Foretold by Thunder Page 4

  The cathedral had been built in the city by Romans fifteen hundred years ago – it still stood.

  “I have to see this diagram.”

  “Well … let me come with you then.”

  Bemusement morphed into laughter. “I don’t think so. Look Jake –”

  “I can cover your dig,” he interrupted, thinking fast. “Britton’s death is the perfect peg.”

  “Peg? Excuse me?”

  He bit his lip. “Sorry. Sorry. ‘Peg’ was insensitive.”

  “Why are you even interested in this?”

  Jake could almost hear Florence’s eyes narrowing. His thoughts crystallized. Freak occurrence of lightning aside, he was onto something here – and it centred on Britton. This sort of lead came along rarely; if he made something of it perhaps he could turn things around at the paper. He should stick close to Florence. Their presence in Istanbul might draw out more information.

  “Hello?” She sounded impatient.

  “It’ll make a cracking feature,” Jake blustered. “And great publicity for the university too. Besides, do you want me to share Britton’s package with you or not?”

  She sighed. “Fine, you can come. It doesn’t look like I have any choice, does it? But you’ll need to clear it with our media centre first.”

  The reporter was grinning like a loon as he put the phone down. Things were moving again. To Istanbul! To Constantinople, as it once was! To the city founded by the Emperor Constantine, the ruler who had made Christianity the state religion of Rome. The crossroads of Europe and Asia.

  His eyes were drawn back to that innocuous white book.

  10

  Jake scooped up the bundle and half-ran to see his news editor. More grim news for Europe raced across the overhead tickers: recovery flat-lining, stock markets in freefall, debt marching upward. China had just posted eight per cent growth, a performance any Western premier would kill for.

  Niall Heston was perched at the end of the newsdesk. He was thin with a high forehead, wispy hair and an aquiline nose, like a hunting falcon in a suit. Heston was the link between reporters and the editor-in-chief. The big boss decided on the front-page splash, whether to run something legally hazardous and so on, while Heston kept him updated with the best prospects. In theory he knew what every reporter was working on and which exclusives would hit the streets in three days’ time. It was the most enervating role in the newspaper.

  “Aha! Scoop Wolsey! What crackers have you got in store for us today?” Heston’s Aberdeen lilt oozed sarcasm – he had his favourites and Jake was not among them.

  “I think I’m onto something good this time,” said Jake.

  Heston shot his underling a look. “Should I be calling David back from The Ivy?”

  Jake forced a laugh.

  “Go on then, what have you got for me?”

  Jake rattled through the events of the last twenty-four hours: the unhinged professor, the mysterious postal run and now Britton’s package.

  Heston tapped his lips with his forefingers. “What are you saying then, Jake? There’s some kind of conspiracy surrounding this professor and the forces of darkness have contrived to call down a lightning strike on his head?”

  “Well, obviously the lightning strike’s just coincidence.”

  “Right, good, glad we’ve got that cleared up. It’s reassuring to know my highly-paid reporters aren’t living entirely in cloud-cuckoo-land. So what exactly have we got? What have we got that’s concrete, that I can run?”

  “We’ve got a professor saying he’s being followed.”

  “A mad professor,” Heston interjected.

  “And a day later he winds up dead.”

  “Killed by a freak of nature,” said Heston. “A lightning strike for fuck’s sake, witnessed by dozens of tourists.”

  “And we’ve got this phoney postal van making a collection at completely the wrong time.”

  “Bloody Royal Mail lying bastards covering their own arses,” said Heston. “What’s the likelier explanation – bullshitting postman is late for delivery, or some grand conspiracy to steal a package from a discredited academic who you’ve already admitted had lost the plot, big time?”

  “What about the note?” Jake pleaded. “Britton writes an ‘if anything happens to me’ letter and a day later he’s dead. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? It’s like … it’s like Princess Di telling people she thought MI5 were arranging an accident for her.”

  Heston burst out laughing. “Oh man, I can’t believe you even said that. You just played the Diana Card! Right, definitely not a story.”

