The Omega Scroll (11 page)

Yusef started towards the house, but Ahmed pulled him back and down into the cover of the trees. ‘No, Yusef!’ he hissed. ‘Think. They have guns, we don’t.’

‘There is firing, Ahmed!’ Yusef’s eyes filled with tears.

‘And there will be more if you burst into the house,’ Ahmed urged him quietly. ‘Allah is with us but we can’t help if we’re dead!’ Ahmed kept his arm wrapped tightly around his brother as they lay on the ground, staring at their house.

‘Empty, Emil.’ The look on the corporal’s face was one of resentful disappointment as he reported to his sergeant.

‘
Ben zsona!
Son of a bitch!’ Sergeant Shahak walked over to Liana and Raya. With a burning frustration he kicked their dead brother as he stepped over him. Pistol in one hand, his other clenched, he stood contemptuously over the terrified girls. Emil Shahak was furious that he and his men had not found what they were looking for.

He grabbed Liana by the chin and wrenched her face up, forcing her to look at him. Her face was pale and beautiful, but her eyes blazed with a resentment that only fuelled Sergeant Shahak’s sense of impotence. He turned to his corporal, drawing his lips back into a snarl.

‘You can have the ugly one,’ he sneered, pointing his pistol at Raya. He grabbed Liana’s hair and pulled her to her feet, pinning her slender arms together with his huge, hairy hand.

‘I get first crack at her crack,’ he rasped. ‘Privilege of rank.’

‘No! Please!’ Abdullah Sartawi was on his knees, pleading, his weathered face streaked with tears.

‘Palestinian scum!’ Sergeant Shahak kicked at him but despite the pain Abdullah grabbed the Israeli’s boot and clung to it in desperation.

‘No! No! No!’ he cried.

Sergeant Shahak had crossed the point of no return and he struggled to free his boot. He pointed his Jericho pistol at Abdullah and fired. Twice.

Rafiqa screamed and fell on the body of her husband. Shahak moved the sight of his pistol to the back of Rafiqa’s neck and fired twice more. Rafiqa convulsed and her body slid down beside Abdullah’s.

‘Palestinian shit!’ Sergeant Shahak shoved Liana into her parents’ bedroom, banging the flimsy door behind him.

Numb with shock and dimly aware of what was going on, Liana began to struggle to free herself. Sergeant Shahak’s grip was unbreakable.

‘
Zsona! Inahl rabak ars ya choosharmuta!
Bitch! Go to hell with your fucking father!’ he yelled in Liana’s ear, his fetid breath hot against the side of her face. He cracked her on the back of the skull with his pistol and threw her on the bed. In a frenzy he tore the clothes off her slender body, and ripped his trousers down to his boots. Liana froze at the sight of Shahak’s ugly erection, acutely and terrifyingly aware of what was about to happen.

With a guttural growl Shahak climbed on top of her, pinning her hands above her head. Liana shrieked as he forced himself inside her, grunting like an animal, his body giving off a stench of stale sweat and the diesel of the armoured personnel carrier that was his home.

‘You’re next, Yigal.’ Shahak came out of the bedroom hitching up his camouflage pants as he eyeballed the young reservist.

‘Me?’ Yigal croaked, shaking his head.

‘There’s a first time for everything, son, and you’re never going to get an easier one than this. Get in and give it to the bitch.’

‘Come on, Yigal!’ one of the regulars yelled. ‘Are you a man or what?’

Feeling more miserable and confused than ever, Yigal allowed himself to be pushed into the room. Liana was curled up on her parents’ bed, her head against the wall, her body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

Yigal thought he was going to be sick. He wanted to comfort the girl but he was upset over killing her brother and was too afraid to touch her. He waited until he thought enough time had elapsed for him to claim he had done what they had sent him to do, then dropping his trousers, he opened the door and emerged, pulling them up and doing up his fly.

‘Next!’ he called, his voice dry and uncertain.

‘Ehhhhhh!’ A roar of approval echoed around the Sartawis’ house.

