Richard Beard - Acts of the Assassins

He checked the phone but had lost the signal. One bar, none, like living in the past. He dropped the phone into his jacket pocket. ‘A bodyguard. Think about that. A bodyguard and the Ottoman Palace Hotel. Jude in the ruins of Beirut this is not.’

The lobby of the conference hall was filled with academics on a junket to the sun, and they were clueless about security. A graduate student checked bags at the door, his mind on a dissertation about the nature of grace.

‘We’ll pick Paul up after the lecture,’ Cassius Gallio said. ‘Shake the tree. He sold you out, so you can lead the questioning.’

‘Really? Valeria wanted us to be careful.’

‘Valeria isn’t here.’

Gallio wore clothes to blend in with the occasion — jeans, a soft-collared shirt, a cotton jacket. Brown shoes. It was a brown-shoes academic event, with flip-flops at the hotel for the pool. Baruch was sticking with his suit, no tie, in line with the more self-regarding associate professors.

‘Are you carrying a weapon?

Baruch swept back the side panels of his jacket, sank his hands into his trouser pockets, as if that proved he was clean. ‘No.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid. Not here.’

In the lecture hall, deliberately early, they memorised the cameras, their angles, the rows in the auditorium the cameras didn’t reach. Gallio staked out the entrance, pretended to make notes in the programme, drew shapes instead.

The first delegates arrived and Gallio looked for familiar faces, maybe a surprise disciple. Like everyone else he had his name on a lanyard, his area of interest recorded as Jesus Studies , and he was in the lobby when Paul swept through, dressed like the disciples but in a darker colour. In close attendance he had his bodyguard, a slab of a man who stared at collars for comms equipment. He was good, an experienced professional, but Gallio gave nothing away. He gazed at Paul like every other star-struck theologian.

At the lectern, Paul cleared his throat and assessed the audience. He was short and bald, the grey curls at the sides and back of his head cropped tight to his skull. The stage lights reflected from his pate, and cast a shadow from the boxer’s snub nose in his middle-aged face. He was clean-shaven, not from Galilee, not a disciple.

He shuffled his notes, lifted one foot then the other from the floor, by habit a walker more than a speaker. He slapped a strong hand onto his forehead and ran it down his face, over his eyes, flattening his nose, dragging down his jaw. He blinked, recovered himself. Then he smiled.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly high, but confident and clear. ‘You know who I am, and most of you know what I do. Like it or not, you’re going to hear about Jesus.’

He spoke fluently, perhaps a little fast, as if he was over-familiar with his material. Cassius Gallio struggled to recognise Jesus in Paul’s description of an all-conquering Christ who would come again bringing fire and destruction. Crucifixion and death would change anyone. But not this much, not from a Nazareth carpenter to the lord of heaven and earth. The Jesus described by Paul sounded like an idea, an optimal projection, as if in Paul’s version the cult had moved beyond a living Jesus.

In that sense, Paul made the second coming sound like a code, and Gallio sat in the auditorium speculating a new official leader. Whoever emerged strongest from among the surviving disciples would lead as if Jesus had returned. Then again the second coming could be literally what Paul said it was: Jesus reappearing from beneath whichever rock had been hiding him. Or not a rock, but a cloud. Jesus would arrive by air, descending from the clouds. In Paul’s world of international conferences this was not so outlandish a notion. Paul reminded the audience that he had been the last person to see Jesus alive, which validated his every opinion: Jesus would come again.

He winced and straightened at the microphone, his back killing him. Paul’s view was that yes, Jesus had communicated directly with the disciples, but alas they’d failed to appreciate his message. The disciples could be theologically naïve, trusting Jesus to deliver them from evil, just as James had trusted, poor James, recently beheaded in a public place in Jerusalem. Paul’s thoughts and prayers were with the family and friends of James at this difficult time.

Paul ended his lecture with a reminder that death was not itself an ending, not since Jesus had come back to life. So be of good heart. The troubles of now will fade before the glory of the great not-yet.

Everyone clapped. During the Q & A Cassius Gallio raised his hand. He waited his turn, then tried a question about an intriguing conflict he’d read about in the files.

‘You don’t always agree with the disciple Peter, do you? What exactly is the nature of your quarrel?’

Paul stared evenly at Gallio, but with a hint of pity, as if Gallio had forgotten to turn off his phone. An easy mistake, but he’d still managed to embarrass himself. ‘I have opposed Peter to his face, that’s true,’ Paul said. ‘But only on minor points, and when he was clearly in the wrong.’

On circumcision, for example, and food purity. But Paul didn’t want to dwell on their differences, which had been taken out of context.

‘You preached specifically against John.’ Cassius Gallio tried again. ‘You said you didn’t want to meet him on your travels. Do you have a problem with the disciples?’

‘I love the disciples, every last one of them.’

At the end more clapping, louder than the first time. Paul clapped them back, arms above his head, hands barely coming together. He did not look at Cassius Gallio. He did not go to the bar.

Outside the lecture hall Gallio turned his phone back on. He had three messages from Valeria. He ignored them. She wanted Paul, and he was getting Paul.

‘Come on .’ He made sure Baruch was out of the hall, and following. ‘We’ll lose him.’

Baruch caught up with Gallio before they reached the taxi rank, where they barged the queue and had the cab tailgate Paul’s limo to the Ottoman Palace Hotel. Paul and his retinue crossed the marble and chandelier lobby without stopping. They waited for a lift, the bodyguard facing back into the lobby, then into the lift and up. Sixth floor.

In Beirut, Jude the disciple of Jesus was helping those in need, while dying quietly from a preventable illness. In Antioch Paul had a hotel with spa and a personal staff.

‘He’s a jumped-up coat-holder,’ Baruch said. ‘He’s got answers for us, I’m sure of it.’

A change had come over Baruch. The chairs in the lobby were designed for lounging, but he sat forward and turned an invisible ring on the thumb of his left hand. He was a former killer, and it seemed his past remained available to him. He could access a primitive state of mind beyond the reasonable boundaries that Gallio tried to respect. Baruch was entering his special zone, which wasn’t where Gallio wanted him to be right now.

‘Paul is a citizen,’ Gallio said, ‘we have to respect his rights.’

‘Or what?’

‘There’ll be repercussions. Valeria won’t forget, and she’s not good at forgiving. I’d say that’s one of her weaknesses.’

Baruch bribed the concierge in dollars: there were two rooms booked in Paul’s name. Another softened greenback and he had the number of the larger room, a suite. They waited. A lot of what Cassius Gallio did, when he wasn’t speculating, was waiting. He didn’t ask again if Baruch was armed.

‘I reckon the secretary has the smaller room.’ Baruch was winding himself up. ‘The bodyguard sleeps in the suite with Paul. That’s how I’d arrange the beds, if I was worried about security. The bodyguard may be carrying. I looked but couldn’t be sure.’