  Jake loathed this man.

  “Why are you even telling me all this?” Heston continued. “What do you want to do with this so-called ‘information’ you’ve collected?”

  “Britton’s assistant is off to Istanbul to carry on his work.”

  “Ah, you fancy a nice wee jolly, is that it?” Heston sighed through his nose.

  “We’ve got exclusive access,” said Jake.

  “Well, I suppose it might make a decent colour piece,” Heston muttered. “But forget all this conspiracy shit, ok?”

  “Fine.”

  “One more thing. Remind me when your contract expires?”

  Jake felt a sickening in his gut. “This September … why?”

  “Just bear that date in mind, eh? If you’re going to be burning more of my money on this caper I want some seriously shit-hot copy. Do I make myself clear? Seriously shit-hot.”

  Jake nodded.

  “Are you sure you want to go? Do you understand what I’m getting at? If you want to change your mind, now’s the time.”

  This was it – one of those moments on which pivots a career, a life.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Very well then. The die is cast.”

  Jake felt giddy as he walked from the newsdesk. Strange decision.

  The die is cast.

  As Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon.

  11

  Mum’s hands had acquired a translucence of late. The skin reminded Jenny of cling film – it was silky, detached from the flesh. She found it difficult to reconcile this timid creature with the person who was once her mother. The woman who had bought her into the world without a bit of fuss was huddled in bed and peeping from the sheets.

  With an effort Margaret remembered something. “How’s Marc?”

  “Mum, I told you already. We split up.”

  “Oh … that’s a shame. Sorry, I’ve got a memory like a sieve nowadays.”

  They had this conversation every visit and Jenny knew what was coming.

  “He seemed like such a nice man,” said Margaret, sticking to the script. “You were getting married, weren’t you? Or were you?”

  “We were. Until he dumped me.”

  For a moment some of the old fire returned to her mother’s eyes. “The bastard. Well, it’s his loss.”

  She slurred the ‘ss’ in loss.

  Jenny had been taken aside when she arrived at Hammersmith Hospital.

  “There’s still no definitive diagnosis,” said Dr Bryant. “But we’re ninety-nine per cent sure it’s genetic. Degenerative, too. It resembles early stage Huntington’s – clumsiness, forgetfulness, a loss of balance. But the tests show it’s not Huntington’s, and we just don’t know what it is. I’m afraid that leaves Margaret slightly in the lurch.”

  “Do you know what’s causing the symptoms?”

  “Her nerve cells are wasting.” Dr Bryant moved gracefully and he had an aura of poise. “If it carries on we can expect further worsening in memory and speech. You might have noticed she’s developed a slight slur in the last few days.”

  Jenny closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I simply can’t imagine how upsetting all this must be.”

  Her eyes shot open. “I’m fine,” she said. “What happens now?”

  “Well, we continue to monitor her and do tests. The chances are someone else has had this b
efore. It’s just a question of finding them and then we can design a treatment programme.”

  “What’s her prognosis? And please, do be blunt with me.”

  “It’s difficult to say,” admitted Dr Bryant. “If it follows the pattern of Huntington’s we can expect deterioration on all fronts. Eventually breathing’s affected. Then …” his voice tapered off. “Heart function.”

  Jenny’s eyelids closed again; this time the doctor kept his mouth shut.

  “Is she unhappy?” she said.

  “She gets distressed sometimes. But you must be thankful she recognizes you. Her long-term memory seems to be holding up – but it’s definitely worth prompting it when you can. And she’s still cracking jokes. That’s a good sign.”

  Jenny willed herself to see the positive. “She was a formidable woman, you know.”

  The doctor had smiled at that. “I’m quite sure.”

  *

  “Do you remember how you were always trying to get me interested in art when I was a little girl?” Jenny tried. “But all I wanted to do was play cops and robbers.”

  Margaret smiled gratefully, as if slipping into a hot bath. “Of course, dear,” she said. “But you would only be the cop. You only wanted to be one of the goodies.”

  Jenny felt a weight press on her larynx.