The flimsy doors to the two rooms opened and shut until the last of the Israeli soldiers had finished with both sisters. After releasing his rage, Shahak became officious as he considered the implications of what he and his men had done.

‘Get the two Kalashnikovs from the carrier,’ he barked at a soldier. The soldiers all knew where their sergeant kept two Palestinian weapons hidden. They were a legacy of a previous engagement and Sergeant Shahak had decided against handing them in, keeping them as insurance against any investigation or allegations that might be made against his troops.

‘Listen up. Tonight didn’t happen.’ Each of his soldiers looked at the dirt floor. Sergeant Shahak took one of the weapons and wiped it clean with his sweat-stained scarf. He grabbed Abdullah’s lifeless hand, made prints on the rifle and left it beside the body. He did the same with the body of Muhammad. Raya and Liana’s despair could be heard from the bedrooms as Shahak’s Corporal took the Army-issue camera from its case, the flash illuminating Abdullah and Muhammad.

‘Tonight our general was killed by Palestinian terrorists and the reports of this scum giving them shelter are true. Get the two bitches out here.’

Raya and Liana could hardly stand.

‘I’m giving you five seconds to get out of here!’ He shoved them out the back door and watched the girls stumble into the night. Shahak emptied his magazine into Raya’s back and then into Liana’s.

‘No fucking witnesses!’ he snarled at his troops. ‘And remember, it didn’t happen. Let’s go!’

Ahmed and Yusef, deep in shock, waited amongst the trees until they were sure the soldiers were gone. In a daze they stared at the carnage of what had once been their home, their family gone.

The Defense Minister, Reze Zweiman, and General Halevy fronted the cameras together.

‘Brigadier General Ehrlich was one of the nation’s finest soldiers and our deepest condolences go to his wife and sons,’ Zweiman intoned, opening the media conference to the ‘when, where, and why’ of what might have happened at Deir Azun.

One of the final questions came from Tom Schweiker from CCN.

‘The Palestinians are claiming there was a massacre at Deir Azun, General. Is the Israeli Government going to investigate these claims?’

‘I can assure all of you,’ Halevy replied, barely keeping his anger in check, ‘that the only massacre at Deir Azun was the death of an Israeli commander tasked with keeping Israelis and peace-loving citizens free from terrorism. You’ve seen the photographs. These people were armed and have been responsible for countless attacks against innocent civilians.’ Israel’s Chief of Staff closed his folder, ending the tightly controlled conference.

Tom Schweiker watched the men and their minders leave, and wondered.

Back in the Minister’s office General Halevy nodded in agreement as Reze Zweiman vented his spleen on the Palestinians. The loss of one of their commanders had serious implications for the public image of the government and Reze knew his political enemies would use it to turn up the heat.

‘Keep the fucking media away, especially that Schweiker shit from CCN. Occupy the village for as long as it takes and get rid of the scum that live there. If need be, carry out armoured manoeuvres in their olive groves.’

‘Leave it to me, Reze. By the time I’ve finished with them they’ll want to live anywhere but on the West Bank.’

On the dusty red hillside on the edge of the Sartawi olive grove Israeli soldiers looked on sullenly as the villagers buried Abdullah and Rafiqa Sartawi, their two daughters Raya and Liana and their youngest son, Muhammad. After the last of the mourners had left Ahmed and Yusef stood alone at the gravesides.

‘You should have let me try, Ahmed,’ Yusef said angrily through his tears.

‘And have you dead, too?’

‘You don’t know that.’ Yusef spat the words at his brother. ‘Even poor little Muhammad tried to protect them!’

‘What will you do now?’ Ahmed asked, realising that it was not the time to argue the point.

‘What does it matter!’ Yusef stormed away, tears streaming down his cheeks, a hatred for the Israelis and a new hatred for his brother’s cowardice blazing in his heart.

With great sadness Ahmed watched him go. He sat beside his buried family trying to make sense of it all. He would not see his brother again for many, many years, and then only fleetingly in circumstances that no one could have predicted.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tricarico and Milano

‘
B
uona fortuna
, Allegra!’

