOR didn't like the look of these numbers. He sat at his desk in Paris pinching the bridge of his nose. Most of his professional life had been spent interpreting data, his success based on his laser like ability to identify issues within reams of financial information. The data he was looking at now was vastly simpler to understand but made grim reading. Following his trip to New York City donations to the Chaput Foundation were at record levels; well over US$25 billion had been liberated from the inhabitants of the richest city on earth. These were the good numbers.

The issue as Victor saw it, was with the distribution of the foundation's money. The rate of applications and consequently the rate at which the foundation spent those donations was still increasing but at a declining rate. On every measure the growth in relief issuance was falling; down month on month and down week on week. Based on these numbers and at the current momentum, relief issuance would peak in two months' time, then plateau, then catastrophically fall. Victor's internal projections had foretold years of rising demand. The money to fund the reliefs was flooding in, but the foundation was now projected to have more money than it would be spending. That meant parking the donations in easily liquidated assets, but parking donations returned the dead money to whence it came and went completely against the purpose of the foundation.

Victor's mood darkened even further as he overlaid his numbers with those provided on the Healed camp website. Healed donations were sky rocketing helping fund Healed projects across the globe. The numbers of projects and people being assisted by the Healed were expanding exponentially, the rate of increase far greater than the foundation had ever achieved. There was very little causality between the two sets of numbers but for Victor they were a barometer, a choice, a choice between his vision of the world and one espoused by Samuel and his followers. Victor recognised the importance of choice or at least the illusion of one. People had been making choices ever since Eve handed the apple to Adam. The numbers, however, made grave reading. Victor placed his elbows on his desk resting his chin on his knuckles. Victor needed to redress the balance. He hadn't been bested since the mining deal of his youth and this was far more important than money.

His agents had worked hard to protect Samuel from the people seeking to harm him. The last thing Victor wanted was for Samuel to be martyred, but these numbers clearly showed his vision was struggling to compete. Victor faced reality; he would have to change strategy. The time of choices was coming to an end.

***

STEFANO squinted into the harsh glare of the hallway light.

“Why so long?” asked Dressler. There was a bloom in her cheeks and her eyes were a little glazed. As she brushed past Stefano into his hotel room, she trailed her fingers across his chest. To Dressler's immediate right was a small bathroom, in front a standard double bed, television stand and a worn solitary armchair. Dressler bustled into the room punching the master light switch and settling into the armchair. Stefano followed in bemused silence, his eyes still taking time to adjust to the light. He sat awkwardly on the corner of his bed wearing a simple pair of sleeping shorts and a vest.

“What?” said Stefano.

“I had a date.” Dressler uncurled her long legs from beneath the chair and begun to unzip her ankle boots. She kicked them off then slipped out of her pop socks. Dressler sat back in her chair and regarded Stefano. “So, how did it go? Ask me.”

“No,” said Stefano involuntarily shifting his eyes from Dressler to the floor.

Dressler ignored him. Brimming with energy, she bounded out of the armchair and in her naked feet she padded across the room to the bedside dresser. She opened the untouched mini bar and selected a small bottle of beer. Stefano looked at her bare feet, the solid arch of her foot and her slender red-painted toes. Dressler caught him staring and smiled to herself. She slumped back into the armchair offering up the beer bottle for Stefano to share. He shook his head.

“The Swiss is a good one.”

“Is this what you woke me up to tell me?” said Stefano tersely. “Because you and I are on point first thing. We need to be sharp.”

Dressler unbuttoned her suit jacket and placed it neatly on the arm of the worn chair. She was wearing a close-fitting white vest top and her black sports bra was visible underneath.

Not an ounce of fat. Stefano traced the muscle definition in Dressler's arms and shoulders.

Dressler unclipped her gun holster and slid it from around her body. She placed the holstered 357 on top of her suit jacket.

“You took your gun on the date?” he asked incredulously.

Dressler giggled. “Ja, so did he.” She smiled at Stefano. “My date, ask me.”

“No,” said Stefano more firmly. He managed to maintain steady eye contact with Dressler this time. “I‘m not interested.”

Dressler reached out a leg and prodded Stefano playfully with her naked toe. “Come on, ask.”

Stefano stared at Dressler's red nails.

“You spoil this.” There was more than a hint of exasperation in Dressler's voice and she was beginning to look aggrieved.

Stefano rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Why deny your closest friend an opportunity to express her happiness? Even if she chose 1.43 a.m. to do so. Stefano sighed, he knew that what she was about to tell him would cut him to the quick and at that moment he also realised that he loved Dressler too much to spoil this for her. “Okay, so how was it?” he said softly.

Dressler brightened. “Wonderful. The Swiss was perfect for me. Perfect.”

Stefano somehow managed to hold his face as a blank mask. Underneath he struggled for breath, he struggled to control the shaking of his hands but there was nothing he could do to control the shattering of his heart.

Dressler stood, her gun and suit jacket sliding from the arm of the chair. She looked down at Stefano, who would not raise his eyes to her.

“Stefano Alberto Grigori, look at me.”

He could not.

Dressler reached down and gently raised Stefano's chin. “When I was with the Swiss,” Dressler slid her legs either side of Stefano's and gently straddled his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck her face inches from his, “I realised he was perfect in every way except one.” Dressler brought her lips to Stefano's. “He wasn't you.”

***