A Sacred Storm (5 page)

The lights came on in Stella's room, causing her to wake with a start. A servant walked towards her, head down with a tray in his hand. He set her food on a table next to the bed, then bowed and left the room. She didn't thank him.

Sliding out from the covers she slipped on her cream silk blouse and pale blue trousers and sat down to eat. It had briefly occurred to her to go on hunger strike, but that idea had soon been jettisoned. There would be no escape if she didn't have the strength to move, and more importantly, the food was just too good to waste.

Tonight's meal was a light goat's-cheese salad followed by a spiced chicken dish with couscous and vegetables. She set about it hungrily and made sure she bulked up on the fresh flatbreads that accompanied every lunch and dinner. Back home she would never dream of eating so much, but here food meant muscle, and muscle meant options.

After she'd mopped up the last of the couscous with some bread she leant back in her chair with a small cup of sticky black coffee. She was about to take a sip when the door open behind her. Her visitor was the repulsive sheik. He stood in the middle of the room smiling at her through yellowing teeth. She wondered why with all that money he couldn't afford to have them whitened.

“Good evening, my dear,” he said kindly. “I hope that the food was to your satisfaction.”

“It was alright,” Stella grunted. “I could have done with some pudding though.”

“That can be remedied. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah, you can fucking well let me out of here!”

The sheik wagged his finger and said, “Now, now, my dear. There is no need for such language. Perhaps you would like a cigarette.” He produced a gold case from his pocket and offered her a smoke.

Stella accepted without a word, but instead of letting him spark it for her she grabbed a lighter from the dressing table. After a couple of stressed drags she sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed around the room avoiding eye contact with the sheik, who in turn stood staring right at her. The stand-off continued for over a minute until she could bear it no longer.

“Have you got nothing better to do?” she said. “I mean, surely you've got some wives to attend to? Or maybe some camels?”

“You are a very humorous young lady.”

“I try.”

The sheik moved across the room and sat down at the dressing table. He carried on staring. “You could have a nice life here in the palace you know,” he said, “if only you would let yourself go. There is no need for you to be locked up all day. I am a very generous man to those that I favour.”

Stella grunted. “I'm sure you are, but to be honest I don't wish to be in favour. And if you've got any ideas about me suddenly succumbing to your nonexistent charms, then think again. You're not coming near me. Not now; not ever. Get the picture?!”

The sheik exhaled some smoke and gave a hideous tobaccostained grin. “You are forgetting yourself, my dear. Remember this: I paid for you; I own you. You are not in the West any longer. This is my country and we play by my rules. I think perhaps you ought to consider your position a bit more carefully. It will be far less painful for you to give me what I want than for me to take it.”

Stella felt her hatred welling up inside. “Listen to me,” she said stonily. “YOU - ARE - NOT - GOING - TO - HAVE - ME!”

Yet again the sheik grinned. “We shall see. Perhaps it might be more fun to break you in against your will.”

“Over my dead body!”

“That's the spirit,” mocked the sheik. “I do like a lively one. And so, as a matter of fact, do my friends and business associates.” He got up and walked to the door. “Have a think about it. Either be mine willingly or be everybody's unwillingly – it is entirely up to you. Goodnight.” He gave one last leering smirk and exited her quarters.

As the door closed behind him she shivered with revulsion. After stubbing out her cigarette she immediately lit another and began to pace around the room. It appeared that the sheik was beginning to lose his patience. She wondered how long it would be until he carried out his threats. It was possible that she could hold him off for another week or so, but after that it was looking grim. First it would be him, and then all his dirty little associates. An unwanted picture entered her head and she almost vomited. Grabbing a glass of water she drank it straight down.

