Richard Beard - Acts of the Assassins

‘Comes with the job,’ she says.

‘We could administer some pain,’ Baruch says. ‘Even though he’s unconscious. Why not?’

Baruch would love to make his trip by air worthwhile. He is angered by obstacles, by Bartholomew in a coma, and for Baruch hesitation is a type of failure. In his experience progress is achieved with decisive action. Specifically, he wants to hurt Bartholomew into giving up secrets, and torture could plausibly wake the dead.

‘Or not,’ Gallio says. ‘If he doesn’t feel pain, if he doesn’t wake up, then how can he beg for mercy? You’d kill him.’

‘The coma is a problem,’ Claudia agrees, whatever Baruch might think. She has shadows beneath her eyes, and a vertical line in the centre of her forehead that will deepen for the rest of her life.

‘What do you think now,’ Gallio asks her, ‘do you believe Philip’s murder was random?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I believe. Either it is or it isn’t. Our job is to find out what’s true.’

She thinks and talks like a Speculator. If Claudia is a humble analyst, then Cassius Gallio is a Swiss drugs salesman.

‘We should keep him with us,’ Gallio decides. ‘Make sure he’s out of danger, at least from the assassins. We’ll put him on a military flight to Jerusalem.’

Claudia nods, all three of Valeria’s team now assembled at the bedside like family mourners with a recent corpse. Bartholomew is laid out in his hospital gown, a thin-boned Jesus — eyes closed, pale inner arms bared to the striplights and IV feeds, a smile at the corner of his mouth. A nurse puts her head round the door. Baruch gives her a targeted stare and points to the corridor. She leaves.

‘What about Paul?’ he says. ‘We can’t discount his possible involvement in this.’

‘Can’t rule him out, you’re right.’ That frown-line again through Claudia’s forehead — so young, and the thinker of such difficult thoughts. ‘Paul used to be an Israeli operative, and years ago the priests sent him to assassinate disciples. He could be a double agent, and Jerusalem continues to run him.’

‘But Baruch would know if that were true,’ Gallio says, emboldened by the serenity of Bartholomew and his deep, easy breathing. ‘You’d know if Jerusalem was running Paul, wouldn’t you Baruch? Senior man like you?’

Cassius Gallio is not alone in having suffered for Jesus. Baruch had once been the top Israeli fixer in Jerusalem. Back in the day, whenever the priests had a Jesus problem, Baruch was the man to solve it — the son of the widow of Nain, Lazarus after he was brought back to life. Following the insolence of the crucifixion weekend, his superiors lost confidence in his powers.

‘Maybe I wouldn’t know.’ It hurts Baruch to say it. ‘Not these days. They could run Paul without keeping me in the loop. I have to accept that.’

‘Not as vital to the cause as you thought you were.’

‘Who is?’

‘Let’s stick to the information we have,’ Claudia says. ‘Thomas and Philip were targeted, we can agree on that, and these hits are professional. The incident sites are clean, and the killers know what they’re doing. That doesn’t mean Paul is involved.’

‘Paul knows what he’s doing. Remember Stephen.’

‘Remember Judas,’ Gallio says.

No suicide note, when Jesus and his disciples had a motive for killing the man who’d betrayed them, but Baruch doubts the disciples have it in them. They can talk and they’re kind; none of them are killers. Cassius Gallio isn’t so sure. He remembers Judas hanged, alone on his blood-money property, swinging from the neck for hours in the morning sun. Judas was a lesson, a vengeance killing. His death was public and violent, a classic gangland memorandum: Jesus and the disciples sweep clean. Jesus was human and he wanted revenge on Judas, as would Cassius Gallio, if Judas ever happened to him.

The murder of Philip fell into a similar category. An inverted hanging had the same vengeful showiness, the theatre.

‘In Babylon, Thomas was stoned and he didn’t run,’ Gallio says. ‘Philip had a rope pulled through his thighs but not a single bruise on his face. Look at Bartholomew. He’s had a disturbing experience, but I can’t see any evidence he fought back. There’s not a scratch on him.’

They dutifully examine Bartholomew’s unblemished face and hands, pale as alabaster. With a single finger Claudia moves a strand of hair away from Bartholomew’s eye. His brow is unmarked, and in his sleep unlined.

Gallio says: ‘It looks like they knew the killer.’

‘They know Jesus,’ Claudia says.

‘They know Paul !’ Baruch shouts. He calms down, chastened by the room’s hygienic echo. ‘Jesus isn’t a killer. He doesn’t have the record.’

‘He escaped his own execution,’ Gallio says. He brushes a fly from his face. It veers upwards and is zapped with a single buzz. ‘A man who dies and doesn’t die could easily set up a stoning and a hanging. I’d say he’s capable of wiping a crime scene.’

‘Paul has killed for a living, and he’s completely alive and traceable. Everything fits to incriminate Paul. For fuck’s sake, let’s find Paul and bring him in.’

Gallio is alarmed by the tension in Baruch, who can’t see beyond Paul the defector. His fingers twitch, words beginning to fail him, but their disagreement is cut short by Claudia’s phone. She answers deadpan, ‘yes’ and ‘go on’. She turns to the window and listens, ends the call with a nod. ‘Thank you, I understand.’

She looks at the screen, disconnects, composes herself. She turns round and shares the news.

‘It’s Jude in Beirut,’ she says. ‘Shot by arrows. He’s dead.’

CASSIUS GALLIO FINDS the red marker pen, and at the incident board he considers the latest magnified image of Jude. The print dates from before Jude fell ill. He is younger, defiant, holding some kind of framed picture. Gallio strikes a red cross through his face.

The CCU operations room can now confirm the reports from Beirut, and the messages on the encrypted wire remain consistent: Missionary dead in Beirut. Israeli national, more than one alias. Stock of international prescription drugs, no receipts.

Verifiable data about how exactly Jude was killed is less forthcoming, and so far no Lebanese militia group has claimed responsibility. Jude was shot with an arrow or arrows, a setback to supporters of Beirut’s gun-free zones. The death is currently being treated as an accident.

Gallio tosses the permanent marker onto a desk and leaves the incident room, walks up two flights of stairs to the Prefect’s office. He hasn’t been here since Pilate’s day, and after the mishandling of the Jesus episode the status of Prefect has declined to the point where Valeria can commandeer these rooms at will. These days no one knows the Prefect’s name, or needs to know it. CCU runs the show.

Valeria lets him in, and they sit in high-backed chairs in a reception room with one wall open over the city roofs of Jerusalem. ‘Thanks for coming up,’ Valeria says. ‘I wanted to see you alone, without Baruch, and up here we’ll get some privacy.’

‘Baruch and I are supposed to be partners.’

‘We worry about him. Gives off a definite tension. Is he all right?’

‘He doesn’t like flying.’

‘What about you? You seem to be bearing up.’

At the balustrade Gallio leans on his elbows and looks at sunlit roof tiles and satellite dishes. Is he bearing up? He thinks he is. A decent amount of time has passed since he last had to crush a rogue nerve in his face, and his search for Jesus feels successfully purged of emotion. He is thinking like a Speculator, following procedures, pursuing an achievable objective. He feels back on track, a somebody. Down below, in the streets of Jerusalem, the people are so indistinct they could be historical figures.