The War of Immensities (65 page)

“No, Luigi,
that’s true. My job is to lead the pilgrims and that’s what I’ll be
doing. All the way to Brazil.”

“Brazil.”

“That’s
right.”

“To take the
cure.”

“That’s
right.”

“It will not be
permitted.”

“You can’t stop
it. Once the link occurs they’ll be going that way anyway.”

“I cannot allow
this.”

“You can’t
allow it?”

“The pilgrims
must remain. They have become a symbol of... of...”

“Papal power,
Luigi? That’s just exactly why I’m getting them out of here.”

“That isn’t
what I mean. You will be exposing these people to great danger, and
all for a supposed experimental cure...”

“I’ll be
freeing them of the burden of these monthly pilgrimages.”

“I see. And
what happens after that?”

“They’ll return
here and continue their lives.”

“There is a
rumour that attempts will be made to convert them to a new pagan
faith.”

“Implying that
Catholicism is not a pagan faith, I assume.”

“A faith to
which it is suspected you have been converted yourself.”

“You mean
Gaia?”

“If that is
what the abomination is called.”

“It isn’t a
religion. Just a rebalance of the facts...”

“That is not
what we have heard. In Zambia, they tell me, millions of natives
are following the false goddess Andromeda in a trek across the
continent.”

“Andromeda is a
goddess only in the sense that showgirls usually are.”

“You say it
isn’t so?”

“What I say
doesn’t matter.”

“How can I
dissuade you from this folly?”

“You can’t
Luigi. I may or may not be undergoing some sort of conversion to a
new, more appropriate form of religious belief. I don’t know. Maybe
Andromeda does fancy herself as a goddess. That’s up to her. But I
do know one thing. I no longer have faith in you, Luigi, nor in
your Pope. You have become meaningless and irrelevant to me.”

“I see. And
when will you depart?”

“From here.
Now.”

“Then you must
allow me to offer you my blessing before you go.”

“Oh
really?”

“And that of
His Holiness.”

“I consider
myself blessed.”

“And the
sisters desire that you take one last sacrament.”

“You’re
kidding.”

But he
persuaded her in the end and she did it just to get rid of him. And
when it was done, he crossed himself and turned abruptly and left.
As he strode toward the nave and the side exit of the chapel, he
dashed the contents of the sacramental cup on the floor and then
wiped it with the sleeve of his red robe.

She was
puzzled. Surely the cup should have been returned to its rightful
place on the alter. Was he stealing it? Then she heard the clatter
of its metal against the stone outside as he discarded it.

She suddenly
felt strangely, ridiculously alone, kneeling there, for no reason,
and still that very bitter wine taste in her mouth. But when she
rose she found her knees unsteady. There was a nausea overcoming
her, and a tingling feeling gushing through her bloodstream. She
staggered a few steps and then looked back toward the alter. Was
this God making one last bid to regather her faith? One last
quizzical look passed across her countenance and then the pain
gripped her and she screamed out as she doubled up, clutching her
midriff, and fell to the floor. Somewhere out there, she could hear
voices screaming, or perhaps it was the echo of her own...

Then they
reached The Congo Republic. A fat man shrugged at them, standing
outside the tin shed that was the border post. Behind him, thirty
armed men stood in combat postures. Captain Maynard lined his men
up in similar postures. In between, Andromeda and the fat man
discussed the situation.

“It is
impossible to enter The Republic of the Congo,” the man said in
poor English.

Andromeda
showed him the document Harley had brought her.

“It is a
forgery. I must take it away to be examined,” the man said and
extended his hand. Andromeda put the right of passage behind her
back.

At that moment,
one of Wagner’s C-130s passed overhead and six parachutes popped
out. Rather than the usual food containers, six men dangled from
the lines. Even the fat man was distracted from eyeing the document
greedily.

The plane
circled and then came in, to pass by only a hundred yards away,
flying at exceedingly low height, so low in fact that it was almost
touching the ground. The rear cargo bay was open and from in there,
a large dark netted container, half the size of a house, slid out
and dropped, skidding along the ground for a time before the lines
towing it from the plane dropped. The C-130 lumbered away into the
sky.

