Free A Sacred Storm by Dominic C. James

street artists tried to distract them with offers of intimate portraits with their loved ones. In the middle of the square, a performer sat on a unicycle juggling three firebrands, his overly glamorous assistant eliciting exaggerated donations for what was effectively a mediocre effort.
    Anatol had half a mind to go out and join the party, but the day had been long, and instead he decided that room service might be a more fitting alternative. He picked up the extensive five-star menu and had a quick browse, but even with all the luxuries on offer he found it hard to work up an appetite. The magnitude of what he had done was beginning to cloy. Eventually he ordered a light selection of antipasti and, more importantly, a bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label to help calm his shattered nerves.
    It wasn’t guilt that was eating away at him so much as the fear of retribution. After years of working for Kandinsky he knew only too well the penalty for treachery, and a betrayal of this size would be met with an equally severe punishment. But what choice had he been given? Over the previous year Kandinsky’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic. The ruthless businessman he once knew had all but disappeared, replaced by some weak-willed philanthropist hell-bent on giving away money faster than the US Treasury could print it. At his current rate of benevolence the whole lot would be gone in less than two years. And where would that leave Anatol himself? There was no way he was going to let all those years of hard work go down the pan just because his boss had seen some kind of imaginary light. Of course, he had put plenty of money away in various accounts, but not enough to accomplish what he wanted. He envisaged himself at the head of his own organization, and with all the contacts he’d made in his years at Kandinsky’s side he could easily set up networks in everything from drugs and gun running, to pornography and money laundering. It wasn’t that he had anything against legitimate business, it was just that he didn’t know anything about it. His background was firmly on the wrong side of the law where the big money resided, and that is where his future dealings would be. His decision hadn’t been an easy one, but he was sure it was the right one. And was it really treachery anyway? All he’d done was copy a few symbols from the top of an old box. It wasn’t as if he’d sold Kandinsky out to a competitor or anything like that.
    Being a trusted employee had made it easy for Anatol to work out what was going on, and as soon as he knew the Catholic Church were interested in the box he smelt money.
    And what a deal he had got. Twenty million dollars’ worth. It would be enough to set him up in business and then some. He figured that in a couple of years he could turn it into at least a hundred million, if not more. Within a decade he would be bigger than Kandinsky, and able to support his own undersea fortress. He lay back on the bed and started to dream of the future.
    Five minutes later, room service turned up with his order. Before answering the door he went to his suitcase, pulled out a Browning 9mm, and slipped it into the back of his waistband. It would have been almost impossible for Kandinsky to have tracked him down already, but there was no point in being blasé about the situation. He hadn’t stayed alive in the underworld for so long by being complacent.
    He opened the door slowly and invited the boy into the suite with his trolley. The kid appeared nervous under Anatol’s stare and stumbled his way awkwardly inside. After checking his order with a steely eye he tipped the gangly youth and bade him leave.
    The first thing Anatol did was open the bottle of chilled vodka. He poured a good measure straight into a glass and swigged it down in one go, letting a out shiver of pleasure as the liquid hit his throat. Feeling peckish he picked up a stuffed olive from the plate of