Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) (31 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

An Uninvited Visitor

Cairo, Egypt

Lawrence St Cartier sat outside the cramped coffee shop known locally as an Ahwa. He was huddled over a battered tin table, immersed in a dog-eared nine-day-old edition of the
Islington Gazette
. It was a poor substitute for the
Telegraph
, he considered, but given the current socio-economic cataclysm shaking Egypt, he was grateful for small mercies. In the international section of the local newstand, it had been a choice between the
Gazette
, the
Kashmir Observer
and the
Socialist Worker
.

‘Lawence, Lawence!’

Lawrence looked in the direction of the drinks counter. Waseem was gesticulating wildly in his direction, pointing at a glass of Turkish coffee, then at a glass of mint tea.

Lawrence pointed to the coffee.

Waseem beamed, negotiating a path through the animated crowd watching TV, past braziers of hot coals and shisha pipes, until he reached Lawrence’s table. It was two in the morning and, despite the bread lines and social turmoil, Cairo was in full swing. No martial law here . . . yet.

Waseem set down the coffee.

‘Yemeni beans?’

Waseem nodded vigorously and Lawrence smiled. Amid all the devastation, finding Yemeni beans in Cairo was like finding black gold. He sipped delicately at the the steaming liquid.

‘Ah.’ He closed his eyes, drinking in the intense cultural experience. ‘Aromas of the Ottoman Empire.’

Waseem watched him in fascination.

An outburst of jubilant shrieking erupted from the table behind.

Lawrence opened his eyes. Turning round, he gave a thumbs-up to the excited winner behind him, who erupted in shrieks all over again. Lawrence beamed.

‘Backgammon,’ he declared. Waseem nimbly laid out a board in front of Lawrence, then shook out counters and dice from a small cotton bag.

Lawrence took a large slurp of his coffee, then nodded to Waseem who rolled the dice. Lawrence did the same, then froze. Slowly he rose from the table and stared out over the few crazed drivers operating on black-market fuel. He raised his gaze to the forest of satellite dishes, in the direction of his rooftop apartment downtown.

Rolling up his paper, he walked through the crowds, wending his way through haphazardly parked cars, motorcycles and horse-drawn carts. Waseem ran after him.

‘Malik, Lawrence . . . malik!’ Waseem panted.

Lawrence turned right at a sign that read ‘Obey the road rules’, then dodged his way nimbly through four lanes of chaotic traffic, narrowly missing a donkey-drawn cart. He hovered, trapped between the unmarked lanes, shaking his head at the crazed and honking drivers, then hurried across the road and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

St. Bernadette’s Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, London

Lilian had tubes attached to her nose, mouth and forearm. She was sleeping. An intensive-care nurse checked her readings then disappeared. A second nurse entered.

Jason stared down at Lilian, then gently released her thin hand from his grasp.

Rosemary sat reading in the far corner of the room. She looked up. ‘You got here fast.’

‘I was summering in Rome. You can’t walk through Manhattan without being accosted by the military on every corner,’ he said. ‘So what happened, Rosemary? Give me the details.’

‘She collapsed on the pavement in Wimpole Street at around ten this morning. She had had an appointment of some kind. That’s all we know. The ambulance brought her here. She was in a coma, then woke up hallucinating. She asked for you, then fell asleep when she was sure you were on your way.’

The second nurse rechecked Lilian’s readings and her tubes, then left.

Jason looked at his watch.

‘You should try to catch some sleep.’

Rosemary smiled. ‘I’ll snatch an hour when Adrian gets here. He said he’ll hold the fort.’

Lilian’s eyes fluttered open.

Jason took her hand again. ‘It’s me, Mother. I’m here now.’

Lilian tried to draw herself up into a sitting position. Jason and Rosemary stared at her in alarm.

‘They took my baby . . . ’ She stared right through Jason, her eyes wide with alarm.

Jason and Rosemary exchanged a glance.

‘Mother, you’re hallucinating.’

Lilian pressed Jason’s hand. ‘Jason – you’re my son?’

He nodded. ‘Of course I’m your son.’

Rosemary shook her head. ‘It’s the drugs.’

‘Jason.’ The heart monitor fluctuated noticeably.

‘The doctor says you’re not to strain yourself. Mother, the medication is making you confused. Don’t try to talk. I’m right here.’

He looked at Rosemary in alarm.

‘Get the staff nurse,’ he ordered and Rosemary rushed from the room.

Lilian shook her head, her eyes full of fear.

‘Just rest, Mother,’ he murmured.

‘Jason, there are things . . . things that your father and I never told you. You have to know. You have to protect yourself from them.’

‘Mother, please – you’re confused.’

Lilian mustered all her strength and clasped Jason’s hand so tightly he winced. ‘They murdered Nicholas. They’ll come for me. Then they will get to you.’

She struggled to raise herself.

‘You
must
protect yourself. In my safe . . . ’ Lilian fought for breath. ‘Your father – a set of papers arrived from his lawyers yesterday.’

Jason looked at her, completely baffled.

‘Mother, Dad’s been dead for four years.’

‘A black file with his gold crest. Get it to Lawrence St Cartier. Promise me. You can trust Lawrence.’

The staff nurse entered, followed by Rosemary and a specialist.

‘Mr De Vere.’ The doctor looked at Jason, sternly. ‘Your mother is not to be excited under
any
circumstances. She has had a major coronary.’

The nurse prepped Lilian’s arm and deftly inserted a needle. The doctor stood in front of Jason. ‘If you’ll please excuse us.’

‘Jason,’ Lilian cried in agitation. ‘
Promise me
.’

Jason struggled for control of his emotions.

‘I promise, Mother. The black file to Lawrence St Cartier.’

Lilian’s panic started to diminish as the sedative began to take effect.

Her eyes closed.

