The Bergamese Sect (48 page)

People began running around the control centre noisily. But Jim just sat staring at the radarscope, his headset dangling off his ear. All he could hear was the unending silence.

―
§ ―

It was still warm in the foothills – the heat still drawing that sweet pungency of pine from the nearby woods. Another night had fallen on the shanty-like farm buildings at the end of the trail. Just the faintest blueness in the sky made their whitewashed wooden walls glow. From a window in the dilapidated farmhouse, an orange crescent of light washed over the porch. It just reached a barn that towered over the yard.

Inside the barn, a farmer was tinkering with a tractor. He grumbled something under his breath. The vehicle was decades past its best, just like him. It was little more than half a tonne of rusting metal. Bending down on one knee, he lowered his stiff limbs onto the dirt and fumbled beneath the engine with a wrench. A groan resounded in his throat as he strained to release a nut. It creaked; dropping shards of rust onto the floor, then gave way with a tinny thud. The nut dropped into a tray beneath the engine, followed by a stream of black, glutinous oil. The farmer pulled himself up on the front of the engine and leant over to check the oil wasn’t spilling over the ground. He’d leave it to drain overnight.

After pulling the barn door shut and tying a length of rope through the handles, the old man trudged toward the house.

Just then, his wife appeared at the porch, calling him to supper. ‘Mr. Campbell’ she yelled.

She always called him that. Ever since that day, half a century ago, when they’d committed their love to paper in the sight of God. They’d joked about it then – Mr and Mrs Campbell. But the tradition had gone on. They could hardly remember their Christian names. It made them feel close, even after all these years.

‘
I’m coming,’ Campbell called back. He watched her as he walked. She seemed to get smaller with each year that passed, bent almost into a crouch. So fragile. But the sheen was still in that beautiful grey hair. They didn’t have many years left, Campbell thought, but he was lucky to have known Mrs Campbell. Every day had been just swell.

He was half way across the yard when Campbell noticed his wife straighten up. She hunched her shoulders, turning to bring her eyes upwards. It was such an unusual thing for her do to that Campbell stopped in his tracks. Her wizened features suddenly furrowed, her eyes squinting at something.

‘
What’s that?’ his wife said. Her bony finger shot up, drawing his attention to something.

Campbell turned, followed her finger over the yard and into the sky. Far to the north, only just above the horizon, something was happening there. A light, not a steady light from an aircraft, but a careering, flame-like light, streaking through the night. Campbell watched it move behind the trees. This was no falling star. This was very different. He could sense the violence of its passage, though it was far away, small. The orange trail began to break apart, fragments flaring up then disappearing, streamers raining down, tumbling toward the solid earth. It looked like death was happening there in the sky.

Campbell turned to his wife. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Inside’.

He quickly came over the yard toward her. He didn’t know what the light was. He didn’t want to know.

It had started with lights that night. Lights in the sky. But not like this. Those lights hadn’t flickered and exploded like these. They’d taken over the sky, bathed the wooded hills with a brilliance the Arizona summer could never match.

Campbell tried to prevent the memory. But the streak of fire in the sky was dredging up those nightmares again. He’d tried his best to forget. But all he’d managed to do was convince his wife that he’d forgotten. She lived on in ignorance, that terrible episode just a reminder of how the two of them had loved, could overcome. But Campbell still suffered in silence. It would never leave him; the fear that raced through his veins at odd moments, catching him off guard, making him cower, shaking tearfully at the back of the barn. He’d take those nightmares to his grave, and that was the best place for them.

Campbell urged his wife into the house and locked the door behind them. She wandered through to the kitchen to see to supper. Turning back, Campbell pulled the net curtain to the side and peered through the mesh of the screen door. The light had gone.

The nervousness ebbed away. The strange light in the sky was nothing to do with him. It didn’t mean it was going to happen again. It was none of his business.

Campbell let the curtain fall and went to find out what was for supper.

―
§ ―

The engine of Chris Kaplan’s Chevy Express roared at maximum revolutions. Linsky was pushing it to its absolute limit. He had the window half down, the wind whipping around the cab, tousling his hair. The NSA agent was intent on the road ahead, chewing a stick of gum, drumming his fingers on the wheel impatiently.

