Richard Beard - Acts of the Assassins

Bartholomew says: ‘Ouch. That eye of yours looks like it must have hurt.’

The night before, Gallio had organised the removal of the body of James from the pavement. Then the formal suspension of seven members of Valeria’s riot squad. After that, he’d sat with Claudia in the van. They reviewed on the monitors the last moments on earth of James the Less, the sixth disciple of Jesus to die.

James looked old, Gallio thought, realising he too must be old. They had grown old together.

‘One more time,’ Gallio said, and Claudia pointed the remote control.

One more time for the very end, a rooftop wind fluttering the Galilean clothes that James and the other disciples chose to wear. James ignores the whistling and jeering from the riot police below, and focuses entirely on his will. He prays, lips moving. He steps forward. Into a pure drop of silence he pronounces the name of Jesus.

He jumps.

‘We need that trace on the phone call.’

‘It’s coming.’ Claudia says. ‘Be patient.’

‘James received a phone call. He listened, but whoever was at the other end of the phone had nothing to say. James ended the call. He left the flat and went up to the roof. He held out his arms like Jesus. He jumped.’

‘Maybe he heard something on the phone we didn’t. Or the silence had a different meaning to him than it does to us.’

Cassius Gallio had reached the roof edge a second after James stepped off, in time to see that the road surface below had done most of the damage. The riot police finished the job, attacking James as if he were deranged and dangerous, a surprise assailant from above. He’d launched himself unprovoked at officers of the law. They had no choice but to subdue him.

In the van Gallio felt he was missing a piece of the puzzle. James ended the silent phone call, stood up and went to the roof. His immediate reaction suggested a pre-arranged sequence, and explained why he prayed so much — prayer kept him close to the phone and in a heightened spiritual state, ready for the call, in the mood to jump.

Gallio found it hard to re-watch what happened next. The riot police should not have responded in the way they did, even though Cassius Gallio was increasingly convinced the disciples were shielding a secret. They denied it: everything pointed to it. They’d rather die than be disloyal, and if James was prepared to jump then Bartholomew’s initial silence in the taxi to Caistor came as no surprise. Unlike Baruch, however, Gallio didn’t believe in coercion. Six disciples had died horribly, and no new information had surfaced.

Claudia did eventually get a trace on the call, that same night. When the results were phoned through she listened closely then clicked off her phone. ‘Landline,’ she said. ‘Via a switchboard. Internal phone at the King David Hotel. We have a room number.’

‘Paul,’ Gallio said. ‘I’m guessing the room number matches up.’

‘It does. Surprise, and yet not.’

Cassius Gallio whistled. ‘No, you’re right. Paul. I’m still surprised.’

The two Speculators made eye contact, but in the van everything was too close and they quickly looked away. Neither of them were convinced that Paul was responsible, even though he had motive. He wanted to be a disciple but they wouldn’t let him join. He also had the experience, a killer from the beginning of his career.

‘In the Israel Museum Paul was genuinely frightened,’ Gallio said. ‘I don’t believe he’s the killer.’

‘But the call came from his suite. Somehow he made this happen, or that’s what it looks like. What do we do?’

‘Paul is all we’ve got,’ Gallio said. ‘We have no option. We pick him up at the hotel, and make Baruch a happy bunny.’

When they arrived at the King David, Baruch volunteered to make the arrest. ‘My reward,’ he said, ‘seeing as I’m the only one who suspected him from the start.’

Baruch wasn’t interested in the how or why. Paul had made the phone call, which was evidently a signal. James had jumped. Paul was involved up to his neck, and he’d devised a way of killing James without even having to speak.

‘So explain how that works.’

‘Don’t know,’ Baruch said. ‘But give me a few days with Paul in custody and I can assure you details will emerge.’

In the breakfast room of the King David Hotel, while Paul was shaking out his napkin and dabbing at the corner of his mouth, Baruch gave him the right to remain silent. Gallio gauged Paul’s reaction, but this wasn’t his first arrest and he calmly rearranged the tableware, made sure the cutlery was aligned at a correct distance from the plate.

‘You’re arresting me on what charge? Making a phone call?’

Paul adjusted his spoon, then he coherently waived his right to silence. He’d need to hear a legally valid charge. He intended to make an official appeal, which he was entitled to do as a citizen like any other. He demanded a secure escort to Rome, where he intended to defend himself in person at the appeal hearing. He’d expect to retain his personal bodyguard because he was innocent until proven guilty.

‘Why did you telephone James?’ Gallio asked. He didn’t believe Paul was the assassin, able to kill with a phone call, but he couldn’t be sure.

‘We traced the call,’ Claudia said. ‘You made it. James jumped.’

‘No one could prove that connection. I’m sad that James has passed away, and I’ll miss him, but his death has nothing to do with me.’

‘You deny phoning him?’

‘I do not. I had an issue I wanted to discuss. A private matter, of a theological nature.’

‘So why didn’t you speak?’

‘At the last minute I changed my mind. I decided not to share.’

‘James jumped from the roof of his building after you put through a call. Have you been blackmailing him?’

‘I don’t have to answer. You’re obliged to allow me an appeal in Rome.’

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ Baruch studied Paul’s face, and he was right. Paul was enjoying himself. ‘You end up with exactly what you wanted when we met up yesterday. Protection. Look at you. You don’t give a flying fuck about James. You get what you requested in the museum, as if you’d planned this death for your own benefit.’

Cassius Gallio recognised Baruch’s sense of being used, and it made both of them uneasy. Gallio felt the mysterious hand of Jesus deploying the pieces, devising outcomes that favoured his followers. A death was not a death, any more than this arrest of Paul was a punishment. Jesus had worked out the moves in advance.

‘This isn’t right,’ Baruch said. ‘Something here is wrong.’

Paul laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He beckoned the waiter, but no waiter dared approach, not while Gallio and Baruch were ruining Paul’s breakfast. Paul knew differently, that not everything was as it seemed.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘there’s hope for you yet. Something is wrong. Everyone senses it, and from this feeling religion begins. There are difficulties to our existence that feel wrong. Jesus offers an explanation.’

‘This is a set-up,’ Baruch said.

His phone rang. A second later so did Cassius Gallio’s. News from the medical centre: Bartholomew was out of his coma.

‘I’ll go,’ Baruch said.

‘We’ll both go.’

‘I’ll drive.’

No one forgets Judas, and his betrayal of Jesus is proof the disciples can be weak.

Bartholomew has a weakness for cappuccino. Back from his coma he’s in love with life and surrounded by god’s miracles, including Italian frothed coffee and slot-machine lights at the A46 services near Thorpe.

Cassius Gallio hopes to turn Bartholomew as he once turned Judas, but even on his second Costa he’s yet to be bought. Gallio leans across the laminated table. ‘You don’t remember me, do you? Many years ago we had a chat in the back of a car. I said that one day I’d help you, and seventy pieces of silver is a lot of money. However you choose to look at it.’