A Sacred Storm (14 page)

“Hello, my friends!” he hollered. “It is a fine day for shooting practice, yes? Ample light and very little wind.”

The big man's cheerful demeanour turned Jennings' bewilderment into a broad smile. There was something about Kandinsky that would hearten the most miserable of souls. Jennings jumped out of the Jeep and walked over to greet the big Russian.

“It's very good to see you, Arman,” he said, shaking his hand. “But, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I will tell you later,” said Kandinsky. “First of all we must sort out this little mess. These men need medical attention.” He walked over to Sunil and towered over him like an angel of doom. “You are a stupid man, Sunil. You have crossed the wrong people.”

“I did not know they were your friends, Arman,” Sunil whimpered. “Please forgive me. I will make it up to you.”

“There is no need,” said Kandinsky. “We will see to your wounds and then you can go wherever you will – I suggest the nearest hospital.”

Kandinsky and his two men set about tending to the injured. Each one had been shot in or around the kneecap in a display of expert marksmanship. The bullets from the high-velocity rifle had gone straight through, leaving clean wounds. With help from Stratton, Jennings, and Grady they were soon patched up, and given painkilling injections from Kandinsky's emergency kit.

Once Sunil and his men were sorted, and before the group departed, Jennings asked him if he knew anything about what had happened to Stella. At first he said nothing, but after Kandinsky had given him a severe glare he began to talk.

“I sold her,” he said.

“Who to?” demanded Jennings.

“His name is Malik.”

Kandinsky stared fiercely. “You sold her to Malik?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this Malik?” asked Jennings.

“He is what you would call a scumbag,” said Kandinsky. “He trades in anything and everything. He will get good money for a beautiful woman like Stella. I will find out who he has sold her to when we return to the submarine. But now we must leave.”

They took two Jeeps. Kandinsky in one with the three friends, and his men in the other. They left the third vehicle for Sunil.

“Are they going to be able to drive that thing?” asked Jennings.

“They'll manage,” said Kandinsky. “They're lucky to be alive. A few months ago they would not have found me so forgiving. But they are only simple men, they do not understand. If they are offered money then they will take it.”

Jennings should have been angry with Sunil, but he was so elated by the news of Stella being alive that nothing else mattered. “So, come on then, Arman,” he pressed. “How do you know Sunil? And how did you manage to end up here?”

Kandinsky took a cigar from his breast pocket and let the steering wheel drift for a moment while he lit it. “Ah, Sunil,” he said. “I have known him for many years. I used to buy his crops from him – if you know what I mean.”

“I thought there was something suspicious going on there,” said Jennings.

Grady rolled his eyes.

Kandinsky continued. “I stopped dealing with him about a year ago whilst I was legitimizing my business. To be honest he was becoming far too greedy anyway, and charging far too much for the quality of merchandise he was offering. I am not surprised he accepted an offer to kill you, I expect he would murder his own brother for the right amount.” He took a long puff on his cigar. “And he is not the only treacherous snake in the nest I am afraid. The reason I am here is because we have been betrayed, my friends.”

“How do you mean?” asked Stratton.

“I have spoken to Father Cronin in Rome. It appears that my trusted friend Anatol is a trusted friend no longer. He has turned up at the Vatican with a copy of the symbols. He must have taken the box from my safe and replicated the carvings. I am livid, to say the least. But more than that I am hurt, and a little bit ashamed. I feel like a fool for allowing him inside my private world. I feel like I have betrayed you myself.”

“That's not true,” said Stratton. “You weren't to know, Arman. The man had been with you for years, you had every reason to trust him.”

“This is true,” said Kandinsky. “But it does not make it any better. I really cannot understand it. There was no shortage of money. He knew if he ever needed anything he could come to me – whatever it was.” He went briefly silent, then forced a laugh. “But come now, I am burdening you with my own sadness. We must move on and decide what we are going to do. There is much to think about. I come bearing more bad news I am afraid.”

