The Key s-2

by Simon Toyne

  There was a picture reference at the foot of the page. Liv turned to it and found herself staring at the same broken tablet that contained the symbols she had scrawled on her hand. She looked at them again, their hidden meaning taking on a darker hue after what she had just learned. She felt a sudden urge to remove the marks from her skin, as though this might cleanse her of whatever madness was infecting her.

  Unclipping her seat belt, Liv placed the book on her seat then walked quickly towards the bathroom at the front of the plane, scratching her hand as she went, as if the symbols were somehow infected.

  Dick squeezed his legs up and out of the vice-like grip of the armrests. His body creaked as it uncurled itself from the tortured prison of the cheap seat and he stood slowly, feeling the pop and crack of joints stretching back to their natural shape. As he reached his full height, his hair brushed against the ceiling. Up ahead the girl reached the top of the aisle and disappeared through the door into the tiny bathroom. He was already moving forward before the ‘Engaged’ light came on.

  He had spent his time in the flight musing about two things. The first was what sort of book the girl was reading, the second was trying to figure out if there was a way of killing her on the plane without getting caught.

  The message he had received at the airport had told him that the girl represented a clear and present danger and needed to be terminated with extreme prejudice. Dick loved all this military jargon: the operatic quality of the words and lack of equivocation in them. But ironically it meant that, in order to execute his task as quickly and as efficiently as possible, he would have to wait. So in the meantime he would satisfy himself with answering the first question that had been running through his mind.

  He reached her empty seat and glanced down at the book. It was open at a page of photographs. She had underlined something on one and written in the margin. His eyes lingered on the curve of her handwriting. It was elegant and compact, just like her. He pulled his phone from his pocket, checking that the other passengers in the row were asleep then took a photo of the page. He also memorized the title of the book and was pleasantly surprised when he saw what it was. He stretched again for the benefit of anyone watching, then returned to his seat, arching his back to give the impression he was merely stretching his legs. Maybe when the time came he would take her somewhere quiet, so they could talk a while first. Somewhere — i-so-la-ted.

  It was rare to find a pretty girl who liked language as much as he did.

  42

  Arkadian set off on foot for Davlat Hastenesi Hospital with fragments of his conversation with Gabriel repeating in his head:

  I was set up.

  Liv’s in danger.

  So is my mother.

  He had heard about the deaths at the hospital via a wind-up radio tuned to the news and recalled the look on Kathryn’s face after he dropped off the book, only a few hours ago. She had blamed him for Gabriel’s arrest, he had seen it in her eyes and heard it in her silence. He thought she would soften once her son was released. But she didn’t trust the system to protect him. And she had been right. Which was why he was walking through streets filled with dust and dazed people like a penitent sinner. He wanted to be there at the hospital — he needed to be there. The only way to make sure no evidence was overlooked or contaminated or accidentally lost was to be part of the investigation.

  By the time he arrived police barriers had been set up, blocking off a section of the street running alongside the hospital. A solitary policeman was on guard, trying to keep back the surprisingly large crowd of reporters and television crews who had already gathered. Clearly not even an earthquake was enough to dislodge their interest in the story that had dominated the news for the past few weeks. Hooking his ID card into his jacket pocket, Arkadian nodded a greeting to the cop, who recognized him and stepped aside to let him pass.

  In the middle of the cordoned-off area a large square tent had been erected on the pavement. It glowed brightly from within, the lights powered by a small generator. One of the side flaps peeled aside as Arkadian approached and a paper-suited crime scene technician emerged. It was Bulut Gul, a senior member of the forensics team and also one of the guys Arkadian genuinely trusted within the department.

  ‘Thought you were on leave,’ Bulut said, nodding at the sling.

  ‘So did I. I thought you might need a helping hand here — and I still have one that works.’ He nodded at the tent. ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘According to the guard rota, he’s called Nesim Senturk.’ Bulut stepped over and opened the flap wide enough for him to see inside. ‘He’s one of the emergency draft. His service ID is missing, so we’re not sure yet which district he came from. All the databases at the station have been knocked offline or otherwise fried by the quake. They’re working on getting them back up again, but it’s not exactly top priority; everyone with a pulse is out on the streets cleaning up the mess.’

  Arkadian tilted his head to get a better look at the man’s face. It was the same guard who had signed him in earlier when he had come to visit Liv and Kathryn. Following the explosion at the Citadel the police presence in the streets of Ruin had been raised significantly to calm the public and reassure the hordes of tourists that they were safe. In order to do this they had pulled in officers from several neighbouring forces, filling the main station house with unfamiliar faces. The dead guard was one of these.

