“They’ve taken the Pope back to Rome?”
She nodded. “It was on the news this morning. They are preparing Saint Paul’s for over six million people to make the pilgrimage to see Pope Peter lying in state.”
“Have there been any other attacks since the Pope? It’s been three days. Forty days and forty nights of fear. That’s what they promised.”
“Nothing,” she said. “Which rather supports the idea that with you stuck in here there’s no one out there to coordinate the attacks, doesn’t it?”
“Or it means that Orla got Mabus.”
She looked at him. She had obviously heard what he said but didn’t know either of the two names, and because she didn’t know them, that turned the simple sentence into something that made no sense to her.
He tried to think through the chain of events. They would have returned the Pope’s body to the Vatican. The Cardinal Camerlengo would have officially declared him dead, calling out his real name three times. It was all ceremony, but that was part of believing, holding to the old rituals even as the world turned. Then the Camerlengo would have shattered the Papal seal of Peter II and split the Ring of the Fisherman, so that no one else might use it in the dead man’s place to forge papal decrees. Then the Church would enter Sede Vacante, the Empty Seat. There were nine days of mourning between the death of the Pope and the conclave that would elect his successor. There were precedents for moving the conclave of the Cardinals forward in times when the Church and the faithful were at the greatest risk, but they would resist that at all costs. Moving the conclave forward would show the world they were frightened by Mabus and his terrors.
That meant there were five more days until the conclave would convene.
Five more days. And he was stuck in this interrogation room, helpless to do anything, while Mabus and Caspi and Devere moved into their endgame.
It disturbed him that there had been no more attacks since he had been taken. Terrorists needed to make good on their threats, otherwise the fear they instilled would be diluted. Cities would rally. Berlin and Rome would be stronger for their suffering, just like New York and London. There should have been something else, something more.
Five more days for the Disciples of Judas to strike the most decisive blow of all.
They had promised to shatter the world’s faith.
Killing one man would not do that.
He had no idea what would.
And then he realized what this was: the calm before the storm.
Everyone in the world would think this was it, that it couldn’t get any worse. They’d seen cities ruined from within and without, and then the Father of the Catholic Church struck down.
He looked at the woman across the table from him. “Do you think this is over?”
She didn’t answer him for a long moment. She genuinely seemed to be thinking about her answer rather than glibly saying yes. “We have no reason to suspect more attacks,” she said finally, like she was parroting the official press release.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You have very good reason to expect more attacks, because they told you they were coming. Forty days and forty nights of terror in every city in the West. Wasn’t that what they said? Something like that. Not just Berlin and Rome.”
“But the threats in Rome and Berlin were different.”
She was right. Lethe had pointed that out. They were. “So that’s what you’ve decided? The threats were all about assassinating Peter II?”
“We have no reason to suspect otherwise.”
“Until they give you a reason.”
“They won’t,” she said, with surprising certainty.
“What about the promise to destroy the faith of the world? Are you just discounting that?”
“How do you destroy someone’s faith?” she asked in all seriousness. “There are 1.3 billion Catholics in the world, 2.1 billion Christians. How could you possibly shatter the beliefs of a third of the world’s population?”
“Not by killing one man,” Konstantin said, trying to force home the point.
“No, and every scientist who stands up to decry there is no god and has evidence to support his claim doesn’t change the fact that these people believe. Evolutionary biologists can call them stupid for believing, they don’t care. They still believe. So how do you do it?”
“You prove it wrong.”
“But that’s what the scientists are doing, isn’t it?”
“Then how do you do it?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I am not worried about it. That’s why I am much more interested in much more mundane questions like who you work for and who you are working with.”
“I’ve told you, I work for Sir Charles Wyndham. The project is codenamed Ogmios. Ask him,” he said again, willing her to just go and track down the old man herself.
The next time she came into the interrogation room she brought something for him. It wasn’t a cup of coffee. She put the silver dagger on the table between them and said, “What’s this?”
He looked at it. It was the first time he had seen it properly. It was obviously old. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.
“Try me.”
He shrugged. “It’s a dagger.”
“I can see that, so that hardly counts as unbelievable. So tell me, what’s so special about it?”
“It’s two thousand years old for a start,” Konstantin said. He didn’t want to say more, saying more meant he knew more. Knowing more only implicated him further. He breathed deeply. What did it matter? He wasn’t walking away from this. He might as well tell her what he knew, if for no other reason tha talking to her kept her partner away. The man’s constant badgering and boorishness as boring.
“Go on.”
“It’s silver.”
“I can see that.”
“Silver’s not usually the stuff of weapons. Too soft. It’d break, maybe not the first time it’s used, maybe not the second, but it would break. And no fighter wants to go to war knowing his weapon could fail him at any time.”
“Makes sense.”
“Because it is sense. Common sense.
“So it’s ceremonial?”
“You’d think, but no. I think it is more accurate to say it is commemorative.”
“That’s an odd choice of words, don’t you think? Are you saying the dagger used to murder the Pope was a commemorative dagger? So what, it was made for a King’s Jubilee? Something like that?”
He did like this woman. She was sharp. “Something exactly like that. A king two thousand years ago.” If he said two thousand years often enough she’d make the intuitive leap. He knew she would. “That’s one thing that makes this dagger special-it’s silver, it’s two thousand years old. What kings do you remember from two thousand years ago?”
She spread her arms wide.
“Think,” Konstantin said. “King of the Jews, two thousand years ago?”
“Jesus? You’re telling me this dagger was made to commemorate the life of Jesus?” She didn’t laugh, but he could see she wanted to.
“How does silver fit into the story?” he guided her. “Think.”
“Silver?”
“Come on. You know this. Every one learns the story when they’re kids. Thirty pieces of silver.”
She shook her head. “No bloody way. Not possible. I don’t believe you.”
“You asked me. I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
“You didn’t say I wouldn’t believe, because it was ludicrous though, did you? So, tell me, how did you get your hands on a dagger forged from Judas’ silver? Hell, I can’t even believe I am asking a question like that. Jesus, Judas, we just wandered off into criminally insane territory. Is that what this is? Are you fashioning your defense? Going to plead the Devil made you do it? That you heard the voice of Judas telling you to strike back? To punish the unfaithful for treating him so badly?”
“No,” Konstantin said.
“Then what? Talk me through it, Konstantin. Help me understand, because right now I’ve got a murder weapon, a murderer, and a truckload of evidence, but something doesn’t fit when I think about it. It’s a niggle. The old cop instinct, if you like. I want to say I don’t think you did it, but I’ve watched the footage a thousand times; you’re as guilty as sin. So I don’t know why I keep coming back to the fact that I want to believe you.”