The Pestilence Read online

  Victor set up VPC Capital shortly after his father’s death with funds initially raised from the mortgage of his father’s Parisian properties. His first venture almost bankrupted him. He invested hastily in a friend’s coal-mining business only for an industrial accident to render the mine unworkable. Victor learnt some hard lessons from this disaster. He never again let his personal relationships interfere with his business decisions. He learnt to prioritise caution over speed and would in future walk away from deals of which he was even slightly unsure. The third and most important lesson he learnt was the absolute necessity of due diligence.

  Chaput was a fast learner. His second venture was launched almost a year after the first deal. He bought a struggling pulp and paper plant then shortly after, four of its closest competitors. He merged the five businesses to create a single global player. Three years later he sold the enlarged business to a Japanese firm for six times what he paid for the sum of its parts. This deal was the blueprint of VPC Capital’s strategy from then on. The company would look for a competitive market and use leverage to buy a succession of businesses in that market and create a dominant market player with the tacit ability to control price and supply. Victor utilised his family’s long-held financing connections to access credit at very favourable terms. Mergers and acquisitions brought the greatest benefit as two or more businesses could be merged, overlapping functions removed and significant synergies extracted. Ultimately the debt used to buy the businesses would be repaid out of the businesses’ own cash flow, refinanced or paid down through a sale or listing on a stock exchange. VPC Capital executed its strategy ruthlessly and brilliantly. Victor Pierre Chaput would say that his job was to make the global economy more efficient by generating growth and removing inefficiency. In reality his firm had a simple but effective strategy that made each of the thirteen partners incredibly wealthy and the Managing Partner, Victor Pierre Chaput, stratospherically so. Twenty-six years on from that first mining deal VPC Capital now employed over 185 investment professionals in nineteen countries, controlled 45.2 billion dollars of assets and had invested, throughout its history, in over 245 companies.

  Victor pressed his forehead onto the cool glass of his office window. At this altitude he could feel the buffeting of the wind against the other side of the window pane. He withdrew and inspected his own reflection. He saw blonde hair framing a handsome face with taut, youthful looking skin. With the exception of his silk tie and socks he was dressed in entirely English bespoke tailoring, wonderfully cut to highlight his physically strong yet lithe physique. He made a mental note to award his personal trainer a bonus. She was obviously doing him good. At forty-seven, he could still pass for early 30s and that pleased him.

  A flash on the eastern horizon caught his eye. He was 225 metres from the ground and had once calculated that on a clear day he could see out almost fifty-eight kilometres before the earth curved from view. He watched with intrigue as the Electrical Phenomenon sped towards him expanding to fill the sky, night duly turning into day. He knew this was no storm; it was the sign he had been waiting for his whole life. A sign his family had been awaiting for more than two millennia. He took a moment to admire the sheer majesty of it.

  With the phenomenon raging overhead, Chaput placed his left forefinger on the glass of his office window. Instantaneously a single bolt of lightning flashed down from the phenomenon and shattered the pane with concussive force. The explosion shook the paintings off his office walls and ushered in the howling wind. Utterly unmarked Victor Pierre Chaput stepped out into the smashed window frame some 225 metres above the streets of La Défense. He reached out his hand and at his command another single bolt snaked down from the phenomenon and struck his palm. He bathed in the power flowing through his body.

  In the underground car park of the Tour First, Chaput’s driver was looking anxiously at his watch. He had never known his boss to be even a minute late. At 1.40 a.m. Victor slipped into the car and ordered the driver home to the sixteenth. During the ride the driver was astonished by the sheer number of people milling around excitedly at that time of night. He grumbled, almost out loud, wondering what the world was coming to.

  ***

  Timeline: The Pestilence minus 15 days. Information source: Email intercept between Hazel Sears and Bill Irons.

  Subject: Information request

  Hi Bill

  I got your messages and below are the full specs of everything you requested.

