Brotherhood of the Tomb (38 page)

‘And that’s all for this evening. We’ll be on the air again tomorrow at seven with the first news bulletin of the day. There will be a full report on the papal audience and full coverage of the event at ten. Please join us then.’

Fischer used a remote-control device to turn the set off. The room filled with an unhurried silence. Dermot O’Malley did not move. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he did not lift a hand to wipe them away.

‘What about that other matter, Tommaso? Has it been taken care of as well?’

‘Oh, yes - the American and the Contarini girl. I have men on their way there now. It shouldn’t take long.’

O’Malley looked up. All the gentleness had gone from his face as though it had never been. In its place was a look of blind rage mixed with pain. He threw his head back and roared at the top of his voice, then leapt to his feet, grabbing for Fazzini, toppling the old

man from his chair. They fell together, O’Malley on top, his anger overpowering, his hands on the cardinal’s neck.

Fischer stood and reached a hand inside his soutane. He took out a small handgun, took two steps towards O’Malley, kicked him off Fazzini, and shot him twice. The big Irishman was thrown backwards by the force of the shots. He looked at Fischer with a puzzled expression, raised himself on one elbow, and tried to stand. Fischer fired again, two more shots. O’Malley fell back again, choking. Fischer helped Fazzini back to his chair. When he looked round again, O’Malley was on his knees in a pool of blood, reaching for a chair to pull himself up. The American raised the gun.

‘No!’ shouted Assefa. The Ethiopian ran for Fischer, grabbing at his wrist. The cardinal swung his arm round, striking him hard across the cheek with the gun barrel. Assefa staggered and fell back against an armchair. O’Malley was on his feet now. With a roar, he made a lunge for Fischer. The American emptied the rest of the magazine, three shots in quick succession. O’Malley collapsed face downwards and lay still.

FIFTY-ONE

‘In the kitchen,’ he said, ‘you said that Roberto was patient in spite of something. Then you broke off.’

They had left the study after Francesca failed to get a reply from Roberto’s apartment. She had not noticed his unease at being in the study. Back in the living-room, she had poured grappa for them both. She was standing by the window, staring into the street.

‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

She did not answer. With her hands flat against the pane, she rested her cheek on the cold window. Beyond the glass, the sound of traffic was muffled. There was a stillness in the night, a quietness that seemed to have its origin in her, as though she were the calm point in a storm.

‘We were lovers once,’ she said, her voice hushed, her breath clouding the windowpane. ‘Not like you and me, Patrick. With Roberto, it was ... quieter. Less happy, often sad. But after so long away from the world, he brought me back to it. He showed me how to live again. That wasn’t easy. It took all our energy. There was very little time for love.’

She looked out into the night, and for the first time he sensed how lost she was, like a child waking from a dream to find herself in a strange bedroom, thousands of miles from home.

‘We’d both had our gods and lost them,’ she went on, ‘and we understood that well enough, I think. But he had danced and sung for his god, while I had wept and bled for mine. I had no understanding of his rapture, he mistook my tears for blindness.

‘But we made a certain happiness for each other. A sort of balance. Is that the right word? Not like scales, I don’t mean that, one weight lying against another. It was more like ... a tightrope walker, someone who finds balance only by constant movement, who will fall to his death if he remains still for more than a moment. We were like that, always moving, always seeking a new point of equilibrium.’

One hand stretched out and brushed the glass, wiping away a film of misted breath like gauze. There were bars across the window, heavy bars designed to keep intruders out. She looked past them as though this apartment had been, not a refuge, but a prison for her.

‘Perhaps if we had been more like weights, it would have lasted longer. I don’t know. Our balance was too fine; we lost it in the end. Roberto became too involved in his investigation of the Brotherhood. He let it become his life. But I was just the opposite, you see. It had already been my life, I was trying to put it behind me, to find new ways to live. We might have found a balance there, I can’t say. But it was already too late anyway. Roberto’s sick. He doesn’t have long to live.’

She looked away from the window, into the room, but her eyes did not meet Patrick’s.