“What's happened?” asked Stratton.

“Father Cronin's sources in Mecca have informed him that there is a man there claiming to be the ‘Hand of Allah'. A man performing miracles on the street. He is curing the crippled and helping the blind to see. As soon as Cronin heard about this man he knew that you had been waylaid, and he sent me to find you and see if you were still alive. He very much needs your help.”

His worst fears having been realized Stratton tried to digest the information. After a brief pause he said, “The Mahdi.”

“What is that?” said Kandinsky.

“It's an old Islamic legend. The Mahdi is their version of the Messiah. He's a redeemer come to restore justice to the world. Not all Muslims believe in it of course, but they soon will when they see him performing miracles before their very eyes. I don't think the situation could be worse.” He paused for thought. “Although I suppose at least the Vatican can't use the symbols – they haven't got the key.”

“I am afraid that they have,” said Kandinsky.

“What?!”

“Yes. We do not know how, but they acquired a copy. And at this very moment they are making plans to unleash their own Messiah upon the world.”

Stratton's face fell. So this was it, he thought. The two religious superpowers were about to fight out a battle for spiritual supremacy. Each would have their own miracle worker to act as a persuader, and each would claim the other to be a false Messiah. The repercussions would echo throughout the world, setting man against man in an ugly clash of faith. Previous holy conflicts would fade to nothing in comparison. This would be the war to end all wars. This would be Armageddon.

Tariq and Mo walked up to the Merton Street mosque together. Mo was prattling on about a car he was thinking of buying, but Tariq wasn't listening. His mind was firmly on the matter in hand. As they rounded the bend and the mosque came into view he had a sudden sense of foreboding. People were entering the building in their droves. A crowd such as he'd never seen congregated outside, waiting patiently to join the internal gathering. He stopped walking and pulled Mo's shirt.

“What's up?” said Mo.

“I don't know, mate,” said Tariq. “I've just got a really bad feeling about this. It doesn't seem right.”

Mo turned and slapped his friend's shoulder. “Stop being so stupid, mate. This could be the start of something wonderful. Don't you want to find out if the rumours are true?”

Tariq shrugged his shoulders. “I guess so. I'm just getting a bad vibe from it, that's all.”

“You're just paranoid, mate. All these late nights are catching up with you and fucking with your head.” He pulled Tariq's arm. “Come on, let's get going or there'll be no room for us.”

Unable to summon up any more resistance Tariq followed his friend through the gates, and two minutes later stood at the back of a murmuring throng.

The Imam called for hush and began to speak. “As you will have heard, there are rumours coming out of Mecca of the coming of the Mahdi – the redeemer. I know that some of you, even most of you, do not believe in this old legend. We live in an educated society that has moved beyond such folklore. We no longer give credence to these tales, designed by an elite minority to hold sway over those with little or no education. I, myself, find the idea fantastical to the point of being impossible.” He paused and gazed around for effect. “And yet,” he continued, “I stand in front of you now as one who has been converted. Three days ago I received a summons to the holy city. After attending a council there and seeing with my own eyes the power of the Mahdi, I can inform you all that this is no legend, and no trick to deceive us. What I witnessed in Mecca was nothing short of miraculous. This man is a healer of the like this world has never seen before. In just thirty seconds I saw him transform a man who had been in a wheelchair for life into an able-bodied citizen without a care. Tumours have dissipated at the touch of his hand. There was a queue over a mile long just to be granted an audience with him. And if you doubt my word then just look at me.” He gestured to his lower limbs. “You all know that I have been unable to walk without the aid of a stick for many years, and that at times the pain is so unbearable that I cannot stand at all. But if you will notice my brothers – I have no walking stick, and I can assure you that I am no longer in any pain whatsoever. I feel like a young man again.”

Tariq, stifling a laugh, watched in amazement as the old man, whom he knew to be severely crippled, performed a little jig – hopping from leg to leg like an extra from
Riverdance
. His logical side tried to come up with a rational explanation for the transformation, but instinctively he knew that he was watching the result of something beyond the confines of convention. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of adrenaline which scared and excited him at the same time.