  Mrs Srour, Dalia – 972 2 555 779

  Khalid Srour (middle son) – 972 4 555 141, address 15 New Republic Drive, Ramat Shaul, Haifa

  Samuel Srour (youngest son) – 972 2 555 786

  Dr Mariam Fara – 972 2 555 023

  For background on Dr Fara, you could try her colleague from the Department of Physics at the University of Jerusalem. Dr Shimon Biram. University main number is 972 2 555 892.

  Am at my desk let me know if you need anything else.

  Hazel

  ***

  MARIAM was driving her red Skoda. She edged slowly through Jericho’s afternoon traffic. Samuel sat impassively in the seat next to her. He curled his bare toes into the black nylon carpet in the foot well. Neither had spoken since they had left the hospital. Mariam needed some time to organise her thoughts, while Samuel seemed to be quietly recharging some of the energy he had so spectacularly expended.

  Mariam looked steadily out at the road ahead. “Samuel, have you looked into my aura?”

  Samuel silently continued looking out of the passenger window.

  “Samuel?” she prompted.

  “Yeah I did. I just got curious. You’re away a lot.” Mariam’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. She looked out at the road ahead. “I’m really sorry, I know I shouldn’t have,” he said quietly.

  Mariam thought for a moment, trying to frame the right words. She didn’t want to hurt him. “You are right, you shouldn’t have. Some things are private, even between us.”

  The lights turned green and Mariam shuffled the car forward a few metres.

  “Look, I’m not perfect,” said Mariam. “I make mistakes and have doubts and regrets but I don’t want you trawling through my memories trying to make sense of things that you have no business knowing about.”

  Neither spoke for a while; they both sat helplessly as the traffic snarled around them. Mariam broke the silence. “I’m sorry if you saw something that upset you.”

  “I’m not upset; I always knew that a simple farmer like me could never expect to hold on to someone like you.”

  Mariam said nothing. Samuel had a habit of speaking the simple, unfiltered truth.

  “I didn’t know you had a crush on my brother,” said Samuel with a sly grin.

  Mariam laughed. “When I was nine. He was better looking than you.”

  “I think I understand you a little better now,” he said. “I never appreciated how hard it was for you after your father died or how painful it was to leave your mother and move to Jerusalem.”

  “And also to leave you, Samuel,” Mariam interrupted. “You and Mama tie me to a place that has so many bad memories for me.”

  “I know we do and I’m sorry for that, but I’m happy for the time we have. When I’m with you, I do not wait for life. Do not long for it. I’m aware, always and at every moment, that the miracle is in the here and now.”

  Mariam smiled. She loved it when her farmer quoted Proust to her. “Speaking of miracles, we need to talk about your new superpowers. Let’s pull in somewhere and get some food, I would love some falafel or can you magic us lunch out of the glove compartment?”

  “Yes, let’s stop to eat but can you buy me a pair of shoes first? When I get out of the car, I don’t want to look like a complete hobo.” Mariam looked across at Samuel’s bare feet and ill-fitting shirt. He had a point.

  ***

  Timeline: The Pestilence minus 15 days. Information source: Telephone intercept between Bill Irons and Hazel Sears.

  Bill Irons: H
azel, it’s Bill.

  Hazel Sears: Oh hi, you get my email?

  Bill Irons: I did, excellent work thanks. I won’t ask where you got the info from.

  Hazel Sears: Good, please don’t.

  Bill Irons: Hazel, do you need to be at your desk to run your investigative work?

  Hazel Sears: No, I have most of the programs I use on my private laptop. The BBC machines are hopeless. I just need to access the Internet.

  Bill Irons: Okay, good. Things are getting interesting here. I need an extra pair of hands on the ground and real time access to your research talents. I assume you have the relevant visas? Can you check the time of the next flight to Jerusalem?

  Hazel Sears: Leaving Heathrow in two hours, my passport is in my desk drawer and I have both Israeli and Palestinian journalist visas.