It occurred to her that she might have to bite her tongue and start being nice to him. The thought was almost too much to bear, but she figured it might buy her a little more time. A subtle change of mood day by day, a gradual thawing of relations, could possibly get her a month or more if she played it correctly. “I will sleep with you, but I just want it to be special,” she would say. “I want to know I can trust you. It takes a woman time to trust someone you know.” Yes, that was it! A protracted tease; an unspoken promise of heaven to come. It would take all of her resolve to pull it off, and hiding her true feelings might ultimately prove impossible, but she had little or no option. It was either that or…

She felt her stomach retch once again.

The servant entered the room carrying another tray. He placed its contents on the table, cleared away her dinner plates, and left quickly. Stella went over to investigate and was pleased to find that the Sheik had deferred to her request for a dessert. It was a large piece of sweet honey-cake accompanied by a light lemon sorbet. The taste was sensational, and it took her mind away from the dark thoughts that had been festering.

The flavour was reminiscent of baklava and carried her back to her days in Oxford with Stratton. She remembered long dreamy afternoons lounging by the river with bottles of wine and assorted pastries from the local patisserie, the time passing so languorously that the earth almost stood still. She remembered making love under the willow tree, and how the sun blazed through its weeping tentacles, shimmering like a thousand jewels and embodying the sensation of pure togetherness flowing through their souls. She remembered laughing so hard that she felt like she would explode into a billion fragments of unquenchable joy. And most of all she remembered the happiness, the feeling that whatever life threw their way it could never extinguish the flame of their love for one another. A small tear began to form in the corner of her eye.

A couple of seconds later she shook her head and returned to her food. Memories weren't going to help her escape. It was going to take a steely, ruthless nerve to get out of the palace. It was no task for a simpering bimbo with unrealistic delusions of romance.

She finished her last mouthful, sat back in the chair, and sparked up another cigarette. With the hardened resolve that she had developed over the years, she banished the past from her head and focused on the job in hand. She was going free herself or die in the attempt.

“We create our own Messiah?!” said Desayer, echoing Vittori's statement. His mind reeled, wondering exactly how the cardinal was going to achieve this aim without the symbols.

Vittori leant forward intently. “Yes, Miguel, we create our own Messiah.”

“And how are we going to do that, Fabio? You said yourself that the Muslims have stolen the knowledge.”

Vittori reclined once more and smiled. “Yes, they have, Miguel. But the last few days have brought to light new information.”

Desayer looked perplexed. “New information?”

“Yes,” said Vittori. “Allow me to introduce you to somebody.” He pressed his intercom and asked his assistant to come through with their guest.

Desayer turned round as the door opened. A gaunt man with quick eyes entered the room behind the cardinal's assistant. His thinning, mousey hair was slicked back and he was dressed casually in grey slacks and black polo-neck jumper. He carried a large envelope in his right hand. After giving Desayer a brief but unnerving glance he took a seat next to him.

“This is Anatol,” said Vittori. “I believe he has some very exciting news for us.”

Desayer exchanged nods with the newcomer, but avoided prolonged eye contact.

“Anatol is one of the faithful,” Vittori continued. “He believes in the Catholic Church. He has risked a great deal to bring us a precious gift today. Please show us my friend.”

Anatol reached into the envelope, removed a piece of A4 paper, and laid it out on Vittori's desk. It was covered in symbols. Desayer tried to hide his astonishment as he looked at it.

“This,” gestured Vittori. “Is an exact replica of the lid of a box that Christ himself carved. Each symbol is extremely powerful, and all have a different purpose. These are the icons that the Muslim ‘Messiah' is using to draw power from the universe.”

Desayer continued to stare, wondering exactly how they had managed to get hold of the sacred symbols. He couldn't be certain that it was the genuine article, but he recognized the four Usui Reiki characters in the four corners, and the power sign in the centre, so it matched with Cronin's description. “Forgive me if this is an ignorant question, Fabio, but how exactly do we utilize these characters?” he asked, remembering that he was supposed to be unaware of their nature.