Tricarico’s top piazza was crammed with well-wishers and a huge banner had been hung from the old stone balcony of Bishop Aldo Marietti’s palace. News travelled fast through the hill towns and there was not a single villager for miles around who was not aware that the Vatican had selected Allegra for this singular honour.

‘The Holy Father has approved it, personally,’ La Signora Farini, leader of the ‘Will of God Brigade’, said to anyone who could hear her over the more than slightly out of tune town band that was playing with gusto. The music reached a crescendo as Tricarico’s only car driven by the portly Bishop Marietti inched its way through the crowd. Allegra’s father had taken the front seat and Allegra, her mother and her two oldest brothers were crammed into the back of the little Flavia. Nonna wiped away a tear while Giuseppe clung to Nonna’s faded black dress, waving vigorously, his curly black hair shining in the morning sun that bathed the craggy granite of the mountains surrounding Tricarico.

It took over an hour to travel the 20 kilometres to the valley below the village. Bishop Marietti was not renowned for his driving skill and he struggled to keep the little car on the rough mountain track that led to the train station on the single rail line that served hill towns such as Tricarico and Grissano.

‘We are all very proud of you, Allegra,’ Bishop Marietti said, as they climbed onto the small deserted platform. ‘You will be a wonderful ambassador for the Church.’

‘I won’t let you down, Bishop Marietti. I promise.’

Mamma wiped at her tears as Papà beamed. The mournful whistle of the Taranto–Napoli Express could be heard in the distance as the old locomotive struggled through the mountains further down the line. The ramshackle train arrived in a cloud of steam and the driver waited patiently during the seemingly endless ritual of hugs and kisses. The whistle echoed across the valley again and the train lurched forward.

‘
Arrivederci! Scriva presto!
’

As the train rounded a bend and the little group frantically waving on the siding disappeared from view, Allegra settled back into her empty compartment with its cracked leather seats and wire luggage racks, her mind in turmoil. A short while later the train slowed for a herd of goats on the track, nibbling at the weeds and in no hurry to get off. Allegra was oblivious to the heated exchange between the driver and the gesticulating, wizened goatherd that could be heard above the noise of the engine. She reflected on how hard it had been to leave home to join the convent across the ravine. Milano seemed like the other side of the world. The train lurched and she gazed out the window at the granite foothills and beyond them to the mountains of Basilicata, rebellion and excitement competing with sadness and acceptance.
Accettazione
and
testarda
.

With so many thoughts buzzing around her head, Allegra could not settle down and she spent the twenty-four-hour trip dozing fitfully. When Trenitalia’s overnight service from Napoli via Roma arrived at Milano’s Stazione Centrale adrenaline took over. She clambered down the carriage’s absurdly high steps and looked around for a Father Giovanni Donelli, the senior postgraduate student charged by the Vatican to meet her. It was seven in the morning and as Allegra stood on the platform she was faced with what seemed like thousands of people rushing to work. She wanted to take in everything at once – the people, the fashions, the warm glow of the cafes, the smells, the noise. She knew she was ready to take on the biggest challenge of her life and she scanned the crowd eagerly.

As if on cue, a ruggedly handsome priest materialised out of the mêlée. He was dark-haired and at 175 centimetres, just a little taller than Allegra.

‘
Buongiorno, Signora!
’ Allegra was immediately captivated by the warmth of the brilliant smile that lit up Giovanni’s tanned face, and his blue eyes held an irreverent sparkle that was infectious.

‘Sister Allegra Bassetti?’ he asked, extending his hand. ‘
Mi chiamo
Giovanni Donelli.
Benvenuta a Milano!
’

‘
Grazie
, Father. You are very kind to have met me at such an early hour,’ Allegra replied shyly.

‘I know habits die hard, no pun intended, but you must get used to calling me Giovanni,’ he said, taking Allegra’s battered suitcase and guiding her through the crowd. The Piazza Duca D’Aosta was even more frenetic than the train station but it didn’t faze the taxi driver at all. The car horn had been installed to overcome that problem and they charged across Via Vitruvio towards Ca’ Granda, a short distance away in the historic centre of the city. Allegra’s eyes widened; from the single-car mountain town of Tricarico to Milano was a thrilling culture shock.