Spectators from
both sides of the argument continued to watch the action pantomime
play itself out before them. The six men, loosed from their
parachutes, gathered about the container and went to work with heft
haste, pulling away the netting, bursting the protective wrapping
away. From in there, a Leopard tank emerged.

By then,
Maynard had strode down and was speaking to the men. With
well-practiced movement, they scrambled aboard, and immediately the
gun turret swivelled and the huge barrel came around to point
exactly at the fat man. Harley’s toy had arrived.

“What is this?”
the fat man blubbered, when it was all too plain what it was.

“A present for
us from the President of the Republic of The Congo,” Andromeda
Starlight smiled.

The fat man and
his troops immediately fled into the bush. Maynard came striding
toward her with a huge smile on his face while the tank crew
emerged to sit all over their machine and light jubilant
cigarettes.

“Your turn to
make a big impression, Captain,” Andromeda laughed.

“Bigger than
you think,” Maynard chuckled. “The tank needs its batteries charged
before has any electrics so the crew had to rotate the turret into
position manually. And it can’t move it anywhere because it hasn’t
been fuelled yet. And they couldn’t have fired anyway, because the
ammunition isn’t expected to arrive until sometime tomorrow.”

When Brian
Carrick arrived at the hospital in Salerno, Fabrini was there to
meet him, in the company of a tall man, elegant in his dress and
manner, white hair and beard immaculately trimmed. Fabrini
introduced him as Enzo Severni, who Carrick presumed was a senior
doctor or hospital administrator. Joe Solomon could have told him
who he really was.

“An appalling
tragedy, Mr. Carrick. Such a fine young woman.”

They shook
hands. Brian wondered how anyone could have such cool hands in so
warm a climate.

“What the fuck
happened?” Brian demanded.

The first thing
he had seen when he arrived at Rome Airport was the smiling, serene
image of Chrissie Rice on the television screen, and others of
policemen and cardinals, saying things that, although he understood
not a word of it, were all too plain. He bullied people until he
found someone who spoke English and understood his panicky demands
sufficiently to explain. Then the media who were gathering to
ambush incoming dignitaries realised who he was and thrust
microphones in his face as he pushed his way through to a taxi,
abandoning his luggage to its fate.

“Get out of my
fuckin’ way,” he grumbled and physically hurled them aside. The
hated paparazzi—he wanted to slug one or two of them, or anyone
really.

“The bastards
killed her,” Fabrini snarled, his eyes as dark as his drooping
moustache.

“Now, Mr.
Fabrini,” Severni was saying. “There has been no post mortem
examination at this stage. There is no evidence to support your
claim at this stage.”

“I don’t need
any evidence,” Fabrini muttered, but to himself.

“Evidence of
what?” Brian demanded.

Severni put an
arm around Brian’s shoulders and turned him to walk along the
corridor, speaking in low tones.

“Eyewitnesses
reported that the blood that ran from her nose was of a very bright
coloration, and that her tongue was a strange shade of blue. My
experience of such matters is slight but not to be completely
discounted. I believe these symptoms strongly indicate cyanide
poisoning.”

“Jesus.”

“And in such a
strong dose that death must have been relatively
instantaneous.”

“Poor bitch,”
Brian said, but he was slowly realising that Severni’s inexperience
might not be so great as he suggested. “Okay, so let’s have an
autopsy. But why are you bothering?”

“There are many
of us who had a very strong regard for that young woman.”

“Yeah. It takes
a very special sort of bastard to kill someone like her.”

“Very special
indeed,” Severni agreed. “I understand from the nuns that a papal
envoy administered her the Holy Sacrament shortly before she died.
I have managed to obtain the goblet involved for forensic
examination.”

“You think the
envoy poisoned her? On the orders of the Pope?”

“I doubt any
such order could have been given, but perhaps Cardinal Valerno
interpreted the Papal will that way,” Severni said grimly.

“This Valerno,”
Fabrini muttered. “Where do I find him?”

