the Source (2008) (5 page)

Chapter
8.

It was almost midnight when Ross turned the Mercedes into the driveway of their Darien home. The long weekend in Vermont had been Lauren's idea, consolation for postponing their holiday and celebration of her pregnancy and the Voynich. He had been looking forward more than he'd realized to getting away from everything so the long weekend now seemed a poor substitute for the planned three weeks in the Far East.

As the car slowed, Lauren leant across to kiss his cheek. 'Thanks, Ross, I had a lovely time.'

'So did I. It could have been longer, though.' He flashed a lopsided smile. 'Say, about three weeks.'

She laughed. 'Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I know you're disappointed, but the insurance covered the cost. We haven't lost any money.'

'You know it's not about the money,' he said. 'This was planned months ago, and we haven't had a real holiday together for years.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'That's because you were always too busy with your work.'

'Touche.' It was ironic that when he had time on his hands Lauren had a deadline to meet. 'But you've been working on the manuscript for more than seven years. What difference will three weeks make?'

'All the difference between being the first to complete it and letting someone else get there ahead of me. I'm so close, but the last section isn't like the rest. It's more difficult.' As he parked she put her hand on his. 'I'll make a deal with you. I'll still be able to fly in two months and we'll take our holiday then, whether I've cracked the manuscript or not.'

He smiled at her, thinking how much he loved her. 'Sure. But by then I'll probably be up to my eyeballs in a new job.'

'Fine by me.' She placed his hand on her belly. 'Pretty soon we're going to have another mouth to feed.'

Ross got out of the car and pulled their bags from the back seat. He opened the front door, turned on the lights and followed Lauren into the hallway. 'I'm sorry for giving you a hard time. I guess I'm feeling--'

But she wasn't listening to him. She was looking up at the darkened landing. 'You heard that?' she whispered.

'What?' He put the bags down on the polished cedar floor and moved to the foot of the stairs. 'Where?'

'In my office. I thought I heard something.'

He hadn't. He walked quietly up the stairs.

She followed him to the top, put a hand on his arm. 'Why don't we just call nine one one?'

'Because it's probably nothing. Wait here. I'll check it out.'

He walked across the landing to the door on the left: the smallest bedroom of five, which Lauren used for her work. He had the study. He stood by the closed door and listened, but heard nothing. He relaxed, turned back to his wife and shook his head.

'Be careful,' she mouthed.

He smiled at her and she smiled back.

He turned the knob, opened the door and sensed that something was wrong. He heard Lauren hiss: 'Don't go in, Ross. I always lock the door. Someone must be in there.'

Then his world exploded.

A force slammed the door back on him, smashing into his face, throwing him backwards on to the landing, his head striking the balustrade. Blood clouded his vision and through it he saw a masked figure towering over him. A weaker man would have been knocked out, but Ross dragged himself up, turned to his wife, standing frozen at the head of the stairs, and yelled, 'Run, Lauren! Run!' The intruder lashed out with his heel, catching Ross hard in the temple.

Lauren ran, but as Ross lapsed towards unconsciousness, he saw that she wasn't running away but towards him. 'Leave him alone!' she shouted.

The figure stepped over Ross and made for the stairs, Lauren in his path. Vision blurred, Ross reached up and grabbed the intruder's trouser leg, exposing a thick scar above the right ankle. The man barrelled past him, shoving Lauren against the balustrade with such force that the rail broke and she plummeted to the floor of the hall below. There was a thud and a sickening crack. Then she was silent. The last sound Ross heard before darkness claimed him was the click of the front door closing.

Chapter
9.

Uganda, Africa

Thousands of miles away, in a small town near Lake Victoria, the Jambo Internet cafe represented an outpost of extraordinary technology, its air-conditioned interior a refuge from the sweltering heat. Amid its young clientele of locals and tanned backpackers, drinking coffee and tapping at computer terminals, one pale elderly face stood out. Sipping a sweet latte, Sister Chantal studied her screen.

Every month she took her walking-stick and strolled into town from the Aids hospice on the hill, ordered a latte and a pastry, then sat at one of the terminals. Every month her frail fingers entered the same keyword in the major search engines and scoured the Internet, and every month she found nothing new. When she had finished her pastry and the latte, she would return to the hospice and tell herself that next month things would be different. Next month her burden would be lifted.