‘I’ll call by later tonight to see you’re OK,’ Giovanni said after he made sure Allegra was officially admitted to the university. ‘
E benvenuta di nuovo a Milano!
’

It did not take Allegra long to unpack her meagre belongings. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Allegra headed out to explore the busy grounds of the old university. Built in 1456 it had once been a hospital but now the Renaissance archways and lawn courtyards were home to the liberal arts faculties of Milano’s Università Statale. Orientation week was in full swing and everywhere she looked there seemed to be students handing out brochures and pamphlets. Candidates for the Student Union, invitations to join anything from the Ca’ Granda Debating Society and book clubs to UNICEF. There was even a University Film Club and from the look of the upcoming attractions, Allegra decided that the Bishop of Tricarico could be more relaxed about the ‘men only westerns’. An hour later and overwhelmed by information Allegra headed through Ca’ Granda’s main stone archway towards Milano’s cathedral.

Il Duomo was only a short distance away and when she arrived Allegra stood for a time in the piazza, staring up at the vast cathedral in awe. Three and a half thousand statues adorned the roof and the stone walls, dominated by a 45-metre gold statue of the Madonna. Inside, the five aisles were separated by massive stone pillars and high above the space reserved for the choir, Allegra could see the small red light that marked the vault where, since 1841, a nail from the Cross had been secured. The world’s third largest church, after St Peter’s and the cathedral in Seville, it had taken over four hundred years to build.

Allegra had promised Nonna she would say prayers for the family, as Nonna had insisted that in Milano they would carry greater weight, and she sank to her knees in one of the pews, not far from the altar where Napoleon had been crowned King of Italy. Silently she mouthed the words, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus …’ Allegra asked her God to protect her family and to see her through the coming years of study. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners …’

The security of the Catholic Church she loved so much could not be put into words. From deep within Allegra felt that she was destined to serve the Church and she thanked God for the opportunity to study so that she might help others. In her naivety Allegra was unaware that her quest for knowledge and deep spirituality would also lead her down a path filled with pain and confusion. Her quest would take her into an unknown world of deceit, discovery and the brutal reality of life and death.

As the sun set behind the Alps to the north of Milano, Allegra waited in her room for Giovanni. The thought of a man visiting her seemed strangely exciting, although she knew Mother Alberta would have been horrified, even though Giovanni was a priest. In the Mother Superior’s world men were not to be trusted in other than a crowded room, and even then caution was advisable. Allegra’s guilt about men was deep seated and she constantly fought against it. One particular incident often crept into her thoughts, causing her to pray for forgiveness.

Allegra had just turned sixteen in the early spring of her last year of school and one Sunday afternoon she had gone walking on the banks of the river. She turned off the old Roman Appian Way and made her way down to the river through one of several farms outside Tricarico. The winter snows still capped the highest parts of the mountains, but the lower snows had melted and the river tumbled over dark boulders worn smooth over the ages. She wandered along the bank until she came to her favourite place at the base of a large rock. It stood like a sentinel at a sharp bend in the river and was hidden from the fields by a small grove of oak trees. Allegra stretched out on the grass and as the warm afternoon sunshine filtered through her light cotton dress, she drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Sometime later she woke, startled by a movement a little further downstream. Sitting up she instinctively clasped her jacket to her as she heard someone approaching.

‘Carlo! You startled me!’

Carlo grinned. His swarthy young face was tanned and his long black fringe swung over his forehead.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to,’ he said, sitting down beside her.

‘How did you know I was here?’ Allegra demanded, sounding more accusatory than she meant to.

About two months before, Carlo Valenti had suddenly arrived in Tricarico with his family. The Valentis were Sicilians from Marsala, and their purchase of a large farm had created more than a ripple of conversation among the town’s traditional inhabitants. Dark rumours of drug money and Mafia connections and contracts on Carlo’s father had ebbed and flowed down the alleys and laneways of the little mountain village; but drug money and the Mafia were not the only topics of conversation, especially among Allegra’s classmates.