“In the
Vatican, I assume, Mr. Fabrini,” Severni said. “But I believe we
can leave that matter to the proper authorities.”

“I just can’t
believe that anyone would kill her,” Brian said, shaking his head
as if trying to settle the idea into place.

“Christine was
a person to whom one always suspected martyrdom would come
naturally,” Severni said reasonably. “Perhaps the killer believed
he was carrying out the will of God.”

“So they just
hurried the inevitable along a little, huh?”

“Indeed. She
had, I understand, become something of an embarrassment to the
established order.”

“Had she
now?”

“I understand
it was her wish to remove her flock from this country, and perhaps
try to convert them to some new religious order.”

“The first part
is true. The second is irrelevant.”

“Good. Then I
believe it would be best if her wishes were carried out.”

“I’ll have a
ship waiting for them in Naples on the 18th. The pilgrimage will
carry them in that direction anyway.”

“Fine. Mr.
Fabrini. You will remain here and lead the pilgrimage. I shall make
whatever other arrangements are necessary to ensure they reach
Naples.”

“I have
business in Rome,” Fabrini muttered.

“You will
remain and lead the pilgrims, Mr. Fabrini,” Severni said without
adding any severity to his tone. “The people associate you with
her. They’ll follow you better than anyone else.”

Fabrini said
nothing. His eyes took on a sulky look that he dared not
express.

They had
arrived at a room where a nurse and a policeman stood like
sentinels either side of the door and two burly individuals sat on
chairs opposite.

“And now, Mr.
Carrick, if you are able, we would like you to make the formal
identification of the body.”

“Why me?”

“It would be
best if neither myself nor Mr. Fabrini were formally connected to
this matter. And perhaps some advantage may be gained if the
documentation was made to recognise the project with which you are
associated.”

“If you say
so.”

“She will
remain in state until the next pilgrimage. Do you wish to view the
body alone?”

“Thanks,” Brian
said. He had no idea of how to address this man, certainly dared
not call him Don, and so offered nothing except his hand.

“A pleasure to
be of service. Even in such regrettable circumstances. Good luck,
Mr. Carrick.”

He turned and
walked, taking Fabrini with him. Brian watched him depart for a
moment and then turned to the nurse, who silently admitted him to
the darkened room.

The Orion sat
in the shimmering heat haze of the tarmac at Kuwait airport. It
made you sweat just to look at it. In the coffee bar in the
air-conditioned terminal building, the heat glared at them
enviously from outside. Felicity stirred her Earl Grey tea and
regarded Harley Thyssen grimly. Thyssen drank coffee, strong and
black.

They had talked
of Chrissie and of Jami in cold deliberate terms, neither allowing
their emotions to show. They had talked of the estimated ten
million deaths attributable to the Shastri Events. They maintained
cold analytic terms, non-judgmental, unemotional. And now millions
more were to die while they sat helplessly. They were dying now,
even before the real terror began.

“They were the
youngest of us, those two sweet girls,” Felicity said, stirring her
tea although she took no sugar. “It’s so unfair.”

“I’m sorry,”
Thyssen said grimly. “I seem to have grown completely immune to
tragedy.”

The Zone would
be mostly located in the Caspian Sea where there had been little
research to determine the presence of underwater volcanoes or
fissures, but it would take in the southern coast, penetrating two
hundred miles onto the land, engulfing the Elburz Mountains of
northern Iran, one of the most populous regions of that country,
and might even overwhelm the city of Teheran itself. Fifty miles
from that city was one huge volcano—18,000 foot Mt Damavand, which
would certainly erupt catastrophically. Another danger area was 500
miles away to the northwest where the borders of Turkey, Armenia
and Azerbaijan interlocked—a region of many volcanoes dominated by
Mt Ararat.

“Is that why
you were able to risk Lorna’s life in such a cavalier fashion?”
Felicity said, because she was so frustrated and had to lash out at
someone.

“I’ll probably
have to risk all of our lives before this is over,” Thyssen said
quietly. “In fact, I already am.”