The Aurora Journals Part Two Read online

  THE AURORA JOURNALS

  The Journal of Dr. Phillip Lawrence

  Part Two

  The Story of Dr. Pip Lawrence, is a prelude companion series to the Aurora Conspiracy series, allowing us an exciting glimpse into the history behind our heroine’s extra-ordinary abilities, from the perspective of her grandfather.

  Part Two, continues Pip's journey into the truth behind his heritage, taking him on an uncomfortable trip through some of Europe's most beautiful cities. Can Pip save his son's life or will powerful international organisations seek retribution for his decisions?

  The four-part series will be made available to those in my readers group for FREE, then released for sale shortly after. I take privacy seriously, and you can leave any time you wish.

  Also available to purchase, the first novel in the Aurora Conspiracy series, The Aurora Mandate. For more information, please visit www.samnash.org

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sam Nash All rights reserved.

  No part of this book, or any portion thereof, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher or author.

  Cover art supplied by Carantoc Publishing

  First release 2018

  Carantoc Publishing Ltd.

  www.carantocpublishing.com

  Please note that this product was created by a British author. Except for slang and dialogue, spelling and grammar is corrected to British English. There are also scenes which may offend more sensitive readers. It is not deemed suitable for children.

  Saturday 28th July - Late Afternoon

  “Tick-tock, my Lord…”

  My mental paralysis spread to my limbs. Reason clouded, all rational logic lost. I envisioned a random colleague of my son’s, standing behind his back, holding a gun to his head, waiting for the command to fire.

  The woman in my doorway threw me a menacing grimace. “Hang up, Dr. Lawrence. We must leave for the airport at once. Do I need to remind you of our reach? It would take mere minutes for me to locate the rest of your family.” Lady Charity bleated, re-iterating the same warning as before. What could I do? In my dumb stupor, I stood in my hallway, my mouth agape.

  The silence of Knight’s telephone connection was interrupted by a single beep. I drew breath. There it was again, a rhythmical slow beep echoing in my ear. I looked down at the keypad, trying to make sense of the tone. Then it came to me. I had signed up for the new services from Brighton exchange. Another caller was on the line. I punched the recall button on the telephone base, relegating Anthony Knight, Secretary of State for Defence from the British Government, to hold.

  The line clicked. “Hello? David, is that you?”

  “Dad? What’s wrong, you sound weird.”

  “Son, do you remember Derek Cross from Newhaven?” I shielded the receiver with my hand and spoke softly down the line. Turning my back on Lady Charity, she moved in closer to hear.

  “I do, but what…?”

  “Listen. You are in the same situation. Go to the place that your mother was dying to get to.” And then in a mumbled whisper, I said; “Wait for me by her favourite thing.”

  “I can’t just…”

  “You can, and you must. Find a way. Do it now. Take care.” I hung up, hoping that I had said enough for David to comprehend my meaning. I knew that Knight was tapping my calls. If David could make a run from his assignment and colleagues, only I and one other remained as targets for reprisals.

  I retrieved my bag from the floor and puffed out my chest, attempting to regain my confidence. “Shall we go?” I said to the odious gorgon, and marched out of the door towards her car.

  “Who was that on the phone?” Lady Charity climbed into the Mercedes next to me, her eyelids thinning to slits of malice.

  “Just a friend inviting me to lunch.” My response silenced her, but I knew that she hadn’t believed a word of it. An icy shiver passed down my spine. I had deliberately hung up on the Minister for Defence, mid threat. It would not be long before his agents were on my tail. As we drove past the blue surveillance van, I wondered whether the order to flag my passport at the airport was already in the pipeline. Whatever they did to me now, my family were alerted to the danger and taking precautions to secure their safety.

  The journey was tedious. Lady Charity lectured me about the four-hundred-year-old legacy of the Society of Jesus, of how their steadfast mission is mirrored in their motto; “For the Greater Glory of God.” I listened to her impassioned speech of how their entire philosophy stemmed from the propagation of God’s word and the evangelisation of non-believers through Christian doctrine, and I wondered just how many atrocities were performed under their banners of Social Justice, how many opposing religious temples overthrown or expunged for their crusade. How would they react to a foreign culture dismantling and occupying the Vatican or nailing their religious iconography over the top of statues of Christ?

  By the time we had reached the slow moving lines of traffic approaching the airport, I had absorbed as much biased history of the Jesuits as I could bear, and silently rejoiced in my parent’s decision to raise me as a confirmed agnostic. Her pride in the growing number of Jesuit run universities, schools and colleges in which their following is maintained, oozed from her pores. I have no doubt of the good intentions of those clerics and missionary workers invading the poorest regions of the Asian and African continents, but I have to question their considerable influence in global politics, with such a chequered history.

  On arrival at the airport, I grabbed my bag from the boot and informed Charity of my neglect in organising cover at the practice. She harrumphed and sighed, then waited a discreet distance from the payphones while I rang Wildman. Thankfully, he was at home. With little time to spare and the prospect of the gorgon wandering closer to listen in, I garbled a brief explanation of how things had escalated and instructed him to take immediate precautions.

