The Pestilence (24 page)

With the blood of over a thousand people on his hands Ashen was more cautious than ever. He abruptly stopped outside the cafe and swept his gaze quite brazenly over both sides of the street. This early in the morning it was as near deserted as a street in Jerusalem's Old City was ever likely to be. When he was satisfied that he was not being followed, Ashen glanced through the frosted windows of the cafe. He couldn't see Mariko and his heart fell. He paused a beat, looked round once more, made up his mind and stepped through the door with purpose and conviction.

A single waitress flittered between the handful of diners. He scanned the room once more. Mariko had taken a table deep in the building and Ashen saw her immediately. Mariko had obeyed his orders. She faced away from the door and her overnight bags were stacked neatly against her chair. Ashen's eyes traced the curve of her back, her slender, willowy frame and straight black hair hanging provocatively at her shoulders. He fought the temptation to rush over to where she was sitting and instead walked steadily to her savouring his moment of triumph.

Something was wrong; a few paces from her he almost stopped. It was nothing more than a whisper from his subconscious, something about the way she sat or the angle of the tilt of her neck. There was something unfamiliar about it, but the whisper wasn't strong enough to make him change course and his desire and longing drove him to make his second and final mistake.

Mariko didn't hear him approach and when he was on her Ashen reached down and pressed his lips into the side of her neck. The taste of her skin felt electric, sending a surge of desire coursing through him. He pressed his teeth lightly into her skin. He wanted to bite into her flesh; he wanted to consume her. He wanted her now, this instant. Mariko, without turning to face him reached out and pressed something into Ashen's inner thigh. At her touch a ripple of pleasure flowed up his leg into his groin and he felt himself hardening.

Ashen looked down. To his horror Ashen saw the blade of the Tanto glinting back at him. Holding the Tanto steady Mariam stared at him over the bridge of her sunglasses.

“You looking for the owner of this?”

Ashen said nothing, too shocked to speak.

“You know Mariko's blade don't you? Then you should know how sharp this fucking thing is. I am pressing it into your femoral artery. You twitch; you so much as sneeze and I slice into one of the largest arteries in your body. I cut you there, you will bleed to death before I walk out of this cafe.”

Ashen's desire flushed out of him in an instant. He looked once more at the Tanto, then at Mariam and then towards the door of the cafe, his mind racing through the possible permutations of escape. He was about to slam his fist into Mariam's face when a towering menace filled the cafe doorway. Stefano stepped through the threshold. He was for once dressed casually, wearing sunglasses and a grey marl top with the hood pulled tightly round his head.

Stefano strode towards Ashen, fierce and malevolent. Stefano reached out his right hand and allowed his finger-tips to momentarily brush the side of Ashen's face. In a clinically swift movement, Stefano flicked his right hand back towards his chest stepping lightly forward and crashed his elbow into the side of Ashen's face. Ashen's cheekbone gave way under the blow but somehow he stayed on his feet. Stefano grabbed his collar and guided him into the seat opposite Mariam. Stefano checked over his shoulder; the waitress had her back to him and his bulk had obstructed the assault from the view of the other diners. He pulled up a chair alongside Mariam.

Ashen's cheek throbbed and he felt his eye was ready to burst from its socket. He was fully aware of his predicament. He had sprung their trap and now he was at their mercy. There was no escape. Ashen gently placed his hands on the table in front of him offering Mariam and Stefano his surrender and his obedience. His eyes darted between them.

Mariam was the first to speak. “How many more from your church are there?”

“Tell me first, where is White?” said Ashen, his voice slightly slurred from Stefano's blow.

“I shot her in the throat when she tried to kill Samuel,” said Stefano. He withdrew Dressler's 357 from under his clothes and dug it forcefully into Ashen's chest. “The lady asked you a question.”