“It is a very good question, Miguel,” Vittori replied. “And one which I will try to answer as simply as I can. They are basically a link to what we would call the ‘spirit world'. Tracing one of these symbols in the air or imagining it in your head draws power from the unseen universe. Each symbol performs its own unique function. For instance this one,” he pointed to the bottom left corner, “is used for emotional healing.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Desayer.

“Because that one and the other three corners are symbols used in a Japanese healing practice called Reiki.”

“Oh,” said Desayer, feigning surprise. “I think I may have heard of it. But what is the connection with Jesus?”

“These symbols have been around for many millennia. They are the basis for all healing. Jesus was not the first person to use them. We believe he was taught them when in the East.”

“But what about the other symbols?” said Desayer. “There are hundreds of them.”

“We believe they were of his own design. A gift given to him by the cosmos during prolonged meditations. Whereas the four basic symbols have a more general healing effect, the others are used to target specific parts of the body and diseases.”

Desayer scanned the paper leisurely. “Assuming this is an exact replica, how are you supposed to tell which symbol does what?”

“There is a key. Hidden in the original box was a parchment with drawings that corresponded to each character. Unfortunately the box and parchment were separated and Anatol was unable to get hold of it.”

Desayer breathed an internal sigh of relief. “Then this piece of paper is useless?” he said, sounding disappointed.

Vittori smiled. “No, not useless,” he said. “Fortunately, we have a copy of the parchment from another source. It will be arriving with us tomorrow.”

“Really?” said Desayer, his heart thumping faster and faster. “That is good news.” He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Vittori. “However, I really must be going soon, Fabio. I have an appointment in five minutes.”

“I'm sure whoever it is can wait,” said Vittori. “This is much more important. Is it not?”

“Of course,” said Desayer. “It is just that I do not like to keep people waiting. I pride myself on being punctual.”

“I know you do, Miguel, and that is the reason that I have let you in on this. You are a shining example to all in the Church. You command the respect of everyone, from the lowliest priest to the Pope himself. If you are seen to be behind us then all will follow. In these deceitful times you are easily the most trusted of our order. Even the Pope has his detractors, as I am sure you are aware. You my friend are universally popular. If Cardinal Desayer heralds a Messiah then everybody will.”

“You are too kind,” said Desayer. “I really do not think that I am all you say.”

“Of course you do not, and that is why you
are
all those things. You are too modest by far, Miguel.”

“Thank you, Fabio, I really do not know what to say.”

“Say you are with us, Miguel.”

Desayer looked into Vittori's eyes and held them. “Do you really think this is the best course of action, Fabio?”

“If we wish to honour the Church and Christ's memory, then yes.”

Desayer sighed and said, “Then I must do my duty. I am with you.”

Night fell in the jungle. A small fire burnt brightly in the clearing by the hut. Stratton sat with his back against a log, digesting his meal. Titan lay next to him stretched out in the glow of the flames. Jennings and Grady were similarly relaxed, each idling in his own thoughts. Majami and Tawhali had gone inside to prepare an after-dinner brew.

Grady lazily grabbed some wood from the pile and flung it on the fire causing a brief crackle and spit. “It doesn't get much better than this, does it?” he said to no-one in particular.

“No,” Jennings agreed. “There's something about camping out under the stars isn't there? Although I'm surprised to hear
you
say it. All you've been doing for the last few weeks is moaning about missing Brooke.”

Grady shrugged. “Well, I do. But it doesn't mean I can't make the most of where I am. As Majami said, ‘there is no past or future, there is only now'.”

“Alright, Buddha,” laughed Jennings. He lay back and gazed up to the stars shimmering in the cloudless sky and imagined himself floating among them, drifting farther and farther into the cosmos, until he was lost in a blissful sea of strikingly coloured nebulas and brilliant white streaks of dust and light. It was beautiful.

“So, Stratton,” said Grady, breaking the silence and interrupting Jennings' flow. “Can you tell me why exactly I was stopped from using my gun?”