After quieting the gasps of the audience the Imam continued to speak, “So, there you have it. I hope that my testimony has been enough to convince you that the Mahdi is no longer just a fiction.” Raising himself to an imposing height he lifted his voice. “We are standing at the edge of a new world order! A new age for mankind, where peace and harmony will wash away the depravity and greed and lawlessness of our current society. The Mahdi will show the world the grace of Allah, instructing us on how we may best achieve Allah's vision for his children. He will right wrongs and convert the unbelievers. Islam will be revealed as the only true religion, to which other faiths must defer if they wish to gain salvation. We are honoured to be here for this time of change, the most pivotal moment in the history of the earth. It is our time to rise up and light the way!”

Inspired by his stirring words the whole mosque erupted into a frenzy unbecoming of a place of worship. Forgetting where they were, shouts and cheers rang out filling the building with a wall of ecstatic noise. The sound so ferocious it broke through the walls and carried more than half a mile down the road, causing the passengers at the train station to stare up in bewilderment. Even Tariq with all his preconceived doubts couldn't help but be swept away on the tide of unbridled fervour. This was it, he thought – the world was finally going to change. What a time to be alive.

Arman Kandinsky's submarine, the
Marianna
, lay just off the Keralan coast. Decommissioned in the mid-nineties, it was a Soviet Akula-class nuclear sub refitted and customized to Kandinsky's own design, and in effect an underwater pleasure palace. As the powerful dinghy sped towards it under the too-hot sun, Jennings' mouth began to salivate at the thought of the excellent cuisine that would undoubtedly be waiting for them when they boarded. After an interminable drive across never-ending plains, he was looking forward to unwinding in opulent comfort. Kandinsky was a host beyond compare.

Stratton too was hoping for some relaxation. His mind was still filled with the catastrophic news that the two most powerful religions on earth were about to go head to head in a battle for ultimate supremacy. The ensuing hatred would devastate not only towns, cities and countries, but his own fragile reserves. He doubted if he would survive, let alone be able to help stop it.

“You look like you're thinking too much,” said Jennings.

“I've got a lot to think about,” Stratton replied.

Jennings wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “What was it you said to me – ‘don't visualize outcomes, it'll bring you down' – or something like that.”

“I'm not visualizing outcomes.”

“Are you sure?” quizzed Jennings. “You face tells a different story.”

Stratton gave a small laugh. “Alright, fair enough, you've caught me. What should I do?”

“Remember where you are,” said Jennings. “You're sitting in a boat on the ocean heading towards a submarine – and that's it. Nothing's happened yet.”

“You're absolutely right mate, nothing has happened yet.” He smiled. “It's a good job you're here to advise me.”

“I had a good teacher.”

The submarine drew close and the boat slowed, skipping lightly across the water until it pulled up alongside the turret. They boarded without trouble and were immediately given their own rooms in which to wind down and shower before eating. Grady, the only one not to have been present on the journey out, was suitably impressed with his new surroundings. After showering he took full advantage of the facilities by pouring himself a large scotch from the drinks cabinet, and lighting a fat Havana. He then sat back on the bed and enjoyed the moment, feeling the stress drain out of him with every sip and puff.

An hour after boarding they were seated in the long, luxurious dining room with clear minds and fresh clothes. Kandinsky was at the head of the table with Stratton to his right and Grady and Jennings to his left.

“Well, my friends,” said Kandinsky. “I have some good news, and I have some bad news. I will start with the good news, which is that our friend Stella is definitely still alive.”

“And the bad?” asked Jennings.

Kandinsky took a swig of whisky. “The bad news is that she has been sold to a sheik in Yemen.”

Jennings' mind immediately sprang to the worst possible scenario, imagining Stella locked up and being forced to do God knows what for this sheik and his disgusting friends. A shiver ran through his spine.