Walsh was staring out the windscreen at the white lines flashing under the hood. They were speeding down the Long Island Expressway at 90 miles an hour. Walsh put the possibility of being stopped by the police out of his mind. There was urgency in their mission and they’d take the risk.

He looked at his watch. It was approaching 02:30, the road almost free of other traffic. The ideal time to get a charter BizJet out of MacArthur Airport. It was a seven-hour flight to Lima and the difference between success and failure could be just minutes.

Walsh turned into the cab and glanced at Linsky, then between them at the sleeping figure of David Castro. The man was exhausted, the buffeting wind not making the slightest difference to his limp slumber. His head flopped toward Linsky, the breath noisy in his throat.

Here was a man who needed to sleep, thought Walsh, even more than he did. He looked like he hadn’t slept for months. There was something deeply sad about Castro. He was gripped by an obsession he didn’t want. Like an addict unable to alter a course that would destroy him, but that fed him something short of insanity.

But there was also something inspiring in the man. His terrifying experience hadn’t made him bitter, nor had it turned him into a preacher of the improbable. He hadn’t shown up on late-night TV, sold his story to the
National Enquirer
, or written the best-selling confessional of an abductee. Castro had chosen an unconventional path. He’d acted with coolness and logic. Something in him had told him the truth was there to be found. Without prejudice or preconception, he’d set out to find it with an admirable determination. And now he was almost at the end of his journey.

A disturbing thought surfaced in Walsh. Was he leading this man to his destruction? Castro was about to witness perhaps the greatest of modern revelations. Walsh could live with that revelation, but could Castro? Wouldn’t Sebastian send this man into a more destructive instability, one that no amount of soul-searching could draw him back from? It was a dangerous gamble, exposing this man to the truth that Walsh was risking everything to conceal. He could save the hordes, but he could be sacrificing David Castro. Could he live with that guilt?

But Walsh was torn. Castro deserved at least the chance to regain his life. That life would be changed forever, but to refuse Castro his shot at redemption was to offer him no life at all. Castro
must
find the truth he craved. He had more right to it than Walsh. Than anyone perhaps.

A gust of cool air hit Walsh in the face, shaking him out of his thoughts. He called over to Linsky. ‘Can you shut the window?’

‘
Sure,’ Linsky mouthed, taking a glimpse at Castro. He hit the button and the window rose, enclosing them suddenly in a quiet and warm space.

‘
Mind if I put the radio on?’ Walsh asked and without waiting for an answer flicked the set on. Linsky nodded.

Walsh played with the tuner. He was looking for some Mozart or maybe Debussy. Something to calm him, to take his thoughts elsewhere for a moment or two. Squeaks and buzzes resounded around the cab, then a voice cut through the static. Walsh listened for a moment, was about to move on in search of music, when his interest was suddenly sparked. The voice was making an unscheduled announcement.

‘
…
been called to a site near the town of Chinle, northern Arizona. Initial reports say a large area of scrubland around the Oralbi Wash is burning with the debris of an aircraft. There’s been no confirmation yet of any crashed airplane, but the FAA has reported an America West flight
from Miami to Las Vegas is missing. Flight 879 left Miami at 20:15 EST this evening. There were 98 passengers and seven crew on board. We’ll bring you more details as they come in.’
 

The set began singing a station jingle.

Walsh’s mind had slowed, struggling to make the connection that was inevitable. For a moment, there was blankness, but suddenly a realisation hit him like a burst dam. The torrent of emotions, anger, revulsion, grief, made him reel as they each jostled for expression.

‘
Jesus!’ Walsh said.

For a mere blink of time, Walsh saw himself standing in the chaparral. It was night but the brilliance of fierce flame engulfed him. Like a fog that was ablaze, an inferno wrenching over a desolate plateau. Branches were flickering demonically; a river of fire was spreading over the scorched earth. A blackened torso, still strapped to a melted chair frame fell at his feet. Scratching at his nostrils was an acrid stench of kerosene and seared flesh. In that moment, Walsh witnessed an unholy carnage; heard the cries of innocent souls begging for reprieve from the torture. The descent into the cataclysm had begun in a quiet desert valley.

