The Pestilence Page 13

  ***

  DRESSLER was wearing her hair up in a neat, functional knot. Stefano was staring at the mole on her neck. He couldn’t believe that he had never noticed it before. At the nape of her neck sitting just beneath the hairline, it was more of a beauty spot than a mole, dark brown in glorious contrast to Dressler’s ivory skin. Stefano couldn’t wrench his eyes from it. A whispering compulsion from within urged him to reach out and stroke it with his fingers, to place his lips upon it and taste it with the tip of his tongue.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” Dressler hissed half turning.

  “What?” Stefano snapped back to reality.

  “I said this door is a piece of shit plywood. I’m going to put my foot through it. On three you go. Ja?”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The insurance trace on the Tanto yielded instant dividends. The knife was labelled as a Japanese antique and shipped overnight from Tokyo to a small apartment above a fishmonger’s in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City. Stefano immediately put a surveillance detail on the apartment but his team noted no movement during the night. Fearing the church had abandoned the safe house, Stefano ordered the assault for dawn. The format of the assault was simple; two by two entry with Stefano and Dressler breaching front and two of his men coming in from the rear. It was unlikely the occupants were armed but the team was leaving nothing to chance. Their licenced firearms were drawn and ready to go.

  Stefano stood to the side of the entrance while Dressler steadied herself. She lifted one of her size eleven boots and powered it into the door. According to Newton’s second law of motion, force equals mass times acceleration. Dressler weighed approximately eighty-five kilograms of pure muscle and her foot attained a velocity of around two metres per second before it impacted the door. She hit the door with 1,700 Newtons or 173 kilograms of force. The door didn’t stand a chance. It flew off its hinges and landed flat in the hallway.

  Stefano didn’t understand why his feelings for Dressler had suddenly intensified. They were colleagues and close friends, but he caught himself admiring the strength and power of the woman as she crunched through the door. He recalled their brief but enchanting time together, the muscular way she made love and the fleeting moments of vulnerability shortly after.

  Stefano hustled into the corridor. The lock fell forlornly out of the door frame as Stefano drifted past, gun held with both hands at eye level advancing with the correct blend of speed and caution. Stefano’s preferred weapon of choice was his Guardia issue PX4 Storm .45 calibre pistol, made by Beretta, the oldest gun maker in the world. It was efficient, and in trained hands, a frighteningly accurate weapon. Two nights ago Stefano put a bullet through Mariko’s ear and another through her throat from a distance of fifteen metres. The dual sided safety allowed operation with either hand which was perfect for the ambidextrous Stefano.

  As his investigators breached the back door Stefano ducked left into the main room, Dressler one step behind. There was no sound in the flat apart from his team. By now the noise of the assault should have woken the sleeping occupants. A well-drilled team would have kept a rotating night watch and they should have met some sort of resistance by now. Stefano’s eyes scanned the room keeping his gun moving with his line of vision. The living room was clear.

  Dressler led into the master bedroom. She preferred an old-fashioned six-shooting cannon to Stefano’s dainty scalpel of a Beretta. Dressler carried the Smith & Wesson 357 Magnum. The 357 was a brutal hulk of a gun, with guaranteed stopping power and genuine fear factor. Nobody liked having one pointed at them and most people invariably complied with Dressler when asked. Dressler was acutely aware that in the confined space of the apartment collateral damage was a serious issue. A round from the 357 could easily punch through any church members and into the apartments beyond.

  The master bedroom was clear, the bed made. The attached bathroom didn’t contain personal possessions. The team converged on the second and final bedroom but that, like the first, was also clear. The adrenalin charge that had fuelled the assault quickly subsided leaving Stefano momentarily weary. He stood in the centre of the apartment and breathed long deep breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth, returning his heart rate to its resting state, controlling his anger and frustration. The apartment was empty, the church members gone.