‘Three years ago,’ she said, ‘he was diagnosed as suffering from AIDS. His doctor told him he had about a year to eighteen months to live. He was shattered at first. For a month or more, he went about like a zombie, as though he’d lost interest in everything and was just waiting to die. And then, quite suddenly, he changed. He’d found out he could fight it, that a diagnosis of AIDS wasn’t a death sentence, whatever his doctors said.

‘There were scores of people in the United States

who’d lived seven, eight years with the disease. Some of them were completely free of symptoms, living normal lives. What they had in common was a decision not to give in. They meditated, practised visualization, had acupuncture, herbal remedies - anything that might turn their immune systems round and give them a fighting chance. That sounds incredible. You’d think it should make headlines. But the media aren’t interested. They want people to die of AIDS. What use is an epidemic if some of its victims won’t lie down?

‘It’s the same with doctors. Roberto’s already outlived their predictions, but every time he tells them what he’s doing, it’s like a wall comes down. They don’t want to know about people getting better outside their control.’

She sighed.

‘The way he’s been fighting, by now he should be like some of those people in America, living a normal life again. But any energy he gains, he uses up fighting the Brotherhood. That’s what’s killing him now, not AIDS. Isn’t that stupid?’

She turned back to the window.

‘I think of all those people out there, frightened to death of AIDS. They’d come to believe a myth, you see, that medicine could cure them of anything. And then AIDS came along and they were powerless again. But AIDS is just a word, just four letters: they’re dying of four letters. They think a virus is killing them, but it isn’t. People with healthy immune systems can catch the virus and hardly notice it. It’s people who are already tuned in to death who die of AIDS. And our whole society encourages them. Their priests tell them they’re sinners and deserve to die. Their doctors say they’re incurable and their deaths are certain. The media treat them like lepers.

‘I’ve already been as good as dead, I know just what it’s like to be outside the world. That’s how Roberto felt when they first told him he had AIDS, as though they’d taken him to a door and pushed him through, never to let him back again.’

She paused. Her eyes were focused elsewhere, not on him, not on the room.

‘That’s why we have to destroy Migliau and the Brotherhood if we can. They stand for death, they believe sacrifice is essential to survival, they think there’s nothing wrong in shedding innocent blood in search of salvation. Migliau is willing to put any number to death for the sake of the few. It’s like the medical profession. They don’t want people to die. And yet they’ll let thousands succumb to AIDS sooner than admit they’re wrong. See, they say, without us you’re helpless. Believe in us, give us power, and we’ll grant you salvation.

‘Priests are the same. A woman’s life is in danger, she needs an abortion - what do they tell her? Your child’s life is more important than yours, you have to be sacrificed so it can live. People are starving, they need contraceptives; but the priests tell them God will be angry if they use them.

‘That’s why Migliau is so dangerous. The world makes a special place for people like him. He’ll find scapegoats everywhere: AIDS victims, Muslims, homosexuals, the poor, anyone who doesn’t fit in to his new order. They’ll all become sacrifices, and people will stand around and applaud. It’s a hygienic measure, he’ll say. Wipe out the viruses and health will be yours. Destroy the cancer cells and you’ll live for ever. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just a metaphor. But it isn’t: he wants real blood on his altar. Tomorrow will be just the beginning if we don’t stop him.’

She stopped.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t what you wanted to talk about. We ...’

‘Shhhhh.’

He raised a hand.

‘What is it?’

‘I thought I heard something. Is there another way into this apartment?’

She looked round, startled.

‘You think ... ?’ She hesitated. ‘There are just two entrances: the main door from the stairs and the side door to the fire escape.’

‘Which way is that?’ He spoke in a low whisper, drawing her away from the door.

She pointed.

‘Along the passage to the left.’

‘Okay. Go out to the terrace and wait for me there.’

She shook her head.

‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to stay.’

He took her by the shoulders.

‘Please, Francesca, don’t argue. I know how to handle myself. You haven’t been trained.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh? And what do you suppose they taught us out there in the desert? How to knit?’

There was a definite sound outside.

‘Quickly,’ she hissed. ‘Through here!’

She took his hand and pulled him to the kitchen. Hurriedly, she opened the cupboard beneath the sink and drew out a roll of sacking.