Ashen grimaced in pain as the heavy gun clawed into his ribs. It was a welcome distraction from his anguish at Stefano's half-truth about Mariko. “Then I am the last of my church. Four of us arrived in Israel. You shot White, I killed Red and Black died at the stadium striking at the False Messiah. So that leaves only me and you have now caught me in your little trap. You may take me in now. I will tell my story to the authorities.”

Mariam and Stefano shared a look.

“I have nothing to hide,” Ashen continued. “I admit all that I have done was only to facilitate the arrival of my King. I'm prepared to wait his coming in captivity. No cell can hold me once the true King is revealed.”

“What worth is a King who calls for the death of countless innocents?” said Mariam.

“The lightning tells us the King already walks amongst us; once the False Messiah has gone, the King will rise. It is written and I will be his right hand, dispensing justice and vengeance in equal measure. And you will be the first to be judged,” said Ashen jabbing his finger at Mariam. “The tamed whore of the False Messiah. Now take me in.”

“We weren't planning on taking you anywhere,” said Mariam grimly. Ashen saw a flash of steel as Mariam swept the Tanto through the air slicing through his outstretched finger. The severed digit bounced once on the table and then skittered away amongst the chairs of the cafe.

Ashen's face turned pallor with pain and shock. He opened his mouth to scream but Stefano leapt at him, yanking back his head, ripping the skin away from his scalp. Stefano rammed the muzzle of Dressler's 357 deep into Ashen's open mouth. Ashen's teeth ground down on the metal barrel as Mariam reached forward and plunged the Tanto into his chest. Stefano took a fraction of a second to check that nobody was directly behind Ashen then pulled the trigger blowing the back of Ashen's head across the cafe.

The screaming started instantly. The waitress cowered under the table. Some of the braver patrons bolted for the exit, but most remained rooted in place. Nobody challenged them. Stefano took his time and coolly wiped the blood and brain off Dressler's 357. Mariam pulled the knife from the dead man's chest and then sheathed and dropped the Tanto into her rucksack. Ears ringing, they both turned and walked calmly out of the cafe keeping their heads down and leaving the empty travel bags behind. They went through the door and into the meandering souk beyond. Stefano peeled off his blooded hoodie to reveal his usual business suit. He tossed the top and his sunglasses into the nearest rubbish bin and felt the hot muzzle of the 357 press against the inside of his jacket. Mariam slipped her wig into her rucksack freeing her long black curls. She kept her sunglasses on lest she be recognised. They weaved their way arm in arm through the morning shoppers, looking like a corporate couple on their commute to work.

***

VICTOR was midway over the Mediterranean. He had given strict instructions to the crew that he was not to be disturbed. He was busy tacking a white sheet into the leather upholstered walls of the master suite in his Boeing Business Jet. The scandalous desecration of artisan workmanship pained Victor but it was necessary as he wished not to show any wealth in the background of the video he was about to shoot.

Victor had chosen to pre-record his video so it would be ready for distribution shortly after the switch off of Samuel Srour's life support. Following Samuel's death he wanted the video disseminated as widely and as quickly as possible so he had lined up the old and new media corporations under the Chaput Capital umbrella to distribute it. Victor's contact at CNN would ensure that his message was played on the global news network, with the other major networks inevitably following suit.

Dressed casually Victor duly finished tacking the sheet into place. He carefully checked the lighting and the framing on his recording equipment. He had written the content hours ago and only needed to glance at his notes before he was ready to deliver straight to camera.

Victor reshot a few small parts of the video which he believed weren't quite sincere enough or where he had stumbled over his words. He spent the next fifteen minutes editing the footage and then attached it to a series of draft emails ready for global distribution. He then dismantled his makeshift studio grimacing at the holes in his leather walls. Victor settled back into his double bed and ordered a martini while his mind raced through the planning for the hours to come.

***

12.00 p.m. Jerusalem time. Dina and her father had spent most of the morning working their way slowly and painfully through the crowd towards the St Luke's Hospital. They managed to get within sight of the side entrance before the density of the people was too great for them to progress further. Twenty metres away the security at the door were not permitting any access to the hospital.