  ***

  SEVENTY-ONE miles away in Beersheba, the capital of the Negev, three Japanese tourists were breaking their fast in one of the city’s mid-range hotels. They were up early and dressed in identical, newly purchased, hiking clothes. All carried back packs and one had a Nikon camera slung round his neck. Over breakfast they poured over a series of maps and a tourist information pamphlet on the Makhtesh Ramon in the Negev desert, a forty-mile-long natural canyon in the heart of Israel’s largest national park. Red, Black and Ashen weren’t interested in the Ramon, the vivid colours or unique shapes of the ancient rock formations. The Negev was an important source of Jerusalem stone, a dolomitic limestone used in construction across the Holy Land since ancient times. Vast tracts of the Old City including the Wailing Wall were built or clad in the various hues and tones of Jerusalem limestone. Originally, the stone was quarried within the municipal limits, but as the city expanded and international demand for the stone increased production moved out to the Negev. In the desert, four companies were currently cutting and blasting the rock from the earth.

  Ashen sat back in his seat, the open window drawing the warm desert air into the car. He watched idly as the barren landscape of the Negev slid past. Mariko’s disappearance had been a blow to him, forcing him to adapt his plans. The Path of Determination was never for her. She was not a warrior. White’s path should have been the Path of Light but the thought of discarding her in Tokyo, as he did her family and the rest of his congregation, disgusted him. As the high priest of the church, a man who would ultimately serve at the right hand of the King of Light, Ashen felt the entitlement to take whatever he wanted. Mariko, beautiful, fierce Mariko; she was to have been his prize for removing the False Messiah. He imagined finally pressing himself upon her after years patiently waiting for her to ripen. On the verge of his triumph, White had been foolish. Was it the same with all women he wondered; were they all destined to play the part of Eve, disrupting Adam’s bliss, sending him plummeting out of paradise? Mariko had disobeyed his orders. She had been sent only to spy and observe. Yet something had gone wrong and she failed to return from her reconnaissance. Mariko, just like Eve, had been found wanting.

  White’s disappearance pointed to some sort of security presence around the False Messiah so any type of direct personal attack would now be difficult. Ashen shifted his gaze away from the window and to his last two remaining followers. They both sported long shirt sleeves in order to cover their yakuza tattoos. Red, a low level enforcer and Black, a former loan shark; feeble, violent minds easily swayed into the arms of the church by the promises of redemption and a carefree afterlife. They were his pawns to be sacrificed in the battle against the False Messiah.

  Red drove slowly past the quarry entrance. He cruised on for another 500 metres to the next bend in the road and carefully checked his mirrors; nothing but rocky, arid desert in all directions. He pulled the car off the road making sure it was invisible to anyone entering or exiting the quarry. A few seconds later Red gunned the car’s engine and the car leapt back onto the highway, calmly continuing its journey. By the time the car had rounded the next corner, Ashen and Black had already scrambled twenty-five metres up the dusty slope. Nearing the top of the hill the going got harder. There were fewer shrubs and plants to keep the soil together and the rock beneath was mostly shale which slid unexpectedly underfoot. Every clattering of falling rock increased their chance of discovery. When they finally crested the hill they were both out of breath and their shirts stuck heavily to their backs. Ashen stayed low to the ground and surveyed the landscape of the quarry before him. The outbuildings were ruins and there was a small lake on the quar
ry bed. It was deserted, production had long since shut down. Ashen cursed his bad luck and prayed to the King of Light for a change in fortune.

  Two hours later Ashen and Black sat atop another hill overlooking the second of the four quarries in this region. This time the quarry was very much a working one, horseshoe-shaped and tiered like a paddy field. Trucks roared in and out while heavy machinery clawed the earth. They found a shady spot to watch and Ashen used the zoom on his Nikon as makeshift binoculars. The earth movers congregated on the west side of the quarry. On the opposite side, a mobile drilling rig was grinding vertical holes in a plateau high above the quarry floor. A waist-high orange plastic fence enclosed the drilling area. Ashen approximated the plateau to be 300 metres long by 200 metres wide. The rig bored holes about twenty-five metres apart. Ninety-six holes to drill, thought Ashen and the rig was about halfway through.