  Bill Irons: Good. Get on that plane, bring your laptop. You can buy everything else you need once you get to Israel. I just met Dr Fara’s mother; she said her daughter returned home shortly before 2 a.m. That leaves only Samuel Srour at the farm at the time of the strike. Dr Fara went back to the farm after the bombing. Her mother hasn’t seen or heard from her since. I’ll try the doctor’s colleague on the number you provided, but her mother said she is on some sort of research leave so that’s a long shot. Mrs Fara also gave me an address in Jerusalem for Dr Fara and the licence plate of her red Skoda. I will send you both. Look, you have a five-hour flight coming up, I want you to try and use that time to piece this together. Let’s track these two down.

  I will head back to Jerusalem and pick you up from the airport. See you in the Holy Land.

  ***

  BILL climbed back into the Jeep and set off on the return journey to Jerusalem. He expected Hazel’s plane a little after 5 p.m. and planned on getting a few hours’ rest before it arrived. He juggled his phone as he drove, trying Samuel and Mariam on their cell phones. Both went straight to voicemail. He tried Dalia Srour’s cell and hit the jackpot. He explained to Dalia that he was a BBC journalist following up on the airstrike on her home. Dalia recognised Bill from the television and was initially reasonably open with him. She told him how the family had been duped. Bill sympathised and promised that he would stress their innocence in his subsequent piece. Dalia became a little coy when Bill enquired as to Samuel and Mariam’s whereabouts. She said she had a message from Mariam overnight saying they were both safe and uninjured and that was all the information she had. No location. Bill could sense she was being economical with the truth but couldn’t really press the matter over the telephone. On the subject of the phenomenon Dalia did not offer any explanation or know why it had originated on her farm. Bill thanked Dalia for her time and left his number in case she had any further thoughts.

  When Bill reached Jerusalem later that afternoon he filed copy on his efforts so far. He kept his promise to Dalia and typed and submitted a sympathetic 350-word piece about the attack on the farm. He confirmed that the farm was the one shown in the video images from Haran but was yet unable to verify how or why the Electrical Phenomenon began during the airstrike.

  ***

  BILL’S article was published as a follow up piece on the BBC website. It did not make the main page of the news but was tucked away in the relatively obscure “BBC News Middle East” section. As soon as it was published the article was flagged by Decapolis Inc.’s cyber security unit as information pertinent to an existing investigation. The article was copied, the source noted and was sent to the relevant Decapolis case officer.

  Decapolis Inc. was unusual in the VPC stable of businesses. The VPC model was to hold businesses for between three to five years before disposing of them; Decapolis had been in the portfolio for almost twenty-five. It was also one of a handful of businesses personally owned by Victor Pierre Chaput and not the VPC Capital fund. Decapolis’ primary role was the provision of security for VPC Capital’s employees and executives. Decapolis also had formidable investigative capability. After the disaster of the mining deal Victor needed access to a firm that could look beneath the skin of the businesses he was buying with the ability to investigate potential employees, executives and owners. Decapolis was Chaput’s due diligence insurance policy.

  Upon receipt of Bill Irons’ article, Stefano Grigori, the Decapolis case officer deemed the information important enough to contact their client immediately. At 9 a.m. Paris time the phone rang. Victor excused himself out of his meeting and took the call in a quiet corridor of his Tour First office complex.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir we have a name for you: Samuel Srour; a twenty-seven year-old farmer from Haran in Palestine. Location currently unknown.”

  “Very good, Stefano. Now find him.”

  ***

  TWO hundred and thirteen miles north-west of Paris, Hazel was scrambling to catch her plane but the Heathrow Express out of Paddington Station was doing its best to keep her in London. Her twenty minute train journey to Heathrow was fifteen minutes late. Even so Hazel would just make the flight as she had no luggage to check and access to fast-track security.