“Baba, we need to go inside.”

In desperation Dina's father tried calling Mariam for help from within but because of the size of the crowd it was impossible to obtain a cell phone signal.

“Baba, we need to go inside.”

“I know my darling, but it's difficult. There are too many people to get closer and even if we did we can't get past the security. I'm sorry this is as far as we can go.”

Dina held her arms out above her head. “Pick me up, Baba.” Her father instantly stooped to retrieve her. Dina nestled into his neck. “Baba, I need to tell you something important.”

He nodded.

Dina cupped her hands and whispered almost inaudibly into her father's ear. “The Pestilence is coming. Everybody here is going to die.”

Her father felt a shiver surging up his spine. The look of fear once more haunted his eyes. “When my darling?”

“Soon Baba. They say if we go inside we will be safe.”

Her father thought quickly. “Okay, my darling. Do you know where to go after you are inside? Will they help you find the way?”

Dina nodded.

“Then I want you to pretend to be sick. Pretend to be asleep. Think of your prayers and say them in your head. Shut your eyes and no matter what happens keep your eyes shut. Can you do that for me? Do you promise?”

Another vigorous nod and then Dina closed her eyes and fell limp into her father's arms.

“Good girl.” He held his daughter tightly for the last time. He smelt her hair, trying to drive her smell permanently into his memories. He revelled in the warmth of her skin and planted a last loving kiss onto her forehead. “Help, help, out of my way.” Elbows flaring he tried in vain to jostle his way through the crowd. “My daughter has collapsed, she needs a doctor. Please, please give me some space. I need to get her to the hospital.” The anxiety in his voice was real but the people around him were packed in too tight. They tried to let them pass but there was simply nowhere for them to go. Dina's father cried out in frustration and once more pressed forward then sideways but made little ground. He spun round searching in vain for a clear way through the crowd but all routes were barred. It was useless. They were trapped.

***

12.00 p.m. Jerusalem time. Celine had packed a rather bizarre black trilby in with Victor's casual clothes. It was supposed to provide Victor with a measure of anonymity but given he was the only person wearing a black trilby in the 150,000-strong crowd, it wasn't really working. Victor had no difficulty in easing through the throng encircling the St Luke's Hospital. He simply touched the back of the head of the person in front of him and that person immediately made way. With every touch, every flexing of his power Victor grew stronger and he would need all his gathered strength for what was to come.

Before today Victor had never encountered a Healed and he marvelled at the strength and vitality of each Healed aura. They were gloriously flawless, not riddled with disease and suffering like the others. Victor was admiring the wealth of the Healed around him when a few hundred metres away he saw an aura of such magnificence that it stole his breath and he was drawn irresistibly towards it.

The little girl was with her father and they were struggling through the crowd, trying fruitlessly to reach the hospital. Her aura was resplendent, angelic in nature, dwarfing all the Healed around her with its dazzling luminescence. With his daughter in his arms, her father fought against the heaving masses trying desperately to create a route to safety. Victor touched half a dozen of the weak-minded around him and they converged on the girl's father, swarming him, hemming him in. The girl's father was helpless as Victor reached for the little girl.

Victor touched the child's aura and instantly knew that he would never be able to conquer it. She was a special child and he shrank back from the two of them lest he be revealed. The taste of fear was on his lips and for the first time Victor began to doubt that the power he was quietly, freely reaping would be enough.

***

DINA'S father felt a hand on his shoulder and a stranger then gently lifted Dina from his arms. The stranger holding Dina high above his head turned and passed her on to the person next to him. Dina's head lolled convincingly as she was handed gently from person to person surfing above the sea of humanity. The shape of Dina's inert body naturally formed a cross hovering above the crowd. By a considered collective effort Dina was inched towards security at the doors of the hospital. Dina's father watched as she was carried away from him. Dina, with her eyes tightly shut offered a silent prayer for her father's soul.