  ‘Where’s his gun?’

  ‘Haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Not sure. Don’t think he fell though. Petersen is upstairs checking it out. My guess is he was tied up here and then injected with something. Look there on the side of his neck — puncture wound. We’ll run a tox test when we get the bodies shipped over to the lab, but God knows when that’s going to happen. The city’s in chaos at the moment with all emergency services spoken for. There’s broken gas mains and all sorts. At least we’re nice and convenient for the hospital if we need to store them somewhere cold.’

  ‘Where are the other bodies?’

  ‘Two more on the fourth floor — both Citadel survivors, though I guess we shouldn’t be calling them that any more.’

  Arkadian felt a coldness creep over him. ‘Same deal as here?’

  ‘One of them looks the same, the other one’s — a bit more messy.’

  ‘Which one’s which?’

  Bulut looked up. ‘You knew the woman, didn’t you? I saw your name on the sign-in sheet. If it’s any consolation, she wasn’t the messy one.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘Only one. Gabriel Mann.’

  Arkadian looked up in surprise. ‘Gabriel! Why?’

  ‘He’s a fugitive.’

  ‘Doesn’t make him a murderer.’

  ‘No, but he’s connected to one of the victims, and we found his fingerprints in her room. A room that he is not supposed to have been in.’

  Arkadian remembered how Gabriel had cut him off the moment he told him Liv’s flight details had been searched. He could imagine him, sprinting to the hospital to protect his mother — getting here too late.

  ‘How do you know they’re Gabriel’s prints if the databases are all down?’

  ‘Petersen recognized them. If he says they belong to Gabriel Mann, that’s good enough for me — for now, at least.’

  Henrik Petersen was Ruin police force’s top prints guy. He displayed an artistry with his brushes and graphite powder few could match. He could lift a print off almost anything and had a photographic memory. Less than two weeks ago he had applied his skills in the city morgue after the body of Liv Adamsen’s brother had been stolen. He had found Gabriel’s prints then. So if he said he’d found another print that matched then there was no doubt about it — Gabriel had been here.

  ‘Mind if I go and have a look?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Bulut turned back to the glowing tent. ‘Plenty to keep me busy right here.’

  As he made his way to the car park entrance,
Arkadian glanced over at the press pack straining behind the police barriers. A news camera pointed his way and he turned his head away until he’d entered the quiet of the underground car park.

  At the bottom of the ramp he stopped and pulled his phone from his pocket. Still no service. He needed to contact Gabriel. There was something rotten at the heart of the police department, something that went so deep that assassins could apparently be spirited into police cells and hospital rooms. It made him sick to think of it. He wanted to warn Gabriel that he had a murder warrant hanging over him now, but he had no way of contacting him. He had to hope that Gabriel would call him when the phones came back on. Until then, he would do what he had come to do: make sure the crime scene was processed properly, ensure that nothing was missed. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and walked over to the stairs that would take him up to the fourth floor and his own personal act of remembrance to the woman he had failed.

  43

  Gabriel stumbled through the broken city, tears streaking the stone dust that had ghosted his face, still clutching the book his mother had given him.

  He could already feel the pain of her loss inside him, gnawing away at the part already worn thin by the death of his father. When John Mann had been killed, Gabriel had been consumed with anger. It had raged inside him, burning first for the murderers and then for himself. He felt guilty because he hadn’t been there, fantasizing about how he could have made a difference if he had. It had caused deep cracks to appear in him and his pain and rage had bled into them and coloured the life that followed. The courses he had been studying seemed suddenly worthless, so he quit and joined the army, hoping to channel his anger and learn different skills. He wanted to equip himself with the practical tools that would enable him to bring the fight to those who had killed his father and armour himself so that, if danger ever came calling again, he could protect his family from it.

  And danger had come.

  And this time he had been right there.

  But still he had been powerless to stop it.

  All his combat training had proved unequal to the simple task of defending and protecting those he loved. Because his enemy was vast and intangible: it didn’t stand up in front of him and level a weapon, it was everywhere, embedded in the faith of millions and the fabric of the very city he was stumbling through. It was the city.

  Blinded by grief, he kept moving without knowing where he was going, intent on just putting one foot in front of the other and distance between himself and the hospital while avoiding the fire crews and anyone else in a uniform.

  In the end, his survivor’s instinct brought him to Melek Avenue, a wide, tree-lined street on the edge of the Garden District. It was an address unconnected to him and therefore unlikely to be visited by anyone seeking him out. It was also the home of the one person who knew more about the Citadel and its secrets than anyone outside the mountain. If the book his mother had pressed into his hands could be employed against the Citadel, then she would know how to use it.

