‘And further deepened by the words and deeds of the Prophet Mohammed,’ said Razzaq. ‘Now they are deepened yet again by the tenets of Habal Tong which …’
‘Which isn’t a religion,’ said Lammas, finishing Razzaq’s sentence for him.
‘No … it is not a religion,’ agreed Razzaq. ‘Not in the way that ‘religion’ is normally understood. Habal Tong allows us a better appreciation of our birth religions and at the same time fortifies us with the spirit of unity … of oneness. If Christians could just get over their terrible arrogance regarding Jesus, they might also find something truly profound in Habal Tong.’
‘I hardly think Christians are arrogant,’ said Melodie, speaking for the first time. ‘We are humble … extremely humble.’
‘So humble it makes you proud,’ sneered Razzaq, getting a laugh from all except the church officers.
‘How exactly do you think Christians arrogant?’ queried Major Lammas.
‘They are arrogant,’ said Razzaq, ‘because they are the only ones who believe their prophet to be the son of God. No other religion makes such an outlandish claim.’
‘Hardly outlandish,’ replied Lammas in his smooth baritone. ‘But we’re not here to argue about which religion is best … we’re here to talk about what we have in common.’
‘We have nothing in common,’ snapped Razzaq. ‘While you go on believing your prophet to be a deity you believe yourselves above the rest of us. I find that deeply insulting. We all do.’
Razzaq seemed to be getting angry and the buzz of the room went up a notch. Conan could hardly keep the grin off his face as some of the non-Christians started shouting while Lammas remained implacably calm in the face of their rising hostility.
‘Please Razzaq,’ said Lammas, ‘do try to calm your companions. We are having an intelligent discussion … not a shouting match.’
‘What is the point of discussion?’ demanded Razzaq. ‘Talk, talk, talk is meaningless. The only thing that matters is action.’
‘Well, why do you come to the Great Debate, if you think talk is meaningless?’ asked Melodie.
‘To combat the evil of the Christian message,’ shouted Razzaq. ‘You are evil! Look at you all … dressed in black like Satan! Doing his work in the name of Jesus!’
‘Now you’re becoming offensive,’ chided Lammas in his magnificent baritone. ‘Please moderate or we’ll have to ask you leave again.’
‘Fuck you!’ shouted Razzaq leaping up. ‘Fuck you and all Christians!’
With that he swept out of the room followed by most of the other non-Christians, all laughing and shouting at the sad looking figures in black. Conan sat grinning at the back of the room, awaiting developments.
But after the excitement, the evening suddenly ended. The little Chinese man spoke earnestly with the Army of God officials for a few minutes but Conan couldn’t quite hear what they were talking about. Then just as he decided to get up and leave also, Major Lammas excused himself from the small man’s embrace and glided over to Conan before he could escape.
‘How do you do?’ he asked, in that bewitching voice, collaring Conan with his Clooney-esque looks.
‘I do very well,’ said Conan.
‘Agent Tooley, isn’t it?’
‘Call me Tools.’
‘Tools,’ repeated Lammas. ‘I’m Tom Lammas.’
‘Captain Roberts’ fiancé?’
‘That honour is indeed mine … but you’ve been asking about Bruce and Michael?’
‘I have … not that anyone can tell me much.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell, as far as I know,’ said Lammas. ‘They were occasional visitors here … but somewhat more polite than Razzaq.’
‘Razzaq,’ laughed Conan, ‘… one passionate fellow.’
‘He certainly is,’ agreed Lammas. ‘But what about you, Tools? What’s your passion?’
‘My passion?’ echoed Conan. ‘Christ … god knows.’
Lammas’ face darkened and Conan felt strangely uncouth for his casual blasphemy.
‘Sorry,’ he said, lamely. ‘I’m not used to these sorts of places.’
‘And yet … here you are,’ said Lammas, brightening after the apology. ‘We can’t help you with Bruce and Michael … but maybe we can help with your soul?’
‘Oh, I … I doubt that,’ said Conan. ‘But there is something you can help me with. I’m trying to understand the words: Epistola Clementis.’
Lammas’ eyes blazed, for a moment, and Conan felt the old instinct – the one he used to get talking to junkies about stolen cigarettes.
But then Lammas smiled and shook his head, ‘Ah Tools … just doing your job I suppose … ’
‘And … ’
‘And yes … Bruce and Michael were interested in the Epistola Clementis, but it had nothing to do with their disappearance?’
‘How can you know that when you weren’t there when it happened? So I presume.’
‘You presume correctly,’ said Major Lammas, giving Conan a hard stare. ‘But the Epistola Clementis is just an obscure document from the earliest days of the church. It has no relevance today.’
‘And yet Bruce and Michael were clearly very interested in it. Can you tell me what it was?’
‘I’m sure you can find that in any library, Agent Tooley … or google it for the real misinformation. You must excuse me.’
Lammas turned and strode past Melodie and Lieutenant Rice into the kitchen. Melodie gave Conan a last angry look and followed Lammas. Rice followed Melodie, and Conan took a last glance about the room before leaving himself, still grinning at the performance of Razzaq.
• • •
The streets were still full at quarter past ten. Conan found himself enjoying the frenzied activity, the babble of language and exotic cooking smells and suddenly understood Ord City’s popularity as a tourist destination. Walking along Whitlam Street, his mouth was watering at the smell of chilli, garlic and frying onions so he bought a box of Singapore noodles with prawns and chicken from a street vendor.
Everyone back in Sydney had warned him not to eat the street food, but he decided to brave it and was rewarded with the nicest stir fry he could ever remember eating. He dumped the box on top of a bin overflowing with similar garbage and continued towards his hotel, enjoying the sights and sounds and the tingle of lime and chilli on his lips and tongue.
So different, he was thinking. So, so different from everywhere else in Australia – all the energy and excitement of Asia with the order and rules of the first world. Some of them, at least.
And that’s when Conan realised he was being followed.
At first it was just a sense of being watched – a prickling of the skin that made him feel like bolting. But he quelled the urge to run and feigned interest in another wok chef working like crazy, giving him the opportunity to stand facing back the way he’d come, and saw three Asian men come to a confused stop some fifteen metres away, all of them trying not to look at him.
They’re not muggers, Conan knew. No point in mugging these days when cash no longer exists.
The three men all lit cigarettes