Splintered Icon (28 page)

He paused. I obliged: 'Which was?'

'Their crime, Mr Blake, was that they were a civilised people, a bright flame burning in a world of barbarity. They loved art and literature and things of beauty. They bathed rather than smelled. And after the Latins had stuffed their ships with gold and silver and precious fabrics from Constantinople, and melted down its bronze statues to make cannon, and stolen the Crown of Thorns, they burned that wonderful city to the ground.'

I had the feeling this was a well-rehearsed spiel. He was searching my face to see how I reacted. I said, 'That was eight hundred years ago, for Christ's sake.'

He shrugged. 'Walk amongst the ruined columns of the Constantine of Lips monastery, my friend, and the ghosts of the murdered monks will walk with you. You will feel their living presence. You wilt know that the conquest happened yesterday. In any case, the desecration continues to this day.'

'I'm too tired for this.'

'It continues, Mr Blake, because after the Crusaders came the Turks, who entered our city on May twenty-ninth 1453, and who occupy it to this day. Go to modern Constantinople and what will you find? Mosques built on the ruins of churches. The Church of the Holy Apostles, the most famous church in Constantinople after the Hagia Sophia, was plundered by the Latins and then, after the Turkish conquest, smashed by the dervishes of Mehmet the Second. Smashed for fourteen hours, Mr Blake. A holy place, smashed for fourteen hours with iron bars. Go to the site of that church today and you will find a mosque, built on the sacred ground of the Holy Apostles. The Jesus Christ Pantocrator monastery, having been looted by the Venetians, is also now a mosque, the Imperial coffin in it used as a footbath by the Turks who enter. The list of desecration is endless and the Greek government does nothing.'

'Are you real?'

'I have saved the greatest injustice to the last. I refer to the Vatican's fraudulent claim to have a line of succession from St Peter. Do you know your religious history, Mr Blake?'

I said, 'Here we go. Some distorted rubbish.'

Hondros continued, 'You probably do not know that the Vatican's supposed apostolic succession from Christ is based on nothing more valid than torture and murder. The elimination by violence of the true Roman Orthodox bishops - Celts, Saxons and West Romans - was a process begun in the seventh century and which has continued ever since. This happened throughout Spain, Portugal, Italy, Germany and England as well as Gaul. Only in the east, in Greece, did the true succession from Christ survive. Today's papacy is the Antichrist, imposed by murder. Not distorted rubbish, Blake, historical fact. Cassandra, more coffee for our guest.'

Cassandra obliged, and I sipped at the liquid. It was lukewarm. I said, 'Who cares? It's all in the past.'

'An antiquarian cartographer with no sense of history? How very Western! But we must give the Antichrist credit. He acts consistently. The Franco-Latins have pursued their policy over the centuries down to the present day. In 1923, when Italy seized the Dodecanese islands from Turkey, it replaced the Orthodox bishops with Vatican ones, forcing the faithful to either accept clergy ordained by these impostors or do without sacraments.'

'Okay Hondros, I'm persuaded. You've established your credentials as a lunatic. So where does the icon come into it?'

The Greek's eyes were gleaming. He stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward. 'You know the history of the True Cross. You know that it was found by the Emperor Constantinople, stolen by the Persians, handed back three hundred years later, stolen again by the Mohammedans, then by the Latins, and finally reaching this island after eighteen centuries of travel. But you will retrieve that cross for us - at least the one surviving part of it. Either that, or the three of you will die.'

'And having found it for you?'

'It will be returned immediately to Constantinople. Certain events will then take place.'

It took a second, but then a horrible anticipation began to sink in. Hondros grinned. Cassandra lit her second cigarette with tense, nervous movements of her hands.

I said, 'Since I'm a dead man anyway, why not tell me?'

'Are you a dead man?' He leaned back, peered into my eyes thoughtfully. 'Yes, perhaps I should not insult your intelligence by holding out false hopes. But you will help me find the icon in order to prolong your life, hoping that "something will turn up". Am I right?'

'Absolutely.'

