The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

Below, Shiva saw a coastline. The plane circled lower, and for the first time since passing over Germany he saw a green, cultivated landscape, little fields marching up hillsides, mountains in the distance. Then, once more, houses again, perched above a bay with islands beyond. Humanity, clinging determinedly to its last fragments of the earth.

The old city of Dunedin lay beneath the waves, and a new town had been built on the hills behind. Most of New Zealand’s mountainous South Island had survived, though the Canterbury Plains were gone. As the bus from the airport drove into town, Shiva saw rows of colourful earthhouses with elaborately carved wooden frontages. It was the gardens that amazed him, full of roses and flame trees and carefully cultivated palms. In Europe there were few gardens, only endless vegetable plots. But the Tasman Islands were the richest nation in the world, with plentiful hydroelectric power, large areas of mountain land that was potentially fertile but had never been cultivated, and a homogeneous, highly educated population. As he watched the healthy-looking people, many wearing shirts rather than kaftans, their long hair often braided into elaborate designs, Shiva wondered how such a people could have turned to an organization like the Shining Light Movement in substantial numbers.

The bus dropped him in the town centre, near the embassy. Dunedin was built around a large eight-sided roundabout called the Octagon, a reconstruction of the one that had existed in the old city, and Shiva took a road named George Street. The new town had re-created the design of the old, just as the original Scottish colonists three centuries before had named the streets after those of Edinburgh. It was midday, but the heat was bearable. A cool breeze wafted up from the sea, whipping up dust. In England at this time of day, people would be hot and sticky, searching out vestiges of shade, but here they walked about in the sun, relaxed-looking. Shiva carried his luggage to the embassy, which stood in a street of four-storey wooden official buildings, rising high above the one- and two-storey earthhouses in the surrounding streets. The doorpost was elaborately carved with what Shiva guessed were Maori carvings, intricate designs surrounding grimacing faces.

He was taken to a room on the third floor, a large room with a wall of windows overlooking a sea dotted with little islands. The embassy intelligence officer was a dapper man in his forties, immaculately dressed in a dark suit and high-collared white shirt. He wore black-leather shoes, polished so they shone. Shiva knew his name was Rodriguez. He rose from behind a large desk, where papers stood in neat piles, and shook Shiva’s hand, his grip dry and strong. On the wall behind him was a map of the Tasman Islands; Tasmania and the South Island of New Zealand relatively little changed from their old coastline except that the North Island was now split into two. Above Tasmania, a corner of Australia showed at the edge of the map, the endless desert coloured orange in contrast to the green shading of the Tasman Islands.

Rodriguez poured Shiva a glass of fruit juice and invited him to sit down. ‘You look tired,’ he said in a strong Spanish accent. His own eyes looked deceptively sleepy.

‘Yes, sir. My body thinks it’s the middle of the night.’

‘Flying is not a natural way to travel. Once was enough for me.’ He smiled, showing white teeth. ‘We have a small house for you a few streets away. You can get some rest soon.’

Shiva noticed that though Rodriguez’ tones were formal, he did not use the clipped speech of the official classes at home. Was that only an English affectation? He had never been abroad, so he didn’t know.

Rodriguez smiled at him. ‘Well, what is your first impression of Dunedin?’

‘It seems prosperous, everyone looks well fed. They have space for gardens.’

He nodded. ‘Compared with most places last century they were very lucky. By the time the great inundations came, most Australians had abandoned the continent; it hadn’t rained there in thirty years. Those left went down to Tasmania, or came here. There were the usual refugee camps and starvation and disease. But the population’s up to eight million now – impressive when you think there are fewer than thirty million in Europe.’

‘It is.’

‘They’ve planted everywhere except the high peaks and the western fjords. They’ve been very successful. Of course, it helped that the islands were so isolated. And they had a navy. They blew refugee boats coming down from Indonesia out of the water.’ A trace of bitterness entered Rodriguez’ voice. Perhaps he was recalling when Spain turned to desert, the migrant wars in the Pyrenees.

‘It’s surprisingly cool,’ Shiva observed.

‘The water around the islands is cold. Ten years ago there were still icebergs drifting up here from Antarctica. In time, it’ll get hotter.’ He leaned forward and smiled, his eyes not sleepy any more. ‘Have you made an appointment to see that woman?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Good. Get some sleep before then. And watch your step. The Shining Light are tricky people. They show three faces. On the one hand the church services and the evangelization drives, on the other the politics, the pressure for religious laws. But the third face is the hidden one. They are very good at infiltrating key points in state and private institutions with people, hiding their allegiances. The civil service is full of them.’

‘I understand they’re not as powerful as they were. Politically.’

‘No. There was a movement here a few years ago to privatize some of the public services, like the railways and the water supply. People looking to make easy money out of facilities it took the government fifty years to re-create. The Shining Light people jumped on the bandwagon; their programme of going back to biblical morals hadn’t done very well, but taking the lead in the privatization campaign brought them votes. For a while.’

‘Only for a while?’

‘Yes. They privatized the railways and it was a disaster. No coordination, fares through the roof. The Shining Light people got blamed.’ He paused. ‘Companies they run still own several railway lines, though. Make a tidy profit. There are lines pushing everywhere into the hills as people settle them.’

‘I was told their leader is reclusive.’

‘Ah, yes. Dr Brandon Smith.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘They have a hideaway somewhere in the mountains in the south-west. They bought a lot of land there, and no outsiders are allowed there. Smith disappears for months, then appears at the climax of some evangelization campaign. Seems to show himself less and less these days, but still turns up now and again standing on a box in a town centre somewhere. Promises everyone salvation if they join the Church, everlasting fire if they don’t.’

‘Have you ever seen him?’

‘Once, here in Dunedin. He’s very dirty and ragged, looks like an Old Testament prophet. But he runs everything from behind the scenes. He used to be a schoolteacher until God told him he was destined to be a great prophet.’

‘Why have they had so much success here? There are a few of them in the north, but they’re a joke, a little sect.’

Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Perhaps people here feel guilty about the degree of success and prosperity they’ve regained, feel it can’t or shouldn’t last.’ He leaned forward. ‘Whatever the reason, the Shining Light people feel they are special, chosen ones. That always makes people dangerous. And we’ve seen from the theft of the book how ruthless they can be. And this Parvati Karam-’ Rodriguez grimaced ‘-the Shining Light think women should be subordinate, stay in the home. To rise to a position where she was trusted with a task like stealing that book, Parvati Karam would have to be very good.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Be careful, Inspector Moorthy.’