‘He’s not
that
good looking,’ Allegra’s best friend, Anna, had said.

‘Probably arrogant,’ Rosa, another of their group, decided.

‘Full of himself. All Sicilians are,’ agreed another. Among the young women of Tricarico Carlo had become an instant celebrity.

‘I saw you walking down the road,’ Carlo replied truthfully, not adding that he had seen her walking on the two previous Sundays and today he had deliberately waited for her to appear.

‘Carlo Valenti! You followed me here.’ Allegra was mildly offended by the invasion of her favourite place but strangely pleased that she should find herself alone with someone like Carlo.

‘It wasn’t like that,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think things are just meant to happen. It’s God’s will,’ he added, using a line that had generated more than a little success with the young women of Marsala, particularly when he thought religion might be a barrier to conquest. ‘When I saw this figure walking from the top of the farm I hoped it would be you, and it was.’

Allegra felt a warm flush and her mind raced. Despite his suspicious background, she found the young Sicilian exciting. She knew her family wouldn’t approve, especially Papà, but deep down there was a small, insistent voice. It was one thing to be dux of her class but quite another to realise any of her potential. If she was ever to spread her wings and explore the world outside the mountains of Tricarico, the small voice seemed to be saying, she would need someone who was a little more worldly than the awkward young men of her area.

‘How are you finding Tricarico?’ she asked. ‘I suppose it’s a little dull after Sicilia?’

Carlo shrugged. ‘It’s different and the farm needs some work. It’s what you make of it, I suppose.’

She nodded and they fell into silence. The breeze was gentle and the sound of the river was soothing. Allegra began to relax and unselfconsciously she leaned back against her sentinel rock.

‘Why did you leave Sicilia?’ she asked, breaking the silence.

Carlo grinned disarmingly. ‘No doubt my father had his reasons. There are some things I don’t ask, but I wouldn’t believe everything you hear. We used to work my uncle’s farm in Marsala, and when this one came up, my father thought we should make the move to buy one of our own,’ he said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Startled, Allegra turned to face him and he kissed her on the lips.

At first Allegra didn’t know what to do, then feeling slightly heady from the warm sunshine, she responded. Slowly at first, then she let Carlo take her in his arms and they slid onto the grass. She could feel him hard against her and suddenly one part of her mind was arguing with another. Carlo kissed her again and started to unbutton her dress.

‘No …’ she said weakly, her voice strangely hoarse. Before she knew what was happening, Carlo had undone her bra and when he kissed her nipples she found herself responding again, pressing against him. Carlo’s hand slid inside her pants and Allegra felt as if she was being lifted on a wave. ‘No …’ she whispered again. She gasped as Carlo guided her own hand to his trousers, which were undone. He was wet and hard.

‘No! You mustn’t!’ she said, struggling against him now. Fear had taken over, extinguishing her own desires. The harder she struggled the stronger he held her. He bit her nipples roughly as he continued rubbing her hand against him. Tears fell onto Allegra’s cheeks as Carlo arched back and let out a low growl. She could feel him on her hands, first warm, then sticky, until finally he released his grip.

Allegra half ran, half stumbled along the river back towards the village. Tears ran hotly down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe. When she was sure he was not following her she sat down on a rock to calm herself, her tears slowly subsiding.

It was late afternoon by the time she managed to wash the stains from her dress and, with her eyes still filled with tears, Allegra knelt by the river.

‘Blessed Mother, I have sinned before you and all of heaven and I am not worthy to gather up the crumbs under your table.’ She asked the Blessed Virgin to pray for her and intercede on her behalf, for she knew that she would surely burn in hell. She recalled the Gospel of Mark very clearly and any sense of
testarda
had, for the time being, vanished. The nuns had quoted Mark often enough. Her Lord had said that ‘if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell, where the worm never dies and the fire is never quenched’.