The Bergamese Sect (54 page)

The bullet had hit the old woman in the upper chest, below the left clavicle. She fell backwards groaning, squirming, reaching for the gaping wound. A steady rush of crimson blood soaked into her clothes, dribbled onto the floor.

‘
Clara!’ Matt screamed. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ He rushed toward her but she raised the gun quickly, threateningly, aiming it at his head.

‘
Stay back!’ she cried.

Matt froze. Adrenaline was gushing into his empty stomach sickeningly. Around him, the world seemed to have taken off on its own insane path, leaving him and his certainties behind. Nothing made sense anymore. He stood amid the thunderous whoosh from above, watching the blood seep from the woman he’d risked his life to find. And before him, Clara scowled, hatred burning deep within her. Matt shut his eyes, perplexed.

‘
I’m preventing the world from slipping into Hell,’ Clara said. ‘I’m ridding my faith of a traitor.’

Matt opened his eyes, stared at her, at the cold steel in her hand. ‘Not you!’ he said, the confusion now clouding his throbbing head. ‘Not you!’

Clara swung the gun back at the woman, aiming between the eyes. She tightened her grip and began to squeeze the trigger.

‘
No!’ Matt howled, his insides running cold.

‘
Clara!’ Henric was screaming.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack of splintering bamboo. A chunk of window frame flew across the room. Matt ducked convulsively. He looked at the old woman. She still writhed, grasped at her wound, but she hadn’t been hit again.

Then Matt looked up at Clara. She stood upright, but her arm had dropped. In the centre of her forehead was a large red spot, a slow dribble of blood seeping into her eyes. And on the wall behind her was a splattering of crimson mush.

For a second, she looked simply stunned. Surprised. But then the light of her eyes went out, her limbs became limp. The eyes rolled up into the sockets, the eyelids quivered, as her body crashed heavily to the floor.

Chapter 31

Walsh let go of the rope ten feet from the ground. It was too soon. He hit the earth hard, his knees buckling under the force of the landing. He rolled over onto the sodden mulch of the forest floor and scrambled to his feet.

Bounding up the clearing, he turned to see Castro descending quickly from the helicopter hovering above them. The lawyer hit the floor gracefully. His legs bent into the landing, straightened and then propelled him immediately up the clearing. Walsh briefly saw an unbelievable fury in Castro’s eyes, like a woad-painted warrior rushing into battle.

Through the murk of driving rain ahead, Walsh spotted Lewis racing toward the shack. Suddenly, the tall agent stopped, like a meerkat sensing danger. He surveyed the shack quickly, whipped out his gun, steadied his aim on an outstretched arm and fired at the window. The frame splintered and Lewis rushed on ahead.

A moment later, Walsh leapt through the door, found Lewis pinning down two men and an old woman with his weapon. The woman was badly injured, the two men cowering.

On the floor lay another female. Walsh swallowed, feeling queasy at the sight of her limp corpse. The back of her skull was missing, a dark, oozing hollow glinting in the dim light.

‘
Nobody move!’ Walsh shouted.

Lewis kept his weapon horizontal, bent and grabbed a gun from the floor. He stepped over to the bloody torso and prized another from the girl’s hand. Then he motioned for the two men to stand up against the far wall. He frisked them quickly and pushed them down on their knees.

Walsh knelt down by the old woman, lifted her head into his lap. ‘Lewis,’ he said. ‘Get some rags or something to stem this wound.’

Lewis ripped the thin jacket off the dead girl and tossed it over. ‘She won’t be needing that,’ he said.

Deftly, Walsh fed the cloth tightly beneath the woman’s arm, securing it at the shoulder, and pressed down on the gushing wound. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked the woman. She was fully conscious but could only groan.

Walsh looked up at the two men. ‘I take it you’re Matt Chambers,’ he said to one of them. There was a twinge of admission in the man’s face.

The bearded one was glaring. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said.

‘
We’re from the National Security Agency,’ Walsh answered.

‘
I thought so.’

Matt looked at his colleague in confusion. ‘Aren’t these your people?’ he asked him.

‘
What?’

‘
Clara suspected you were working for the government.’