  “I miss …” said Margaret. “I miss …”

  “Miss what, Mum?”

  “I miss my kitchen.”

  Jenny laughed, spluttering as two emotions collided in her throat. The threat of tears dissipated. Silly cow, she scolded herself.

  “Always wanted to be one of the goodies, you did,” murmured her mother.

  Jenny’s phone buzzed – it was Alexander Guilherme.

  “I’m at Heathrow,” he said, the statement corroborated by a flight announcement in the background. “You need to get here right now – Wolsey’s on the move.”

  “Oh sugar.”

  “He’s booked onto the next BA flight to Istanbul. I’ve got us both a seat.”

  “See you there.”

  Her mother stirred. “Trouble, love?”

  “Oh, work stuff. I’m really sorry, Mum, but I have to go, something’s come up. Dad’s coming in tomorrow.”

  “That’ll be nice,” said Margaret. “But don’t let him put himself out on my account.”

  Jenny kissed her on the cheek, pausing to inhale; the scent was part of her own body.

  “Mum, listen to me for a moment – this is important.”

  Margaret looked bewildered. “What is it, love?”

  “We’re going to take you back to your kitchen soon, no matter what. I promise.”

  As Jenny departed a thought occurred to her and she sought out Dr Bryant.

  “You said this disease may be hereditary. That means I might be carrying it, right?”

  The doctor looked evasive. “It’s possible.”

  “What are the odds? If it was Huntington’s, say.”

  “Not great,” he admitted. “For Huntington’s it’s fifty-fifty.”

  Jenny blanched. “Is there a test?”

  She had to know.

  “Miss Frobisher, we haven’t even worked out what your mother’s fighting yet.”

  As Jenny sat on the Heathrow Express that evening she had things on her mind.

  12

  “There’s something utterly vulgar about flying sober,” said Jake, downing the dregs of his glass. “Whereas the gin and tonic harks back to the golden age of travel.”

  Despite herself, Florence laughed. She had made it clear a Heathrow chain pub was beneath her, but when it came to matters alcohol Jake would not be gainsaid. As he headed to the bar to buy more drinks, Florence realized she was making eye contact with a slight Chinese man. She turned away.

  Jake watched her pore over Britton’s package as he waited to be served. She wore hiking boots and a fleece top with no make-up, and her hair was pinned up in carefree fashion with a wooden chopstick-type thing. His heart screeched with desire.

  The reporter set drinks on the table. “I’ve been going through the bundle chronologically,” he said. “Britton was completely obsessed with lightning. For example, he underlined a bit about Hostilius, the second king of Rome, who was supposedly killed by a lightning bolt for rejecting the Gods. I didn’t know Rome even had kings.”

  “Oh, it did, way back when,” said Florence. “Actually, when Rome was a backwater it was ruled by Etruscan monarchs for a while. Then the revolution came.”

  Jake extracted a page from the bundle. “Here’s another quote he’s underlined, from Pliny this time. Etruscan lands were supposedly laid waste by some character called Olta – and hey presto, Olta got bumped off by lightning too.”

  Florence waved a hand. “Like I told you, Britton lost the plot. Anyway, death by lightning from the Gods is one of the oldest and most worn-out archetypes imaginable.”

  “I know, I know,” said Jake. “It’s just a coincidence given –”

  Florence silenced him with a look and began examining the plan of the Agya Sophia. The profusion of domes and buttresses resembled the blueprint of some extraterrestrial microchip.

  “Is this the only diagram he left you?” she asked.

  “Afraid so.”

  “God, he was a suspicious sod. He’s made almost no notes on the diagram at all – I’ve got nothing to go on.” Florence sipped her cocktail, gagged and spat into a tissue. “What the hell is that doing in there?”

  He laughed. “It’s only a blackberry.”

  “I’m very allergic,” she replied, pushing away her glass.

  Jake had an eye on the discarded drink as he asked, “What are you actually looking for out there?”

