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Friday: Eight Days Before the First Wave

Chapter 8

Pushing Shit Uphill

Conan could have called Ronny Kwai – The Keeper, as he was known – but decided that simply turning up at his office might yield more interesting results.

Unfortunately, however, Ronny didn’t seem to have an office. He was a freelance football journalist who wrote obsessively about the A-League, and about the Ord City Pilgrims in particular. And that’s where Conan tracked him down – at training at Rinehart Stadium.

Conan walked into the 60,000 seat arena – weirdly empty despite the frenzy of activity on the pitch – and saw a knot of people sitting in the front of the stand. Ronny was holding court with a bunch of other journalists and officials as the team were put through their paces. Only one of the players had FENG 9 on his back, causing Conan to wince at the memory of a whole crowd of such shirts which had landed him in his present predicament.

Conan knew Ronny Kwai from the pictures on his website and sat within earshot for a while as he talked, sometimes in Cantonese, sometimes in English, about the team and their prospects. Conan had little interest in the conversation – preferring cricket on the rare occasion he took an interest in sport. And even cricket had gone to the pack after the Americans had suddenly become so passionate about Twenty 20. Test cricket was dead.

It was a stinking hot day and, despite his indifference to the game, Conan was impressed with the players’ intensity as he sat listening absently to the journos and considering his position. He hadn’t bothered telling anyone about being chased, not least as he no longer trusted even his fellow police after finding the flat emptied. Also, he had finally read the email from Kenny Cook which told him, as he’d expected, to wrap up the investigation and get back to Sydney.

And yet all Conan’s instincts told him he was on the verge of something important. It was also clear that someone, somewhere, didn’t want him looking into the murders, which naturally made him determined that he should.

Still, no point pushing shit uphill if he didn’t have a lead. Conan had decided that if nothing came out of the Ronny Kwai interview he’d head back to Sydney and have a long overdue talk with Lucia.

Then training was over and the journos went onto the pitch to talk to a small selection of players who were carefully stage-managed through a boring process of scripted questions and answers, although Ronny seemed to have special status and chatted happily with FENG 9 for a few minutes before Feng went down the tunnel.

Ronny started to follow but Conan grabbed his shoulder. He was quite large, up close, and dressed entirely in black silk.

‘G’day,’ said Conan. ‘Ronny Kwai?’

‘Yes.’

‘Agent Conan Tooley … AFP. I’m investigating the Fong, Wing Ho murders.’

‘Who?’

‘Bruce Fong and Michael Wing Ho … about a week ago.’

‘I don’t know them.’

Once again, Conan felt his antennae tingling as he studied the expressionless face, half hidden by large sunglasses.

‘Okay … must’ve been a wrong number,’ he said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The last number called by Michael Wing Ho was your number.’

‘Show me the number on his phone account,’ said Ronny. It was a comment that would only be made by someone operating an illegal cryp number, and immediately Conan knew Ronny was hiding something.

‘I suppose you do know,’ said Conan, ‘that it is possible to trace a cryp account … just a pain in the arse. But we’ve already linked Wing Ho’s account to yours so the hard work’s been done.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Michael Wing Ho,’ insisted Ronny, ‘… although many people use an alias in this town. Perhaps I knew this caller by a different name?’

Conan sighed. That also was a statement typically made by cryp users, and journalists in particular were notorious for having cryps to protect their sources.

Ronny smiled, as though perceiving he had the advantage, and said,‘Let’s just say, for the point of hypothetical conversation, that I really do have a cryp number – which I don’t, because I endorse the state’s right to scrutinise metadata for the purpose of security – but if I did, I wouldn’t link to an individual by name. I would use a code number.’

‘The metadata from your phone and Wing Ho’s phone are reciprocal and identical,’ said Conan. ‘You spoke with him for two hundred and forty-two seconds at 6.39pm on the 9th of January … approximately half an hour before he was killed.’

Ronny shrugged.

‘What can I tell you, Agent Tooley? I’m a journalist. I get calls all the time … often from people with urgent messages about breaking news. I suppose it’s possible that I did speak with a person at that time … but I don’t know any Michael Wing Ho and I don’t know anything about a murder.’