At the side entrance a female guard stepped into the multitude to retrieve Dina. She carried the little girl with the greatest of care through the doors of St Luke's. Dina's father, for a fleeting moment, managed to glimpse his daughter being borne into the hospital. For a second his daughter was there and then she was gone.

***

VICTOR was now directly outside the hospital and above him the clear skies overhead began to darken. It was as if a veil had been drawn over the sun, throwing a shadow of sorrow across the Earth. The candles held all around him by the assembled masses suddenly seemed to increase in brightness as the natural light faded. Sensors triggered the street lighting to switch on and people in the crowd looked at each other in confusion. This was it, thought Victor. It was time.

***

9.04 a.m. London time. Bill Irons was squaring away the remains of breakfast. Before darting away to school, Miranda had wolfed down a fried egg with buttered toast that Bill had prepared for her. She was going to be staying a few nights a week and Bill had agreed with his ex-wife that he would also see Miranda on alternate weekends. Bill was glad of her lively company and enjoyed fitting into the rhythm of her life. They had an awful lot of catching up to do.

With the dishwasher humming, Bill flicked on the television. Rayaan Khan was once again reporting from outside St Luke's Hospital in Jerusalem. Bill settled down to watch. Rayaan was doing a decent job filling in for him. Bill channel-surfed, but the rolling news coverage was virtually the same on the other news networks; loops of the Electrical Phenomenon, library images of Samuel healing, the Healed camp and finally the horror of the attack on the Teddy Stadium. Simply time-filling until the real story broke. The eyes of the world were on St Luke's, waiting for the announcement that signalled the Srour family had made their decision and in all likelihood the machines sustaining Samuel's life had been switched off.

Bill flicked back to the BBC. Rayaan Khan was delivering another piece to camera. The sky behind the reporter began to darken. Strange black clouds streamed in from the horizon. Rayaan swayed on his feet and the camera began to shake. In the background, screaming had started.

***

12.04 p.m. Jerusalem time. Rami Hussein was clearing the breakfast service at the Healed camp. Between the contractors, the volunteers and the permanent residents he had fed nearly 2,000 people that morning. Most were transitory visitors to the camp, passing through before embarking on their individual onward journeys.

Rami checked his watch, his thoughts were with Dalia and Mariam in Jerusalem. Dalia had told him the previous night that they would be making the decision around this time. She seemed certain of her intended course of action; she just couldn't bear to see her son stumble on like this. Rami disliked the feeling of uncertainty that clouded everything from here on. What would this mean for the organisation that they were building? While Samuel was never the titular head and had only very briefly visited the camp, all that had followed stemmed from his healing. Rami just couldn't feel Dalia's cautious optimism about a future without Samuel. He gave up worrying about it. They would all know soon enough.

It had been at least seven years since he last set eyes on her but Rami recognised her immediately. She was a little fuller than he remembered and her initial creases of worry had become etched across her face. The boy was with her, taller and no less skinny than Rami had remembered. He was clasping her hand, glancing nervously about him, looking studious and fierce as ever.

Rami saw her approach one of the waiting staff and the man pointed her in Rami's direction. He could see she was taken aback by his healthy appearance. She nodded a greeting, gesturing towards him for the benefit of the boy. Rami hesitantly nodded one in return. He wondered what could have brought his ex-wife and son here, after so long, to the Haran camp kitchens.

***

9.04 a.m. London time. Hazel still hadn't roused herself from her bed. She had hardly slept the previous night. Every few hours she had needed to use the bathroom, her bladder seemingly out of control. She felt miserable; her breasts were sore, her stomach bloated and she was hungry, ravenously hungry.