‘Here!’ she said, thrusting it into Patrick’s hands. He unrolled it to find a Beretta 92SBF pistol.

‘It’s loaded,’ she whispered. ‘Fifteen rounds.’ She had already unpacked a second gun for herself.

There was a loud crash as the door of the living-room was kicked open. Through the frosted glass

door of the kitchen, Patrick could see a human figure move into the room. Patrick reached for the door handle. He was about to turn it when the glass exploded in his face, blown to pieces by a round of machine-gun fire just above his head. He fell back, dropping his gun. The gunfire from the living-room continued, raking the kitchen, smashing plates and glasses, tearing the cupboards to shreds.

Francesca threw herself to the floor on top of Patrick, lifting her gun in two hands. The gunman’s head was visible through the hole where the glass had been. She fired quickly, before he changed his angle of fire. Her bullet sliced his cheek.

She rolled for the door, crashing hard against it, twisting sideways behind the wall. A blast of fire raked the floor behind Patrick’s legs. Francesca reached behind her, pulling Patrick out of the line of fire into the shelter of the wall. A third burst from the machine gun smashed the door apart and ploughed up the floor immediately behind it, where she and Patrick had been seconds before.

There was a pause. Francesca heard the sound of a magazine being withdrawn. She leapt to her feet, aimed through the hole in the door, and fired a succession of shots at the point from which the shooting had come. There was a cry followed by a heavy crash.

Someone shouted from one of the bedrooms.

‘Paolo! Che succede?!’

‘Quickly!’ Francesca helped Patrick to his feet. Blood was streaming down his face. ‘Are you all right? Can you see?’

He nodded. ‘I’m okay. Not... badly hurt. Just cut.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said. His gun was on the floor where he had dropped it. She picked it up and handed it to him.

They were half-way across the living-room when a second man appeared in the doorway. He wore a black hood over his face and carried a Steyr AUG assault rifle in a gloved hand. He took in the scene with a single glance and ducked back behind the door-jamb.

Francesca moved to the left behind an armchair, Patrick to the right, throwing a coffee table over for a barricade. The gunman opened fire on Francesca. Heavy-duty 5.56mm bullets tore the top of the chair away in a matter of seconds. She fired back round the side of the chair, but her shots went high, splintering the top of the door frame.

Patrick caught sight of a third man entering the passage from the bedroom beside the fire escape. He fired on him half a second too late. The first man fired a second burst into the chair, forcing Francesca to roll out from behind it, towards the wall. The gunman saw her move and swung his weapon, trying to follow the same arc, but as he did so Patrick fired twice through the thin partition wall. There was a cry and the man toppled into the room.

‘Be careful, Francesca! There’s a third one in the passage!’

The third man had disappeared. But they knew that, if he was going to fire, he would have to come to the door. They made a run for the wall on either side of the door, flattening themselves against it.

Patrick saw a hand reach round the jamb, caught sight of something flying through the air. Seconds later, there was a blinding flash accompanied by a loud explosion. Patrick staggered back, clutching his hands to his ears, dropping his gun to the floor. Francesca cried out, firing wildly. A second stun grenade followed, knocking her flat against the wall.

Patrick fought against the dizziness, trying to get

to his knees. He could not tell which way was up and which down. The room seemed to be pulsating, fluttering, rippling in long, swirling waves. He could not see or hear. He reached out for something to grab hold of. There was a hand, someone had hold of him. And then the hand was gone and he was tumbling like a brick down a well that had no bottom and no top and sides of the darkest night.

FIFTY-TWO

No one came for Dermot O’Malley’s body. Neither Fischer nor Fazzini seemed to care. They sat and talked of personal matters: a niece’s first communion, a mutual friend’s illness, the difficulty of obtaining good French wine through the Anonna, the Vatican commissary. From time to time, one or the other would cast glances at Assefa, only to return to the discussion a moment later, indifferent to his presence. He sat immobile, dreaming of Abyssinia, where they built churches beneath the earth and dressed in robes of purest white. Sometimes he thought he wanted to be sick.