‘I love you, Jason,’ she whispered.

Then she fell into the blissful succour of oblivion.

* * *

Lawrence stood outside the imposing turn-of-the-century apartment block staring up at his flat on the tenth floor.

Waseem ran up, out of breath. Lawrence placed his finger on the boy’s mouth.

‘It would seem, Waseem, that we have an uninvited guest.’

Lawrence pointed upwards. Waseem frowned.

They walked into the hallway and opened the iron lift doors. Lawrence pressed a button and the lift moved upwards at a snail’s pace, stopping with a thump on the tenth floor.

Lawrence got out, followed by Waseem, and they walked down the long hallway.

Lawrence hesitated outside a beautifully crafted doorway.

‘A most
unwelcome
guest.’

The door opened slowly. Standing on the balcony, his hand raised in greeting, stood Charsoc.

Lawrence closed the door firmly behind him.

‘I should have let you know I was coming, Jether,’ Charsoc said languidly. ‘You could have prepared me some tea.’

Lawrence looked Charsoc up and down. He was still in human form. Six foot three. Hooked nose. Cropped iron-grey hair.

‘Kester Von Slagel, emissary to Lorcan De Molay, I presume.’

Charsoc bowed. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor Lawrence St Cartier.’ He smiled thinly as Lawrence metamorphosed into his angelic form as Jether.

‘Forgive me if I don’t follow suit,’ Charsoc said. ‘Yehovah’s addendum to Eternal Law concerning my entry through the Portal of Shinar put rather a dampener on things.’

Jether nodded to Waseem, who transformed into the youngling Obadiah.

Charsoc raised his eyebrows.

‘My, my, Jether! How circumspect of you. Hired help.’

‘Obadiah.’ The youngling nodded and disappeared through the door. Jether looked at Charsoc’s dog collar and frowned.

‘Flattering, don’t you think?’ Charsoc smiled. ‘Robes. Crucifixes. Continual black attire. Somewhat macabre. But the rings are magnificent.
Luridly
ornate. Quite to my taste.’ He looked fondly down at the huge uncut stone in his signet ring. ‘Bloodstone – a variety of chalcedony. Legend has it that the bloodstone was formed from the blood of Christ dripping on the green earth and solidifying.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘I’m being
primed
, Jether. As Grand Inquisitor of the Ruling Body of the Global Congress of Churches.’

‘The False Prophet of Revelation. Why am I not surprised?’ Jether said drily.

‘A new order.’ Charsoc raised his arms to the skies. ‘The Inquisition reborn.’

Jether walked out onto the balcony. ‘You outstay your welcome.’

‘I took a minibus,’ Charsoc said, ignoring Jether’s comment. He dusted off his robes. ‘Crowded. Bald tyres, ripped seats. Fifteen piastres.’ He shook his head.You could have least have taken up residence somewhere more civilized.’

He looked out at the view of Old Cairo at night.

‘Somewhere like London or Milan. Or are you here because of sentiment perhaps?’ he hissed. ‘Egypt protected the Nazarene, and so fulfilled what the Lord had said through the prophet:
“Out of Egypt I called My Son.”
’

‘What do you want, Charsoc?’ Jether said, his voice like ice.

‘Don’t be tetchy, Jether. I am here to deliver a message.’

‘Of
course
you are.’ Jether looked at him with disdain. ‘From second in command of the High Ancient Kings of Heaven to Lucifer’s errand boy. A message from your Master.’

Charsoc glared at Jether with undisguised loathing.

‘A message from my Master concerning the forthcoming evacuation of the Nazarene’s subjects,’ he said. ‘They are more than an irritant, Jether. They greatly obstruct our progress in the Realm of Men.’

Charsoc removed a parchment missive from his carpet bag.

‘You know I have always been a stickler for legal protocol. I hold Yehovah’s guarantee – the Rubied Seal.’ Charsoc proffered Jether the parchment with a glimmering seal. ‘My Master demands its immediate implementation.’

Jether took it from Charsoc’s outstretched hand.

‘The Rapture,’ Charsoc hissed. ‘As it is called in the world of the Race of Men.’

‘It is imminent,’ Jether said, his voice very soft.

‘Imminent is not soon enough. They plague us with their confounded supplications. The incursions of the Angelic Hosts through the Portals to assist them must stop.’

Charsoc swung around. ‘The Nazarene,’ he spat, ‘makes visitations to this wretched planet. Nightly.’

‘They are His subjects. He is their King. He comes in answer to their supplications.’

‘Precisely.
Their
removal ensures
His
removal. And it ensures our victory. From the hour the Ishtar Treaty was signed we had seven years until the Final Battle. Forty-two months are all but gone. We are running late.’

‘But
we
are right on time, Charsoc.’ Jether looked down at the missive in his palm.

‘We demand their removal,’ Charsoc snarled. ‘According to the precepts of Eternal Law.’

‘You can make no demands. You abide by Yehovah’s jurisdictions only.’

‘Then you leave me no alternative.’

Charsoc carefully took out a pair of vermilion slippers from the bottom of his carpet bag, then a turquoise eye-mask and nasal spray. Jether watched as he removed a bottle of blood pressure pills.

‘This inferior body constantly needs retuning,’ he muttered. ‘I have become finicky over the past four decades.’

Jether rolled his eyes. ‘You were
always
finicky, Charsoc.’ He stared down at the Rubied Seal on the missive. ‘You leave me no choice. The prospect of your company is more than I can stand.’

A strange smiled flickered on Charsoc’s lips.

‘I see we understand each other.’

‘Let us dispense with superficialities,’ Jether said frostily. ‘At the passing of the Pale Rider through the Kármán Line, when the boundary between the earth’s atmosphere and outer space is sixty-two miles above the planet, His subjects shall be removed.’