‘
Me? No!’

Walsh interrupted. ‘Matt, I think you’ll find your colleague was working for the subversive group all along.’

‘
Subversive?’ the bearded one exclaimed.

Walsh ignored the protestation. ‘It’s the girl, Clara, who’s been deceiving you. Her purpose has always been to silence this woman.’

Walsh looked down at the woman again. She was pale but her eyes were bright. They flicked across the room, following the conversation.

‘
Clara?’ Matt said. ‘Why would she want to silence her? It’s been her purpose in life to find her.’

‘
Lies, Matt. She was part of the conspiracy she said she was trying to uncover.’

‘
I don’t believe it!’

Walsh grimaced at the Englishman. ‘Did
you
shoot this woman? Did your colleague there?’

Matt’s face dropped. He went silent.

But the bearded one hadn’t finished. ‘She was working for you all along?’

Walsh smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This conspiracy has nothing to do with the US administration.’

‘
Bullshit!’ the bearded youth said, but Walsh ignored him.

He looked down into the woman’s eyes. They were commanding, intelligent but subdued. And there was regret there too.

The woman’s face lightened. She tried to straighten up. Walsh pulled her further onto his stomach so she could see around the room.

He’d forgotten about Castro. Walsh looked to the door; saw the lawyer standing silhouetted against the darkening sky. His expression was calm, the fury gone.

The woman tried to speak, but Walsh stopped her. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ He beckoned Castro over.

Castro came to the woman, knelt down beside her and looked her in the face.

‘
If anyone has the right to know the truth,’ Walsh said, ‘this man does. This is David Castro.’

For a few seconds, she inspected Castro’s face, squinting at him. She reached a hand out, but stopped short of touching him. ‘Mr Castro,’ she said croakily, ‘you must be one of Radich’s creations. I can see it in your eyes.’

‘
Who are you?’ Castro asked.

‘
A minion of the damned,’ she said forlornly.

‘
What do you mean – Radich’s creations?’

‘
Mr Castro, what I tell you will put your life in danger. Make sure the world finds out. Make it too late for them to gain anything by killing you.’

‘
I’m dead anyway,’ Castro answered sadly. ‘You’ll give me my life back by telling me. Not take it away.’

‘
Still, make sure they know. Out there.’ The woman’s hand motioned to the door as a violent cough erupted in her chest. Her eyes jammed shut with the pain.

‘
I will,’ Castro said.

The woman hesitated. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been deceived, Mr Castro. You haven’t been abducted by aliens, only by fanatics.’

Castro’s expression was creased. ‘Fanatics?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t understand. You’re saying that extra-terrestrials had nothing to do with what happened to me?’

The woman shook her head.

‘
Then who did this?’

The woman took a laboured lungful of air, exhaled through clenched teeth. ‘Religious zealots,’ she said. ‘They drugged you, Mr Castro, put you in a manufactured nightmare and altered your psyche for their own purposes. Your entire recollection has been the creation of obsessed men.’ She coughed loudly again, pulled her hand back to her chest.

Walsh increased the pressure on the wound. The blood was bursting through the feeble dressing, running through his fingers. He was losing hope for her. If they’d been near an emergency room, she could be easily saved, but out here in the wilderness, there was little they could do. The dim noise of the helicopter drew Walsh’s attention, now receding like an alligator’s clack over the mountains. Reluctantly, Walsh admitted to himself that the woman’s fate was sealed.

‘
It was the men of the
Tagaste
Society who did this?’ Castro asked.

The woman nodded faintly. ‘Yes, some of them.’

Castro squinted, frowned in confusion. ‘Why?’

She licked her dry lips. They were growing bluer by the second. She exhaled gently, reached out again, this time putting her hand on Castro’s arm. There was a squeeze of sympathy in her grasp.

‘
A form of blackmail, Mr Castro. They think the only way to ensure piety in the masses is to terrorise them. They think if they create nightmares that can’t be explained by reason, then people will turn to religion for guidance. The
Tagaste
Society is a remnant, a disguise for a much older institution – group of Christian radicals.’

‘
And Alfonso de Morillo was their leader,’ Castro said.