  “A brontoscopic calendar. It gave a prediction in the event of lightning on each day of the year. The longest passage of the Book of Thunder yet discovered is a brontoscopic calendar.” She passed him a translation. “Pick a day at random.”

  “June 16th,” read Jake. “ ‘If it should thunder, it threatens not only dearth of food but war, while a prosperous man shall disappear from public life.’ But surely it thunders somewhere every day of the year?”

  “This calendar only applies for northern Italy,” said Florence. “If you bought into this stuff, a unique calendar would be needed for each location.”

  Jake produced a notepad. “Do you mind? This is good background.”

  Florence assented. “There are plenty of theories about why the Etruscans went in for lightning prophecy in such a big way,” she said. “The beginning of Etruscan religion coincided with a period of increased activity from the sun, which affected the earth’s electrical field. That meant worse weather, more rainfall – and some spectacular storms.”

  Jake scanned through the calendar. “There’s loads about farming here. Crops, animals, diseases …”

  “Understandably,” said Florence. “The Etruscans were totally dependant on the land and the seasons, so they obsessed over a good harvest. But there’s geopolitics too. Listen to the 12th of March: ‘If it thunders a powerful man in politics will be overthrown. On his behalf battles will be waged.’”

  Jake chuckled. “Beware the Ides of March! I wonder, was lightning spotted in Tuscany before Julius Caesar’s assassination?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that – and Caesar is said to have ignored the warning of an Etruscan soothsayer before he was killed.”

  Jake wasn’t listening. “Fascinating document,” he said. “What’s the Istanbul connection?”

  “The text that survives was written there in 600 AD, when Constantinople was part of the Byzantine Empire. It was translated by a scribe called John the Lydian from a lost original. By then Etruscan civilization had been dead for centuries, but Britton was looking for John the Lydian’s source material, the Etruscan master-document he translated into Byzantine Greek.”

  “If you already have this Byzantine translation, what’s the point?”

  “The Byzantine Empire was fanatically Chris
tian,” said Florence. “By sixth-century standards John the Lydian’s material was seriously risqué. Britton reasoned he may have watered down the original calendar, because this translation’s very sparse. As a matter of fact, we know Etruscan thunder prophecies depended on much more than the date alone. They looked at the colour and shape of the lightning, whether it struck the ground, if it damaged anything – and crucially, where it originated. Lightning from the north-east was a favourable omen, but lightning from the north-west was very bad news.”

  “Why look in the Agya Sophia?” asked Jake.

  “Britton thought John the Lydian’s grave might be there somewhere. If the scribe had a penchant for the Disciplina Etrusca, perhaps a line or two was buried with him. But the Agya Sophia was the largest enclosed space on earth for a millennium. There are acres of wall, hundreds of chambers and vaults, and all Britton’s left us is this” – she stirred the pile – “a load of nonsense about ancient Rome.”

  “What’s the plan then?” asked Jake. “You can hardly start knocking down walls.”

  “Of course not, it’s a reconnaissance mission. To damage the fabric, in Turkey? You don’t want to even think about the bureaucracy. If we can work out where his tomb is hidden, then the paperwork begins.”

  Jake grimaced. Niall Heston would not consider the write-up of a gentle academic potter “shit-hot copy”, and the chances of finding anything looked remote. Would he have a job this time next year? If so, his instinct that there was more to Britton’s downfall than met the eye needed to be spot on.

  “Did you ever think there might be a good reason why Britton was suspicious?” he ventured. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you and all that.”

  Florence studied him. “Why do you ask?”

  Jake handed her Britton’s final note. “He thought something was going to happen to him.”

  “He was mad,” she whispered. “Brilliant, but mad.”

  13

  Istanbul in January can be an ugly city. Mass housing on the outskirts, rising from barren earth like dragon’s teeth; the harbour mucky and whipped into scum; the cityscape bleak against iron-shod skies. Istanbullus hurried along in anoraks and scarves, carrying themselves with all the grace of Londoners in rush hour. Only the mosques relieved the eye. The minarets rose in thickets, like bulrushes, pointing out the heavens.