She had lived at the hospice for the last twelve years and she enjoyed her work there, but she knew it would soon be time to leave. It wasn't just that the mother superior and the Church authorities would eventually start asking questions - as they had done in every other hospital and hospice where she had worked. Her precious supplies were running low and to continue her lonely vigil she had to replenish them. It was hard to believe she was running out of time. A stab of self-pity pierced her serene self-discipline. She pushed it away and concentrated on the computer screen.

First, she scanned the BBC and CNN. As usual, the news wasn't good. A story about Alascon Oil's new pipeline project was particularly worrying. When she had read enough she went to Google and entered her search word. She scrolled down the first four pages, dismissing each hit.

Then something caught her eye.

She paused, coffee in hand, but remained calm: she had found encouraging items before, all of which had come to nothing. She clicked on the entry and studied the website. Then she placed her untouched coffee on the desk. As she read, her heart beat faster and her palms moistened. She reached up and loosened her wimple, suddenly short of breath. Struggling to control her rising excitement, she visited two more websites, gaining more background information, then sent the relevant pages to the printer. Next she accessed the Banque Geneve secure site, then entered her password and account number. She barely glanced at the large balance. The money was a means to an end. Nothing more. She paid for a plane ticket and transferred funds to the nearest bank, in Jinja. Finally she stood up, settled her bill and rushed out, leaving her coffee on the desk.

When she returned to the hospice it was quiet. Most of the nuns were in the chapel or tending the abundant crops in the small garden of fertile red earth. She went straight to her spartan room and packed everything she owned into a small suitcase. Before closing it she retrieved an old wooden box and undid the padlock. She took out a smaller, ornately carved box, opened it and examined the contents. The leather drawstring pouch was almost empty. A rush of relief and elation flooded her. It had once been full to bursting but it no longer mattered that her supply was almost exhausted. Her wait would soon be over.

A hesitant knock made her spin round and slam the box shut. Two small, painfully thin boys stood in the doorway. 'What are you doing, Sister?'

She smiled at them. 'Jambo, Samuel, Joshua.' Samuel and Joshua Jarimogi were twins, born with Aids. After a long struggle, their mother had died six months ago and, according to the doctors, it was inevitable that the boys would soon join her. Sister Chantal tried not to get too involved with the patients - over the long years she had seen too many die. But Samuel and Joshua were her favourites.

'Can we play?' asked Samuel.

Sister Chantal glanced at her case, then at the box. She should leave, before the mother superior or one of the other sisters challenged her, but her vigil was almost over and the euphoria she felt compelled her to do something reckless: a small act of rebellion after a lifetime of discipline, obedience, patience and self-sacrifice. 'Yes. Let's have a tea party.'

She took the carved box and led the boys to the deserted kitchen. She put on the kettle and told them to fetch two cups and saucers. She opened the leather pouch and emptied most of its contents into the box, saving only the barest minimum for her final task; she was growing weak and would need her remaining strength to complete her vigil and pass on her burden. She had been forced to see so many die. What harm could this do now? She prepared the contents and tilted the box so they collected in one corner, shook half into one cup, half into the other, then poured in the boiling water. As she put the box down, Samuel reached for it, fascinated by the unusual carvings.

'Can we have it?' he asked.

Her first instinct was to take it back, but as she had no more need of it, she pocketed the leather pouch and nodded. 'Yes, Sam, you can share the box. But it's very old and very precious so take care of it.' She added sweet condensed milk to the cups and waited for the liquid to cool. 'Now drink your tea.'

Chapter
10.

Rome, three days later

Breathing in the soothing fragrance of pine and orange trees, Marco Bazin looked down on the dome of St Peter's, rising above the dawn mist of the eternal city. At such an early hour the Aventine Hill was deserted and he enjoyed the illusion that he was alone in the world. Then a man appeared in the distance. Bazin recognized his gait instantly. As he braced himself for the encounter he pondered the irony of what had happened. In all his years as an assassin, la manosinistra del diavolo had never failed in an assignment. Until three days ago, the one time he had been ordered not to harm anyone.

Bazin cast his mind back to the night when the priest had visited him at his alpine retreat, then to his childhood and the hot, dusty courtyard of the old Jesuit orphanage in Naples. There had been no smell of fresh pine or oranges in that place, only the stench of sewers, sweat and fear. Half-brothers, born of the same whore, he and Leo had been each other's only friend, opposites bonded by a common need to belong and survive. His older, smarter, smaller half-brother had helped him with his studies, while he had protected Leo when the others had picked on him for his size and cleverness.