Bursting through Walsh’s nightmare came another hammer blow. The violent reaction of his adversaries was because of his interference. He had saved one man’s life and thereby condemned a hundred to a blazing death.

But he couldn’t have foreseen their desperation. Couldn’t have known they would slaughter the innocent to protect themselves. His heart wanted to explode with remorse, with guilt.

‘
What’s up?’

Linsky’s words wandered through Walsh’s consciousness. His vision snapped back into focus, at the floodlit road ahead.

He turned slowly to Linsky, his face blanched like clotted cream.

‘
That plane,’ he managed to stutter. ‘It was the one Lewis’ decoys were on.’

Linsky gave him a look of terror, of disbelief. ‘They blew up the plane?’

Walsh just shrugged. He raised his hands, scrubbed his palms over his eyebrows as if trying to dislodge a demon.

‘
It must be a coincidence,’ Linsky said. ‘They wouldn’t kill a hundred people just to stop the target. Innocent people.’

‘
Wouldn’t they?’

Linsky was shaking his head. ‘Christ! They’re insane!’ he said.

‘
That’s one word for it.’

‘
They’ve got to be stopped.’

‘
Yes.’

Walsh reached into his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone.

‘
Hold on,’ said Linsky. ‘The girl, their agent, was supposed to be on that flight. And they blew it up anyway!’

Walsh nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s clear they’ll stop at nothing to silence the target. To prevent the truth getting out. Even murder their own. Our interference has made them desperate. We need to get a hold of Lewis, quickly. As soon as that girl contacts Sewell, he’ll realise he’s made a mistake; that the Las Vegas flight was a decoy. I don’t think he’ll waste much time bringing all his powers to bear. The target, the girl, and Lewis, will all be slaughtered.’

Walsh had the mobile to his ear now, listening to its attempts at connection.

‘
At least Lewis is rid of Sewell’s men.’ It was Linsky thinking aloud. ‘At least for a time.’

‘
I know,’ answered Walsh. ‘It’s a high price to pay, though, don’t you think? Just for a few hours reprieve.’

Walsh could hear the ring tone of Lewis’ mobile in his ear. ‘We need to extract the target now,’ he said, gritting his teeth with impatience.

Walsh let the phone ring a full thirty seconds before tapping his handset off. ‘Shit, he’s not picking up,’ he said, slipping the phone back in his jacket. ‘He’s probably on the flight to Lima.’

‘
I hope everything’s okay,’ Linsky said.

‘
Don’t hope, Steve. You’d better pray. We’re entering the end game now, and the players are getting dirty. Just get us to MacArthur quickly.’

Linsky turned to the road ahead, pushed his foot to the floor and made the engine scream just a little louder.

Chapter 28

A brown-faced, wrinkled woman looked quizzically at Lewis, inviting him, almost pleading for him to approach and inspect the multi-coloured woven rugs at her feet.

Lewis smiled, but with a wave of the hand indicated he wasn’t interested in her merchandise. Whispering something cantankerously, the woman thrust her tongue into her bottom lip as if trying to dislodge a morsel of her last meal. She scowled and waved her hand in return, but the gesture was rude and dismissive.

Lewis stepped over the piles of painted earthenware and ceramics, the trinkets and kitsch Andean gifts. Towels, shawls, scarves and bags were neatly arranged in rows of varying colour, like rainbows captured in cloth. Decorated gourds and carved llamas lay everywhere.

There were no stalls in Cusco’s market. Even the bunches of ripe fruit, the boxes of beans and bowls of heady spices were thrown haphazardly on the sandy dirt, their purveyors sitting among them looking bored.

Lewis strode by a woman selling bunches of herbs, briefly knocking into her. She looked at him with unusually bright eyes, unperturbed. Weathered like a well-used saddle, her skin was coffee-coloured and reflective. A felt fedora, tall and white, was perched on her head.