  They watched the rig punch hole after hole into the earth and after about three hours Ashen spotted two trucks slowly winding their way up from the floor of the quarry to the fenced-off plateau. The first was a standard four-wheel lorry containing men and equipment. The second was a six wheeler with a reinforced and fully enclosed cargo area. Flat against the side of the second truck was an extendible arm, similar to those on a combine harvester. The arm would be used to disgorge the contents of the truck into the bore holes. Ashen could see the orange warning stickers plastered all over it. He raised his Nikon and read the warning notices as a satisfied smile disseminated across his lips. “Caution: Blasting agents.” The ANFO truck had arrived.

  ***

  ON the balcony of Mariam’s apartment, Dressler and Stefano loomed over Samuel.

  “I’m sorry sir, you can’t leave the campus, said Stefano.”

  “Why?”

  “The raid this morning was unsuccessful and the safe house was abandoned, probably right after we intercepted the woman. Our investigators are checking leads, but as of now we don’t have a concrete location on the church assassins.”

  “I need to get out there,” said Samuel. He pointed across the car park towards the entrance to campus. Campus security had parked cars to block access. Stefano’s four investigators were supporting security holding back the crowd. A sea of people were flooding back into the side streets and blocking all the approaches to the university. A few police cars tried in vain to keep the highway clear but the sheer numbers waiting for Samuel swallowed them and neutered their efforts. As far as the eye could see people were waiting in heady expectation. The crowd were joyous, raucous and enthused with hope.

  “Easily 100,000 people out there,” said Stefano.

  Across the car park floated the sound of hundreds of voices united in song, joined in time by many thousands more, lifting their refrain to the ears of Samuel, Stefano and Dressler listening high on the balcony above.

  “Through many dangers, toils and snares,

  We have already come,

  T’was Grace that brought us safe thus far,

  And Grace will lead us home.”

  “A hymn,” said Dressler.

  “Oh,” said Samuel. “Which one?”

  “Erstaunliche Anmut.“

  “Huh?”

  As if to translate, the crowd raised their voices in response.

  “Amazing grace,

  How sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me,

  Once I was lost, but now am found,

  Was blind, but now I see.”

  “Oh,” said Samuel again. He turned to his two protectors. “I need to get out there.”

  Stefano and Dressler followed Samuel out to the car park protesting every step of the way. The singing was drawing Samuel; he was Odysseus, the crowd his Sirens. As Samuel approached the singing transformed into a roar of appreciation as he was sighted. A mass of people surged forward, straining, but not breaching the security cordon. Samuel could see people climbing on to the walls of the campus, hanging precariously from lamp posts and road signs. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

  “Don’t let me get shot,” Samuel said to Dressler. “I’m not immune to anything.”

  Samuel jumped onto one of the campus security cars and stood on its roof surveying the massed throng of people around him. He was standing utterly exposed in an elevated position in front of tens of thousands of people. Stefano ordered his agents to surround the car and push back the crowd to give them a few metres of space. Stefano and Dressler stood in the newly created space with Samuel standing on the car directly behind them.

  If some crazy took a shot at Samuel unless they were aiming at his feet Stefano knew he had no chance of taking the bullet. The thought surprised him, taking a bullet for Samuel. Would he? Stefano placed his hand on his abdomen, the years of constant pain from the ulcer banished in a single moment. There was something very special about this boy. He glanced back at Samuel, who was preparing to speak. Right now, with Samuel standing on the car towering behind him, all Stefano could realistically do was pray.

  “I am humbled that so many of you have come to see me today. Today, like every day from now I have a job to do.” Samuel’s words were echoing back through the crowd as people repeated them for the benefit of those less placed to hear. “I can see many of the Healed, many familiar faces and to you I say please help me. Please bring me those that are ill. Bring them through the lines. The sick cannot harm or infect you. Make it your job, your responsibility to ensure they reach me.”

  The Healed moved instantly to aid and assist those they could while Samuel continued. “Also, I say to those of you who seek only immunity; today isn’t the day. I can’t prioritise the healthy when people are suffering. So please I beg you, go home, today I will only heal the sick.”

  Samuel stood down from the car much to Stefano’s relief. They stepped back into the campus and allowed security to reform a barrier at the entrance.