'Very well. The return of the True Cross is a symbol. In three days a brave young woman will drive a truck loaded with explosives into the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. The Suleymaniye, perhaps the finest mosque in the city, will suffer the same fate. A ferry, crossing the Bosphorus to Uskadur, and packed with tourists come to admire the fishing villages and the old Rumeli Hisari fortress, will at the same time explode and sink. And a trail of evidence, carefully laid by us over many months, will lead back to the Opus Dei.'

'The who?'

'Your ignorance continues to surprise me, Mr Blake. Opus Dei are a branch of the Catholic Church distinguished by their outrageous wealth and a long-standing suspicion of their true motives. They have often been suspected of fascist connections. A lie, of course, and they deny it, but what does a protestation of innocence matter against a willingness to believe the worst? Think of the outrage throughout the Muslim world.

'A few days later a light aircraft with Bosnian registration will take off from an airfield in Bosnia. It will be loaded with explosives. It will cross the Aegean, flying under radar until the last moment, when it will crash into the dome of St Peter's. Other churches in Venice, Barcelona and Rome will be destroyed. An act of revenge, the media will cry, Muslim retaliating against Catholic. Hatreds which have simmered just below the surface for a thousand years will erupt. In the present climate, with tinder awaiting a match throughout the region, who knows where it will end? But we of the Orthodox faith will see our ancient enemies tearing each other to pieces. We will enjoy it all on CNN as we drink coffee in bars and cafes from Athens to Olympia. You have a saying, Mr Blake, revenge is sweet. It will be sweet. And the True Cross, placed in our hands by God, will symbolise the justice of our cause.'

'Sort of a divine seal of approval.'

He gave me a cold stare. 'If you like.'

'Very good, Hondros, a first-class performance. For a moment I almost believed you.' I turned to Cassandra, who was looking at me with a puzzled frown. 'Actually, he's just after the Cross for its cash value. He'll sell it to the Getty Museum or the Vatican for a fortune. But by the time the fact dawns on you, he'll be blowing your brains out.'

Hondros smiled and shook his head. He started on another Marlboro. 'What a pathetic effort.' And Cassandra threw back her head and laughed.

Part Three

Star Sign

CHAPTER 32

'I need to see them. Prove to me that they're alive.'

Hondros shouted something in Greek. I peered into the dim interior of the villa. In a few moments Debbie appeared, a short, stocky man behind her carrying a revolver. She was pale-faced and had a fist-sized, yellowish bruise on her arm. Her white sweater was stained green, as if she had slipped on wet grass, but it was neatly tucked into her jeans. Her face lit up with pleasure when she saw me. 'Harry!' The gunman held her arm to stop her running forwards.

'Satisfied?'

'What about Zola?' I directed the question at Debbie.

'She's all right. We're sharing a room. What are they going to do to us, Harry?'

Hondros made a gesture of dismissal and the gunman pulled her away. 'Harry!' But then she was gone, pushed out of sight along some gloomy corridor.

'Don't think I'm without sympathy,' Hondros said, showing no sign of any.

He opened a folder in front of him and slid a few sheets of paper over. I flicked through them with my good hand: they were photocopies of Ogilvie's second journal. 'Photocopies,' he said. 'No doubt we could decipher them in due course, but time is short and you have been doing such an excellent job so far. Work on this. Tell us what it has to say about the icon. You have until, let us say' - he pulled Cassandra's wrist towards him and looked at her watch - 'nine o'clock tomorrow morning to reveal the secret.'

'Don't be stupid. It could take weeks to crack the cipher and I'm not even an expert.'

'Nine o'clock. If you have not told us where to find the icon by then, we will shoot Debbie. You will then have another three hours before we kill Zola, and three more before we write you off as a bad job.'

'You can't seriously—'

'And if you utter a single word of complaint about this, I will shorten the time available to you by one hour.'

'Give me Debbie and Zola. Three heads are better than one. They've already been crucial, Debbie with her family knowledge and Zola as a marine historian.'

'There may be something in what you say, Mr Blake. I see no disadvantage to your proposition.'

'We won't be able to work with your gorillas breathing down our necks.'

Cassandra said, 'Why the velvet glove, Tolis? Persuade him with a hammer on his bad arm. More coffee, Harry?'

'No thanks. Have I mentioned that your breath smells?'