At that moment the sound of a roaring crowd came from Ronny’s pocket, and he grinned as he pulled out his phone.

‘Do you know the Feng Song?’ asked Ronny, peering at the screen. ‘Ah … excuse me.’

He walked onto the pitch to answer his phone. ‘Good morning, Major!’

Conan couldn’t hear anything further but strained his ears, wondering how many majors there were in Ord City.

Ronny seemed to stiffen and get slightly more animated, half glancing back in Conan’s direction. Then he walked further onto the pitch which was abandoned by all players and coaching staff, and spoke for another couple of minutes as Conan tried not to take too obvious an interest in him. The stadium was very impressive – built to the exact specifications of the Emirates Stadium in London, according to a plaque above the players’ tunnel – although mainly decked out in yellow as opposed to the Emirates’ red.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Ronny, his conversation over and suddenly much more friendly.

‘Where were we?’ asked Conan.

‘I was explaining that I couldn’t help your investigation,’ said Ronny, ‘but tell me Agent Tooley … ’

‘Tools.’

‘Tools,’ repeated Ronny with a grin. ‘Are you a football fan?’

‘Not really.’

‘You should be. Why don’t you come to the game tomorrow night … as my guest?’

Conan stared at the grinning Chinese, wondering what had changed in the last few minutes, his antennae sparking like Tesla tubes.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Conan. ‘I’d be happy to come.’

‘Good. I’ll be hosting drinks and dinner first, so come to Gate C at 5.30 and ask for Ronny Kwai’s private suite. I’ll have someone look after you.’

• • •

‘Absolutely not.’

Conan had finally bitten the bullet and called Kenny Cook.

‘Kenny … there is something very weird going on up here. I seriously think it needs looking into. We may regret it if we don’t.’

‘Regret what?’

‘I can’t say … but the murders are the tip of the iceberg. I’m certain of it.’

‘You’re certain … and yet you’ve made exactly zero progress on the Fong, Wing Ho case. How can you be certain of anything?’

‘I’m certain there are some pretty weird questions to be answered,’ said Conan. ‘Like, why was the flat emptied without me checking it out properly? Why is an AFP colleague being so obstructive? Who’s chasing me? What the fuck is the Epistola Clementis and why were Fong and Wing Ho so interested in it? And what is the Army of God and Ronny Kwai hiding?’

‘The only question you need to answer,’ said Kenny, ‘… is this one: will you be at your desk in Sydney on Monday morning … or will I be looking for a new agent?’

It was Friday afternoon and Conan felt a wave of bureaucratic inertia swamping his resolve.

‘See you Monday, Kenny.’

• • •

‘There’s not much about it on the net. I had to go dark.’

‘Really?’

Lucia was at her sister’s place and had asked him to call her back from a public phone – which he’d located in a bar near his hotel. The call could still be traced and transcribed but it was far less likely than if they spoke on their own phones.

‘Did you know there’s actually a Vatican Dark Web?’

‘Dark Web for everything,’ said Conan. ‘Pretty spooky was it?’

‘Let’s just say there are some weird people who want to do seriously perverted shit to each other. That’s all you get on Vatican Dark … pervy weirdos … but they knew about Epistola Clementis … or said they did.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, as far as I can tell, the Epistola Clementis means the Letter of Clement … one of the early popes.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s all about the pope’s authority … where he gets his power from.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Conan … you’re not taking it seriously!’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I’m just waiting for you to get to the important bit.’

‘Back in the first century,’ she said, her voice singing with sarcasm, ‘the pope’s authority was pretty important. It still is in some places.’

‘But why is it important in Ord City in 2030?’

‘I don’t know … that’s your job. But let me finish will you?’

‘Sorry.’

Conan grinned, feeling a surge of affection for Lucia and wishing he was with her.

‘Okay,’ she continued. ‘There was a bit of a scandal about the Epistola Clementis many years after Clement’s papacy. As the church was becoming the official church of Rome … in place of Jupiter and Thor and all that lot … some bright spark lawyer questioned the source of the pope’s authority.’