  “We should try and search everyone that approaches,” said Stefano.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, I should be able to spot any people with dangerous intentions.”

  “Ja, like the Japanese woman?”

  “Okay point taken. Dressler you stay close, but Stefano I still don’t want everybody manually searched. It just restricts the number of people I can see. Use the Healed to screen and support your team, they can be trusted completely.” Samuel put his hand on Stefano’s arm and smiled up at him.

  “Yes we can Samuel, but this… ” Stefano swept his arm towards the crowd. “This can’t happen again. It’s dangerous chaos, people can easily spill over the cordon, we need somewhere secure that can handle large numbers of people. We need exits we can staff and control.”

  The sick began to come through the cordon. The first, a small boy with a severe cleft palate carried by one of the Healed. The child’s mother looked to Samuel with imploring eyes and Samuel began work immediately. He placed his hands on the boy’s face his thumbs covering his eyes. Samuel concentrated and for the third time Stefano witnessed a miracle.

  “So, where do you suggest we go Stefano?” As the trickle was becoming a flood, Samuel moved steadily from person to person.

  Stefano pointed beyond Samuel’s left shoulder, up the hill to the Dome of the Rock. “The plateau provides a large field of view for my investigators, controllable entrances and is an area used to accommodating large numbers of people.”

  Samuel turned to look, then shook his head.

  “Jews are forbidden by the Chief Rabbi from entering the Temple Mount. I want to help everybody.” Samuel smiled. “Besides it might freak a few people out if I start strutting my stuff up there. Perhaps a football stadium? The Teddy is the biggest in Jerusalem, their fans call it Gehinnom.”

  “Gehinnom?”

  “Hell.”

  “I will get one of my investigators on it.”

  ***

  AS the sun dipped beneath the western wall of the quarry, the workmen on the plateau began to wrap up for the day. The drilling rig wa
s finishing hole number 90 with the remaining six holes scheduled for completion the following morning. The men from the ANFO truck, wearing hard hats and high visibility jackets worked meticulously preparing the final blast holes of the day. From the supporting lorry, they produced four large sausage-shaped white bags of Pentaerythritol Tetranitrate or PETN. PETN, the nitrate ester of Pentaerythritol, structurally very similar to Nitro-glycerine was mixed with a plasticiser to form a far more stable high explosive. Two of the sausage shaped bags of PETN were pierced and lowered by rope into the blast hole. The remaining two packs were wound together with detonator cord. The cord, a very thin flexible plastic tube, also filled with PETN acted as a high-speed fuse exploding rather than slow burning. At the end of the cord a small metal detonator was pushed into the PETN. The primed PETN was then lowered by the detonator cord into the blast hole. The PETN, though a powerful high explosive, was not sufficient to move thousands of tonnes of rock from the plateau to the quarry floor. It simply served as a booster for the main explosive, a mixture of Ammonium Nitrate prills and Fuel Oil, ANFO. The truck that had transported the ANFO to the quarry for safety kept the AN and FO in separate compartments and only mixed the ingredients 94 per cent AN and 6 per cent FO on site. The ANFO truck then lowered its boom arm and spewed the ANFO on top of the PETN filling the hole almost to the brim. The final stage of preparation was the stemming where dirt and rock were pushed back into the holes to seal them and keep the explosives under pressure on detonation.

  The men of the quarry finally left for the day and Ashen counted off forty-three stemmed holes. Ashen was uninterested in these. There were six holes primed with PETN and awaiting ANFO. The answer to the problem of how to destroy the False Messiah lay deep within those six holes.

  Ashen was a cautious man by nature; he and Black had been waiting all day and had no aversion to waiting a little while longer. The only security was a small guardhouse at the entrance of the quarry some 500 metres away from the plateau. Ashen waited to map out the patrol patterns so he and Black could slip in and out unnoticed. To his delight there were no patrols, the guards opting to remain snug and warm, glued to their television in the guardhouse. All that separated Ashen and Black from the explosives was a moonlit hike around the rim of the quarry and the waist-high orange mesh fence.