'Let's be civilised, please,' said Hondros. 'I'm not a fool, Blake. I understand that pain clouds the mind, that where an intellectual problem is concerned there is a need for an environment conducive to thought. You can have the whole of the downstairs part of the villa, and the ground surrounding it as far as the fencing. Touch the fencing or the gates and you will be shot. Put a toe into the sea and you will be shot. Step onto the jetty and you will be shot. Venture upstairs unaccompanied and you will be shot. Does that seem reasonable?'

'Downright generous. I thank you. And if we lead you to the icon?'

'I will feel well disposed towards you.'

'You'll smile when you pull the trigger?'

'You're wasting time, Mr Blake. I suggest you get busy.' He shouted something into the interior of the house. There was a long exchange in Greek; I assumed that the characters within were being briefed.

I managed to stand up and walk unsteadily into the house. There was a big living room, air-conditioned cool after the blistering heat outside. Debbie came running in and almost knocked me over with a hug that sent shooting pains up my injured arm. And Zola, in a light summer dress, gave me a squeeze. 'What happened, Harry? Are you badly injured?'

'I got a bullet in the forearm. Lost a lot of blood, mainly, and ruined my shirt. The crazies abducted me from the hospital. What happened to you?'

'We ran into the trees but there were four of them.'

'And Dalton?'

'I have no idea. They say he's dead. There was a lot of shooting.'

Debbie's face was showing strain. 'They've told us what they want, Harry. And what will happen to us if we don't deliver.'

'We'd better get on with it.' At that moment all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed.

There was some splashing from the direction of the pool. Cassandra and Hondros had dived in. Hondros was swimming like a paddle steamer and Cassandra was floating face down. The wooden quay lay at the end of a descending path which passed the pool, and the motor boat was at the end of the quay. Cassandra's revolver was still on the poolside table.

It looked so easy.

'Forget it,' I said. 'There'll be some gorilla at the upstairs window.'

I walked to the poolside table, Debbie putting her arm in mine and keeping me steady. Zola picked up the sheets, frowned at the array of symbols. I was within arm's length of the gun. Debbie said, 'You're wrong, Harry. It's two gorillas.'

'How can we possibly hope to decipher this?' Zola wondered.

There was enough splashing that they wouldn't hear me, but still I spoke quietly. 'Your suspicions were right, Zola, I think it's the Babington cipher.'

'The what?' Debbie's eyes were full of misplaced faith in her Uncle Harry.

'It goes back to the failed plot against Elizabeth. Remember your history, Debbie? Mary Queen of Scots was up to her neck in it. The English Catholics believed that Mary was the true Queen of England and they had a point.'

'How come?'

'Elizabeth was the daughter of Anne Boleyn, but the English Catholics didn't recognise Henry VIII's marriage to her because they didn't recognise his annulment from Catherine of Aragon, because it hadn't been agreed by the Pope. That made Elizabeth illegitimate and not entitled to the throne. It's all quite logical.'

T really don't care about stuff like that, Harry. All I want to do is stay alive.'

'Stuff like that could be vital to our survival. The plot was headed by a young man called Babington. The conspirators were all young, charming, naive Catholic gentlemen, and they all died horribly after the plot failed.'

'Just like Marmaduke StClair,' Zola said to me.

'Who's this Marmaduke?' asked Debbie.

'Never mind, there isn't time. The conspirators intended to bump off Queen Elizabeth, incite a rebellion and put Mary on the English throne. Babington needed Mary's approval and there was an exchange of smuggled letters between them. Coded letters, Debbie, in case her jailer discovered them. All this happened in 1586.'

'The Roanoke expedition was in 1585.'

'You're beginning to get it, Debbie. Babington pulled together his conspirators in March 1586, but he must have been thinking about it long before then. Marmaduke and the others went on ahead, so to speak, on the Roanoke expedition, so that when Elizabeth was assassinated they would announce that Mary's relic had been buried at seventy-seven degrees. The whole Catholic world could then claim North and South America and the new calendar. It would be a moral rout for the Continental Protestants.'

'And the code, the one that Babington used...'

'... would have been known to Marmaduke. That has to be where Ogilvie got it from.'

I waved at Hondros, and shouted, 'I need to make a phone call.'