Zipping herself into a fleece top, Hazel padded into the kitchen making a beeline for the refrigerator. She popped two slices of bread in the toaster, switched on the kettle for her English breakfast tea and slipped a brace of bacon into the frying pan. The instant the bacon hit the hot fat Hazel was overwhelmed by a vicious wave of nausea. The smell of frying bacon was one of life's small pleasures, but today the sickly sweet odour made her sprint from the kitchen covering her nose and mouth. Last night's curry came swirling back to greet her. Hazel didn't make it to the bathroom, falling to all fours and splashing out the curry on the hallway floor. Hazel wretched until she had nothing left to give, then she wretched some more. The half-digested curry splattered up the hallway walls and back onto Hazel's fleece, but she was past caring. Her stomach heaved and clawed for what felt like an eternity. When it finally settled she flipped onto her back lying half in her own vomit clutching her cramping abdomen.

Hazel lay looking at the plasterwork on her ceiling, vomit trickling into her hair. She was Healed for goodness' sake and was supposed to be immune to viruses. Then in the swirling confusion a disturbing thought occurred to her. Hazel fished her phone out of her fleece pocket, called up the calendar and checked the date. Her hands trembled and the phone almost slipped from her fingers into the pooling sick. Feeding off the energy driving her panic Hazel jumped up, grabbed her keys and wallet pushing her feet into her trainers. She quickly wiped the vomit from her hair and off her fleece, left the frying pan on hoping she would be back before her flat burned down and ran hard to the convenience store on the corner.

Hazel was back within ten minutes. Before rushing to the bathroom she threw her charring breakfast into the kitchen sink. She must have peed twenty times the previous night but when she needed it, her bladder steadfastly refused to comply. It took her fifteen minutes and a dash into the kitchen to down an enormous glass of water before she was able to go. The calendar on her cell phone had showed that it had been seven weeks since her last period and the blue smiley face on the pregnancy test confirmed her initial fears. Hazel reached for the second test but the thin blue line definitively underlined the results of the first. She dropped the test onto the bathroom floor and propped her chin in her hands. She didn't understand; how could this be happening to her?

***

12.04 p.m. Jerusalem time. Stefano sat outside Samuel's hospital room. Samuel's family were clustered inside with the doctors. It was time and Stefano wanted to stay on post until the end. Ultimately, the security breach had been his failing but the family were too decent to point the finger of blame in his direction. Short of shooting down the copters on sight, he wasn't sure what more he or his agents could have done. His mind had cycled through the possibilities; perhaps a second escape car or a venue with a roof but the speculation was pointless now. It was done. Stefano had lost and he had lost big. Forcing Dressler's 357 into Ashen's mouth and pulling the trigger had brought Stefano some small semblance of satisfaction but it was a raindrop set against an ocean of his despair. Stefano was adrift staring at the drab grey wall waiting for the inevitable. He felt a light tap on his shoulder, a child's hand. Stefano turned to face her.

***

10.04 a.m. Central European Time. The Bishop of Rome was kneeling at his private altar. He was a simple man from humble origins and his bare cedar altar reflected that simplicity. He was praying for a soul on the verge of making its final journey to the Holy Father. He lamented on what could have been had Samuel been graced with more time on Earth. He gave thanks for the lives Samuel had touched including, of course, his own.

***

12.04 p.m. Jerusalem time. Dr Shimon Biram was seated at his desk finishing his review of Mariam's draft paper. He had already made extensive annotations and suggestions in the margin of the work. It was a solid, competent piece reflecting completely the intelligence and personality of its author. Dr Biram reached across his desk and flicked through the messages on his cell phone; nothing from Mariam. He had tried calling but her phone had been off since the attack. Idly he scrolled to the stored camera photos; they were mostly of his kids, a collage of their changing, growing faces. He stopped at the image he was searching for. It was the only one he had of the two of them together. Dr Biram and his colleague, Dr Fara, stood together on a mountain top in Chile, clear blue skies above and a domed shadow of an astronomical observatory behind. They leant towards each other smiling, comfortable and relaxed.