Then they had left the orphanage and everything had changed.

The Jesuits had always valued Leo's intellect. They had encouraged him to join the order and further his studies. The Church had become his salvation. Bazin, however, had hated the priests and they had had no time for his rough ways, so he had turned his back on the Church and joined the Camorra, the Neapolitan branch of that other Italian institution: the Mafia. Over the years the brothers' paths had diverged further, one becoming a powerful priest dedicated to saving souls, the other a feared assassin paid for taking lives.

When Bazin had discovered he was dying, however, he had called the only person he knew who could save his soul. To his surprise, gratitude and shame, Leo had offered him a way to absolve himself of his sins. But now, as he watched Father General Leonardo Torino approach in the early-morning mist, Bazin knew he had failed him.

Torino didn't smile or greet him, just tapped his watch. 'Let's keep this brief, Marco. I'm a busy man and I don't want my people to come looking for me.' He frowned. 'What happened in America? I thought you were meant to be good at this. The plan was to go in, get the information and leave, not to jeopardize Dr Kelly's work in case she hadn't finished it. I certainly didn't tell you to hurt anyone and get the police involved.'

Bazin couldn't meet his eye. 'You told me they'd be away for three weeks, Leo.'

'You will address me as "Father General".' He paused. 'They should have been away on holiday. The point is you were supposed to be discreet.'

'I was, Father General. I covered my face and left no trace. The police will assume I fled before I had a chance to take much. If they'd been away like you said no one would've known I was even there. But I had to use force to escape - or you wouldn't have got what you wanted. In the end, I took a few valuables to make it look like a normal burglary.'

For a while Torino said nothing, just glared at Bazin as he stared bleakly into the distance. 'You've disappointed me, Marco. Your journey to absolution has not begun well. But we can salvage something from this. If you got what I asked for.'

Bazin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a La Cie portable hard drive. 'Before I was interrupted, I downloaded most of the relevant folders you told me to look for.' He handed it to Torino. 'But not all of them.'

'This better have what I want on it. I'll contact you when I need more.' Torino concealed the hard drive in his robes, turned abruptly and walked away.

Bazin thought of what he had done to acquire what Torino had asked for. 'Are you sure this is what the Church wants, Father General?' he called after Torino. 'That this is how I'll gain absolution?'

Torino stopped, and Bazin saw his shoulders tense as he turned.

'You dare to question me?' he said, his face white with rage. 'If I want advice on killing, I'll come to you. But I'll be the judge of what the Church wants and needs.' He narrowed his eyes and stepped close enough for Bazin to smell mint and garlic on his breath. 'You begged for my help. Remember?' Before Bazin could answer, Torino had grabbed his half-brother's crotch.

'What the fuck are you doing?' Bazin pulled at his wrist but Torino only gripped harder.

'Listen to me, Marco. You demanded my help. Never forget that.' He squeezed. 'You know why God let the surgeons cut off one of your balls? Because they represent your two lives: the one you live now and the one you live beyond death. God took the first because of your past sins, and if you want to keep the remaining one, the one that represents your eternal future, you must follow Him - and His Church. God's got you by the balls, Marco. You said you wanted absolution. The question is: how much?'

'I told you. I want it. I need it.'

'In medieval England, when a man gave evidence in court, he didn't put a hand on the Bible. He held his testes. The word "testimony" comes from that practice. And as I hold your last precious one, Marco, know that this is God's testimony. We're on a crusade, the Church is fighting for its very existence and God demands you help His ministry by doing whatever's necessary.' He paused to let his words sink in. 'You no longer work for the Mafia. You're no longer la mano sinistra del diavolo, a base assassin who kills for money, but a crusader, a holy warrior, God's right hand wielding a cleansing sword against Rome's mortal enemies. From this day forward, whatever I tell you to do in His name is sanctioned, pure, righteous. You understand?'

'Yes.'

Bazin did understand. Despite the pain - or because of it - relief swamped him. Finally he had found his purpose and he would surrender to it. Torino was showing him the uncompromising path that led to redemption and he would follow it to the end, come what may.

As if reading his mind, the Superior General released his grip. 'Are you prepared to do whatever I say the Church needs? However delicate? And will you pledge to help without asking questions?' 'Yes.'

'If you tell anyone of this, the Church will disavow everything. I will disavow everything. You understand?'

'I want only absolution, Father General.'

'Then you must earn it.'