  Before Hazel left the office she set her Internet sniffer to amalgamate all the news and information linked to the airstrike and the Electrical Phenomenon. She was quite rightly proud of the sniffer program which she had written herself. The sniffer trawled through public and private information sources to bring her anything and everything written, filmed or spoken about her chosen topic. It had been running for nearly an hour; she just needed to download the results before the flight and then would be able to review the data while she was offline in the air.

  Hazel looked forward to the flight. She loved the peace of it; the disconnection from the world and the rare thinking time it afforded. Buffeted by the slow rolling train her thoughts strayed to the delicious stage actor with whom she had spent the previous night; his firm body and quite vacant mind. She flirted with the fantasy that he would be waiting in bed for her when she returned and wondered how she might feel if he actually was. She toyed with the thought for a time and concluded that she didn’t really care.

  ***

  Timeline: The Pestilence minus 14 days. Information source: Email intercept between Hiritoshi Fuji high priest of the Church of the King of Light and unknown recipients.

  Subject: Our King returns

  My subjects

  The time of the end of days draws near. The False Messiah has unleashed his sign sending it blazing across the heavens. Soon he will arise. He will speak with forked tongue and ill intent and the world will fall greedily under his spell. This has been foretold in our scriptures.

  Our sacred duty is to ensure that the King of Light rules both in heaven and here on Earth. The coming of the False Messiah and the approach of the end of days leaves our congregation facing two paths. Those that lack the strength to enter the battle against the False Messiah, to stand up for our beliefs have chosen the Path of Light. Our brothers and sisters in Tokyo have made that blessed choice. They have chosen, with open arms and clear hearts, to reside at the foot of His throne in the glorious Kingdom of Heaven.

  You are our strongest, you are our bravest. For you the Path of Light is closed. You must choose to fight for the return of the King of Light here on Earth. You must choose the Path of Determination.

  Now is the time to sharpen your swords, to strike swift and true in battle for our King.

  The False Messiah must not be allowed to corrupt the hearts of the world. Together we will find the False Messiah and clear the path for the return of the King of Light.

  Let His Kingdom once again rule here on Earth.

  Hiritoshi Fuji

  High Priest

  ***

  MARIAM bought Samuel a pair of fetching brown sandals and found a small booth at the back of a semi-empty falafel restaurant.

  “The sandals suck, Mariam.”

  She laughed. “The best I could do, sorry. I want to know Samuel, how are you doing this?”

  “When I woke up in that hospital I just knew I
could. You know how to walk and talk. You don’t think about it, you just do it. Same thing here, I just know I can heal.”

  “But Samuel, walking and talking, that behaviour is learned. What you are doing isn’t the same at all. I’ve been going over it in my head and I can’t think of a scientific explanation for any of it; what you are doing must be something else.”

  Samuel grimaced and licked the tahini sauce from his fingers.

  Mariam knew Samuel well enough to realise that she was wasting her time so she changed the subject. “Okay then, tell me about these auras.”

  Samuel brightened. “I have to concentrate to see them but when I do they burst out from everyone, like millions of gossamer threads, sometimes laced with colours that change with emotions. They remind me of a sea anemone with its tentacles drifting and swaying in the current. They contain memories, thoughts and sometimes intentions. When somebody is sick the aura surrounding that part of their body is shrivelled or the wrong colour. I take the energy inside me and push it into that section of the person’s aura. If someone is missing a limb, you can see the hole in the aura. Same thing, I push my energy into that space and first the aura then the limb grows back. The woman sitting behind you for example, I can look right into her aura.” Samuel concentrated. “Okay, maybe not her, there is nothing wrong with her, but the guy next to her, he has asthma. I know that as I can see that the aura around his chest and lungs is damaged. His memories tell me about the trip he made to his doctor when he was a child where it was diagnosed and the daily puffs he takes from his inhaler. That’s how I know.”

  Mariam looked over at the man who was quietly enjoying his lunch. He looked perfectly normal, happy and distracted.

  “Mariam, I obviously couldn’t do it before last night. Tell me what happened at the farm; the last thing I remember is running into the barn like an idiot.”