110
When Angela finished speaking there was a long silence in the office, almost as if the words she had used and the names she had said had imposed a kind of stillness and gravity on that moment.
Bronson broke the silence first. ‘How did you know that Angela was referring to the country in the first century AD, Charles?’
Westman half turned to look at Bronson, who was still sitting in the chair beside the closed door.
‘I know quite a lot of things,’ he replied, then turned his attention back to Angela. ‘And you believe all that, do you?’ he asked.
‘The story of the possible rape of Mary by a Roman archer has been around for a long time, for a lot longer, in fact, than some of the Gospels. The problem is that it’s just been a story, with no documentary evidence or independent sources to back it up. At least, until now. As far as I can tell from my examination of this parchment, it’s the real thing. It appears to be an entirely authentic contemporary account of the trial of the man who fathered Jesus. A foetus which today would probably have been legally aborted in most Western countries due to the violence of its conception.
‘This proves beyond doubt that there was no immaculate conception, and no virgin birth. Instead there was a brutal assault by a heavily armed man against a defenceless child. And what I find particularly appalling about this, almost as appalling as the crime that is being described on this parchment, is the undeniable fact that the Vatican has known about this for decades, possibly centuries, yet chosen to cover it up. And what’s more, when there was a chance that the text of this parchment would be made public, the Mother Church of Christianity sent a bunch of hired killers to recover the relic and to cover their traces by eliminating all those people who had knowledge of this object.’
Westman nodded.
‘I quite agree with you,’ he said. ‘That is simply appalling. Could I take a closer look at the parchment?’
‘Of course,’ Angela said, and slid her chair slightly to one side so that Westman could stand beside her and see the relic clearly.
The ancient weapons specialist bent forward slightly and peered down at the parchment. Then he straightened up and glanced across at Bronson.
‘I really must congratulate you,’ he said. ‘Your deductions and conclusions have been remarkable, quite remarkable. In fact, as far as I can tell from what you’ve said, you’ve only got one thing wrong in the entire story.’
‘And what’s that?’ Angela asked, puzzled.
Westman shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket.
‘The Vatican didn’t send hired killers after you, as you suggested, though of course it’s true that the entire operation was initiated from Rome. Please remain seated and absolutely still, Bronson,’ Westman went on, drawing out a long knife with a dark and mottled blade which he rested against the delicate white skin of Angela’s throat.
‘This blade of this dagger was forged from Damascus steel in a crucible in Persia in the middle of the eighteenth century,’ he went on, his previously gentle voice now edged with steel. ‘It is quite literally as sharp as a razor and if my hand so much as twitches, your lady friend will be dead in less than a minute. And hers will not be the first life that this blade has taken in my hands.’
111
Angela’s eyes were wide with shock and terror as she looked helplessly across the room at Bronson, Westman’s hand wrapped across her mouth to stop her crying out. She reached up and seized Westman’s knife-hand, trying to push it away, but his grip was like iron, the muscles of his arm tensed and rigid.
‘Now,’ Westman said, staring at Bronson, ‘as I was saying, it wasn’t the Vatican who sent people after you in Spain and France. It was another organization that you may have heard of: P2, or Propaganda Due, a lodge that I have served all of my adult life, and that it is now my privilege to head. This is not the first time that the Church has called upon my services through P2, and I doubt that it will be the last.’
The change in the man was extraordinary. The mild-mannered academic had vanished, and Westman’s entire demeanour, even the way he was standing, seemed to ooze a sense of menace that was almost palpable. It was, Bronson realized belatedly, an extremely effective disguise. Who would suspect that a bumbling museum specialist would also be the head of an international criminal organization?
‘You haven’t made a very good job of it this time, have you?’ Bronson snapped.
‘There was nothing wrong with my plan, Bronson. You just got lucky, that was all, and some of my people didn’t do as well as they should have. Every organization has trouble with its staff, even P2. Don’t worry. As soon as I’ve finished here I’ll be taking steps to ensure that those who failed me did so for the very last time.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Now that,’ Westman replied, ‘is a very good question. The ideal solution would have been for the nineteen sixty-five robbery at the Vatican — you were right about that — not to have taken place, in which case the parchment would never again have seen the light of day. Unfortunately, as we don’t own a time machine, we will have to improvise. Obviously I will have to destroy this relic, and all the other evidence that you’ve so cleverly collected. Once it’s been reduced to ashes, that will ensure that it can never do any harm.’
‘You’re quite happy, are you then, to acknowledge that Christianity is a sham, nothing more than a distorted superstition with no more credibility than witchcraft or devil worship?’
‘That doesn’t bother me at all. As far as I’m concerned, every religion is just a form of organized superstition. But look at it this way, because it might help ease your sense of injustice before you die. If you destroy the basis of Christianity, which this relic could do, hundreds of millions of people will lose their faith overnight. The results would be utterly catastrophic, affecting the population of virtually every country in the world. There would be enormous civil unrest, and there could very easily be hundreds of thousands, even millions, of deaths as a direct result.
‘So I’m very much afraid that the two of you will suffer a couple of unfortunate accidents. I think probably you’re going to have an argument, during the course of which you, Bronson, will punch Angela and she will fall badly and break her neck. In a fit of remorse, you will then take your own life by cutting your throat. All very sad, I’m afraid, but just one of those things.’
Westman pulled Angela up to her feet, the pressure of the blade on her throat irresistible, and moved her round from behind her desk. He kept her body directly in front of him, using her as a shield. Then he stopped in the middle of the office and looked at Bronson.
‘I’ll destroy the parchment last, of course, at my leisure, which means it’s now time to arrange your untimely demise.’
As he spoke, Westman switched the dagger to his left hand, his movements slick and practised, keeping the edge of the blade just millimetres from Angela’s throat the entire time. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small revolver, which he aimed at Bronson.
‘I gather from my colleagues in Spain that you may well be carrying a pistol, Bronson, so kindly stand up slowly, remove it from whatever holster or pocket you have it in, and drop it on the floor in front of you.’
Bronson got slowly to his feet and stood in front of the easy chair, but he made no move to reach for his weapon.
‘Take out your pistol and do it now,’ Westman ordered sharply.
Bronson opened the left side of his jacket to reveal the shoulder holster with the Glock 17 nestling in it.
‘Hold your coat open with your right hand, and take out the weapon with your left hand, finger and thumb only.’