The woman’s eyes widened. A glimmer of a smile appeared on her pale face. ‘I see you’ve been diligent in your pursuit of the truth. Yes, Alfonso first established the principles of their mission.’

‘
In Bergamo?’

‘
Yes.’ She smiled again. ‘They were concerned that the Holy Office wasn’t achieving its purpose of diverting people from sin. They feared the rebirth of humankind’s awareness; that logic and reason would create atheism, even infuse Satan with new energy. They thought a more radical form of inquisition was necessary. One carried out in secrecy, whose aim was to avert a moral catastrophe. And so began five centuries of duping the graceless hordes.’

‘
But Alfonso couldn’t have foreseen alien abduction, could he?’

The woman shook her head faintly. ‘That was a later method. One begun after the War.’

‘
By Gerhard Schlessinger?’

‘
Partly,’ the woman whispered. She turned suddenly into Walsh’s cradling arms, a shiver of agony shooting through her. Walsh held her close as a beast-like groan escaped her throat.

‘
And what did Alfonso do to terrorise the masses?’ Castro asked.

The woman’s voice was staccato. ‘Witchcraft, apparitions of demons, hauntings. If it was likely to frighten people into devotion, they were prepared to create it.’

‘
And the symbol? What does the symbol mean?’

‘
It’s just a talisman, Mr Castro. A means of communicating their adherence to other members.’

‘
And the word,
metusor
.’

‘
A name given to Alfonso. He was a teacher whose tool was fear. The first and the greatest.’

Castro sat back and stared into the woman’s eyes. He was spent, an exhausted release spreading over his face, mixed with a glazed expression.

Walsh shifted position. He gently angled the woman so he could talk directly to her. ‘This whole thing was driven by Christian dissidents?’ he asked. ‘But that’s incredible. Why would Christians do this?’

The woman began to laugh but it turned into another painful cough that she fought to suppress. ‘Christians aren’t perfect,’ she spluttered. ‘They’re just forgiven. The Church is a powerful institution. It controls, manipulates, regulates and condemns. It’s what it does best. Anything that enforces its will is justified – even subjecting its followers to unspeakable horrors. To them, the calling is no different to the papal encyclicals. They have a purpose – to strengthen authority, to suppress disobedience. To subjugate. Reject their actions if you wish, but don’t question them. You can never invalidate religious convictions without sounding like a zealot yourself.’

‘
But you turned against them,’ Walsh said.

‘
Yes. I wanted to end the atrocity,’ the woman said. ‘You expect me to say I saw the error of my ways.’ She smiled and winced together, her voice becoming coarse. ‘But that’s only part of it. I still believe in the struggle for God’s Kingdom on Earth. I never wanted to expose them. Perhaps divert them to less devastating deceptions. Avoid damnation. But things had got out of hand, and when I discovered where the funds were coming from, I had to take action to stop it.’

‘
You mean Peter Jordan?’

The woman’s face contorted in surprise. ‘Peter Jordan?’ she repeated. ‘No. Jordan’s millions were never enough to fund the Sect. You can’t create convincing miracles, supernatural events, with loose change. They have a colossal budget. And they certainly don’t get that kind of money from Peter Jordan.’

‘
Who then?’

‘
Religious insurgents,’ the woman said with disgust.

‘
Yes, we’ve established that,’ said Walsh.

‘
No, not
Christian
fundamentalists.
Islamic
fundamentalists.’

‘
Islamic? You’re blaming the Muslims?’

‘
I’m not blaming anyone for anything,’ she replied. Another cough belched from her throat. It sounded fluid-filled. ‘I refuse to condemn someone for how their faith motivates them. The Sect always believed their funds were coming direct from the Vatican. The fools! Truth is they’ve never really known who their benefactors were. But I discovered them, a cartel of rich extremists, mainly in Indonesia, some in the Middle East.’

The woman’s breathing was now shallow and fast. Walsh tried to support her better, but she cried out as he moved under her shoulders. She clenched her teeth again, sucked in a noisy hiss of breath. Her body was beginning to shake, a mist of sweat condensing on her clammy white skin.