  As we passed through the bag check at security, I saw a glimpse of Lady Charity’s real name. The biblical moniker of Ruth, was all I caught as her passport folded open, in the hands of the border control officer, prefixed by her title, Viscountess.

  For no more than a moment, I wondered whether she had inherited the peerage, or achieved nobility via marriage. Her salon styled coiffeur was beginning to show signs of fatigue, drooping from its lacquered height over the deep-set wrinkles in her forehead. I noticed that she too, weakened in her belligerent attitude towards both me and the uniformed authorities surrounding her.

  Cushioned in the first-class window seat of the aircraft, she slept, allowing me the opportunity to document events in this journal. I could not sleep. My mind was alive with the potential consequences of defying the British Secretary of State for Defence, while appearing to anger the Black Pope of the Jesuits by way of my birth. How could I retain control of my life, and those of my family, without becoming enslaved to major authoritarian groups from around the globe? Now I understand why Grandma Phebe disappeared from her former life of privilege and power.

  In the early hours of the Italian morning, I stowed my journal in my bag and awoke the gorgon as we landed. Lady Charity’s husband was waiting for us at the arrivals gate. A dour man with slicked hair, swept from his forehead in thick streaks of black and white. The bristles of his brows filled out commensurately with his age and girth. Despite the appearance of decline, he had a swagger about him that accentuated the wide shoulde
rs and strong forearms, evidenced by the way he made light work of Charity’s luggage. A dispassionate glance in my direction was enough to assure me of his physical prowess. It dispensed a warning in one fleeting look. It seemed to say, do not think of testing me, mortal. I would swat you as a fly.

  No formal introductions were made, although I heard Charity refer to the hulk as Carmine. She passed me into the care of this man as though I was an elderly pet to be euthanised at the Vet’s. He pecked her on the cheek, and then escorted me to a waiting vehicle. A small red flag bearing the Maltese Cross, perched on the hood, confusing me about the whereabouts of my destination, and the predicament I faced.

  Lady Charity hailed a taxi and left us to the slow methodical dealings of her husband and his driver. All social niceties abandoned, I could only assume that my obstinacy over missing the first summons had induced a cascade of cold-blooded outrage in Rome. Almost as though it was inconceivable that someone would have the audacity to refuse the command.

  I did not know what to expect as we inched our way around the crowded streets and junctions, sped past the Spanish Steps and cruised along the Via dei Condotti. We past Cartier and Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Armani, the jaded architecture at odds with the opulence on sale. Turning into an archway between Jimmy Choo and Hermes, gates sprang open to allow the black embassy car onto the decorative courtyard that bore the same Maltese Cross as the flag.

  “You are now in the extra-territoriality of the Order. The Palazzo Magistrale sets its own laws, and you will abide by them. Come.” It was the first thing the hulk had uttered since leaving Lady Charity at the airport, and it did not fill me with confidence.

  “I don’t understand.” I hurried after him to a rear entrance. “Doesn’t this building belong to The Order of Malta? Isn’t the Maltese Cross their emblem?”

  Carmine the hulk looked over his shoulder at me, almost a scoff in his throat. “It is. The Father General is not a well man. You will be taken to him in the morning at the Church of Gesu. Considering the difficulties in getting you here, The Order has agreed to give you shelter for the night.”

  “I don’t want to put anybody out. I can go to a hotel. I think that would be better for everyone all round.” I stopped walking in the hope that Carmine would retrace his steps and unlock the gated exit. He didn’t. As he vanished around a corner, I hesitated, peering around the floodlit courtyard for a means of escape. With all possibilities exhausted, I followed him.

  We were met by a short gentleman, clothed in a simple black suit and collar of a priest. A white pin badge in the shape of their chevroned cross on his lapel. He welcomed me with outstretched hand and a warm smile, first in Italian, then in English. The hulk muttered something to the man, and I am sure he referred to him as your Most Eminent Highness, then to me he said; “Be ready to leave at eight in the morning. I won’t be pleased if you are late.” He turned and lumbered back out of the door we had just arrived through.

  “Would you care for some refreshments? You must be tired after your journey.” The irrepressible damp cold of mouldy churches lingered on his clothes. From the deferential way that the hulk addressed him, I assumed that he was in fact the Grand Master of the Order. Despite the late hour, he remained alert to my movements and gestures. His sharp eye read the puzzlement on my face. “Or perhaps you would prefer to talk, Dr. Lawrence?”

  “In truth, I am exhausted. It has been a very long day, but I am at a loss as to why I am here. You are not the Father General of the Society of Jesus, and this is not their church.”

  “I see where the confusion lies.” He said, his English too perfect to be that of a non-Brit. “You have formed an opinion of the God Soldiers and are now wondering if we Knights of Malta have similar heavy hands. Rest easy, Dr. Lawrence. Our mission is to care and protect. You are our guest as a favour to the Father General. A courtesy extended to our Catholic brethren.”

  “Does that mean I am free to leave if I so desire?” The base of my spine ached and I felt giddy with travel, but meeting my son remained foremost in my mind. I would have scaled mountains to see him out of danger.