‘Isn’t it supposed to come from JC?’

‘Exactly. JC gave to Peter – the first pope – the powers of binding and loosing, symbolised by the crossed keys of the Vatican.’

‘Crossed keys?’

Conan was remembering the frozen symbol on Wing Ho’s lap top – a pair of crossed keys.

‘Yes. Jesus apparently said to Peter: whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven. Whatever you loose on earth will be loose in heaven. This is the source of the pope’s authority.’

‘Okay … so what was the scandal?’

‘This is the interesting bit,’ said Lucia. ‘At the critical time – just as Christianity was becoming the pre-eminent religion and blended with the Roman emperor’s secular power – there was a big debate about the pope’s authority. Some people were saying: we accept that JC passed the powers of binding and loosing to Peter, but JC was the son of God and able to do shit like that. How do we know the same powers were truly passed on to other popes?’

‘Aaahh … good question,’ said Conan.

‘A really important question,’ said Lucia, ‘because, at the time, the secular authority was stronger than the spiritual authority. If everyone accepted the pope’s power came from God himself it was really going to change things.’

‘So how’d it turn out?’

‘At the peak of the debate,’ said Lucia, ‘someone turned up what was supposed to be an old letter from Clement … saying among other things: oh, by the way, Peter passed onto me and all future popes his powers of binding and loosing.’

‘Very convenient,’ laughed Conan.

‘It was … not least as Clement wasn’t the second pope after Peter. He was third, fourth or fifth … the early records aren’t that clear.’

‘Wow.’

‘Wow indeed. One of the shoddiest stitch-ups of all time. But it worked. Everyone agreed that the letter made the pope the boss and Christianity went on to become the dominant ideology and power source for well over a thousand years. It’s still pretty powerful.’

‘Wow,’ said Conan again, feeling a creepy sort of fear despite his devout atheism. ‘I can understand why Lammas doesn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Who’s Lammas?’

‘Oh … one of the blokes up here who interests me. What you’re saying is … without the sudden appearance of this dodgy letter … Christianity might have lost its momentum and even disappeared around three or four hundred AD.’

‘Exactly right,’ said Lucia. ‘And considering the enormous impact of that one dodgy letter, it’s incredible how little information there is on the web … the legitimate web that is.’

Conan was deeply impressed.

‘How did you get all this?’

‘I had to play a game with a charming individual called Bishop Satanus,’ said Lucia. ‘You really don’t want to know any more. Let’s just say I didn’t respect myself in the morning.’

‘I owe you big time Lucia. And … when I get back … ’

There was a heavy silence on the end of the phone.

‘Gotta go,’ said Lucia, and the phone went dead.

Conan put the phone down and glanced around the bar, feeling weirdly paranoid. There must be some deeply innate superstition in all humans he reflected. Conan had grown up in a Catholic household but had never quite believed in God. He’d tried to believe it, as a kid. Really tried. But the whole thing was so patently absurd and it was pretty clear to Conan, even as a boy, that no one else truly believed. No one lived their life – absolutely – as though they genuinely believed all the ancient hogwash they drivelled on about.

Around the age of fourteen, Conan suddenly understood that he was an atheist – to his mother’s dismay – and was constantly amused by the antics of believers. The best part of two thousand years, he laughed to himself. All that history: the crusades, the reformation, the inquisition – the long war with money and science for control of hearts and minds. And none of it might have happened but for some forgotten scribe bodgying up a fake letter to win an argument, back before Adam bowled offies for Eden.

He walked back to his own hotel and sat in the bar, still feeling an odd tingle of paranoid fear. He ordered a beer and glanced about the room, speculating about the lives and motives of those around him. Most were easy to read, wearing their lives on their sleeves, but two men defied his analysis – strangely inscrutable with faces like cardboard.

He pulled out his triPod and got onto the Qantas site, checking out flights home on Sunday. There were three in the afternoon so Conan booked the 12.30, which would have him back in Sydney about eight pm.

If he was on it.