  “The streets of Rome are sadly less safe to a lone foreigner at this time of night. You would be well advised to rest here. A little brandy might calm your nerves, doctor. Can I pour you a glass?” The Grand Master hovered above a crystal decanter of amber liquid sitting on a silver tray.

  I vacillated for a while, longer than I should have, but my ability to reason at speed waned with each tick of the mantle clock. I did want a drink, I did need to sleep, but the necessity of escape was paramount. The longer I considered my response, the more my resolve faltered. I found myself saying, “Thank you. That would be lovely.” Then, giving into the warmth of the liquor, I sat opposite my genial captor, in what I assumed to be his study, and buckled.

  Concern and unfamiliar surroundings kept me awake, but every muscle in my body began to sleep. Perhaps the old man noticed my struggle, for he rose from his chair, removed the glass from my sagging hand and encouraged me to follow him to a small room on the first floor. Somehow my bag had arrived before me, and was sitting on a plain wooden stool at the foot of the single bed. It looked unmolested, but I couldn’t help feeling that in its passage from car boot to room, its innards had succumbed to a brief examination.

  The Grand Master bid me goodnight, and backed out of the room reverentially. A marked difference in civility from Lord and Lady Charity. As I unzipped my bag and peered in with suspicion, I recalled tucking my journal beneath the stiffening board at the base. My pulse quickened and heat rose to my scalp. Had the Hulk located my diary and read its contents? Does he know of the warning I had given to my son, or clues to the location of my darling granddaughter?

  I lay awake for half the night, staring at the solitary crucifix on the wall and pondering the damage my words could have caused. Had enough time elapsed between leaving my bag unguarded and finding it in my room, for the hulk to take it to an office photocopier? Over the years, I have relied on the therapeutic value of writing a full and detailed account of events in my life. Could they now become my family’s downfall? Eventually, I drifted off to sleep in the hope that my copious note making had deterred a full invasion of my privacy.

  Sunday 29th July 1990

  At six in the morning, a young cleric knocked gently on the door and entered with a tray of small pastries and a steaming cup of cappuccino. In broken English, he directed me to a bathroom where a set of white towels were laid out for my use. Dressed and breakfasted on bitter coffee, I descended the stairs and sat on an antique settle in the hallway. Presently, the Grand Master arrived wearing a billowing black cassock with the Maltese Cross emblazoned in white across his chest.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting, Dr. Lawrence. I had an ecumenical matter to deal with following morning service. You have eaten, yes?” He opened the door to his office and allowed me to enter before him, the innate manners of the gentleman taking precedence to his superior station.

  “I have, thank you, yes.” We resumed our seats from the previous night. In the daylight, and with fresh eyes, his study bore all the hallmarks of an Englishman. The regency walnut desk, a Tiffany lamp, the ornamental inkwells and the leather-bound volume of De Brett’s, its spine deliberately placed to catch my sightlines. Was this supposed to prompt a discussion regarding our relative ranking in the British peerage? I took it as thus. “Have they informed you of the reason for my summons? Viscountess Ruth and her gruff husband, I mean?”

  He appeared to consider my question and how best to answer, rubbing his arthritic hands, though habit or pain, I know not. He said, “I am aware of your situation.” That beady eyed look of an inquisitor, unsettled me even more. He continued. “You seem nervous regarding your audience with the Father General.”

  “I confess, I am. So far, they have bullied and threatened the lives of my family and myself, just to get me to Rome. I can only imagine what’s in store for me today.”


  The Grand Master sported a wry grin that lifted the bags beneath his grey eyes. “The foot soldiers can be a little too militant in their mission at times. I suspect you will find the Father General quite charming. I’m sure that you will reach an accord to the benefit of all.”

  “That’s just it. I should not need to reach an accord. I am a simple medical practitioner. I have made no attempts to publicise the recent elevation of my family, nor do I intend to.”

  “Come now, Dr. Lawrence. You are too humble. I know of your lineage. Indeed, you and I are distant cousins via marriage, if you trace our heritage far enough back. You can surely understand their apprehension?” He placed his palms together as though in prayer. A visual reminder of what was at stake. “If the masses were to have confirmed proof that our saviour went on to sire generations of offspring, some of whom may or may not have retained capabilities comparable to himself…well…it could wrench the faith apart.”

  “I would never intentionally do anything to inflame your religion. All I ask is that my family and I are left to live our lives in peace.”

  “And that is precisely why you have been invited to a private audience with the Father General. No doubt he has a proposal that will accommodate everybody involved. Give him a fair hearing, Dr Lawrence. Try to keep an open mind.” He rose more nimbly than I had previously thought him capable of, and I was aware of a subtle change in dominance. His voice, once soft and affable, was now deeper and more strident. He had all but declared our meeting over, and wished me to leave his room. The Grand Master had taken my measure. Responding to his cue, I got to my feet and extended my hand.

  “Thank you for your kind hospitality and your council, Grand Master. Good bye.”

  He shook my proffered hand, but glared up at me through the white hair of his brows. “Goodbye for now, Dr Lawrence. We shall see one another again.”