  Gabriel counted the houses until he reached the one he was looking for. He moved up the steps to the door, checking the street to make sure it was empty, then knocked loudly.

  A siren was wailing at the far end of the street, one of the many burglar alarms the quake had triggered, but no one was coming to check. He heard footsteps inside the house and the sound of a drawer being opened in the hallway. The footsteps came nearer, a key twisted in a lock then the door opened sharply and he found himself staring into the beam of a handheld torch and the cold, black eye of a gun barrel. He turned away from the brutal light, and started to raise his hands when a strident voice boomed from behind the light.

  ‘Gabriel!’ The gun vanished and the torch pulled back to reveal the owner of the voice. Even in the turmoil of the earthquake Dr Miriam Anata was impeccably dressed in her usual pinstriped suit with plain T-shirt. Her straight silver hair, cut in an asymmetric bob, gave her a stern appearance but her eyes were full of concern. Looking into them now made something inside Gabriel give way and he turned from her as his face crumpled in grief.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, taking him by the arm and leading him inside. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Kathryn,’ he managed. ‘My mother.’

  He felt her arms around him, patting his back and shushing in his ear as though he were a child again. He was touched by this act of compassion, coming as it did from such a conventional and reserved person as Dr Anata. He tried to thank her and form words of explanation but none came. Grief had stolen his voice.

  44

  The Citadel hummed with noise and echoed with urgent voices in the aftermath of the quake. Most of the monks had been asleep when the tremors hit, shaking them out of their beds and into the corridors where they had ridden the worst of it out. Athanasius was one of them and he had spent much of his time since reassuring other monks that what they had experienced had been a tremor and not another bomb. The lingering smell of smoke from the garden had not helped his cause.

  Some of the power had stayed on at least, so there had been enough working lights to quickly assess how much damage had been done. The answer was surprisingly little. It was as if the explosion ten days earlier had already pruned away the weaker parts of the mountain and the earthquake had merely shaken what was left to test how strong it was. A few rockfalls had been discovered here and there, and the library was being checked again to make sure no books had been damaged, but other than that the Citadel seemed sound and was getting back to normal. The rock piles were already being cleared away and many of the monks were returning to the dorms and chapels to continue sleeping or praying.

  Athanasius was heading to his cell when he encountered Brother Axel coming down the tunnel towards him, fizzing like a lit fuse. ‘This is your fault,’ he said, pointing a finger at him. ‘First the garden and now this. None of it would have happened if the Sancti were still here and the Sacrament safe.’

  Athanasius checked behind him to make sure the tunnel was empty then lowered his voice so it would not carry. ‘This is superstitious talk and does you no credit as a leader of men. You of all people should be instilling calm at a time like this, not fear. We need order, not chaos.’

  ‘We had order. For thousands of years we had it. And now it is gone in the space of a few weeks.’

  ‘Order will return,’ Athanasius said. ‘Order is returning.’

  ‘Indeed. You fancy that everyone sees things your way, but I think you are in for a surprise. In times of uncertainty people cling to tradition. And that is what I aim to offer. The elections will soon reveal which way opinion lies.’

  Athanasius was about to respond when a sound made them both stop.

  It was the Angelus bell echoing up from the tribute cave in the depths of the mountain.

  Someone was outside, summoning the Ascension platform so they could be admitted.

  45

  Gabriel forced the story out, bit by bit, pushing it past his pain and grief until the details started to flow and his sorrow hardened back to anger. When he had told Dr Anata everything he handed over the diary and sank into the leather sofa, feeling utterly wrung out.

  They were sitting in what had once been a grand reception room and was now a well-stocked library with books lining every wall and covering every horizontal surface. With the power still out, the space was lit only by candlelight, creating a sense that the room belonged to the past and not to the modern city wailing outside the heavy curtains draped across the high windows.

  Dr Anata stared at the diary, her face white with shock. She had known Kathryn Mann for many years, working alongside her as an unofficial advisor, sharing knowledge and new discoveries on all things to do with the Citadel. She was Mala, like Gabriel’s family, a descendant of one of the two most ancient tribes of men, the other being the Yahweh, the inhabitants of the Citadel who had stolen the Sacrament and used its power for their own ends.

  Gabriel could see tears glistening around her bli
nking eyes as she turned the small volume over in her hands, the silver rings on her fingers catching the candlelight as they moved over the dark leather. Her lips formed silent words as she tried to phrase a question and, when she eventually managed it, her voice was brittle with emotion. ‘Do you think they killed her for… do you think this is what they were after?’

  Gabriel shook his head. ‘If they’d wanted the book, the cop would’ve taken it. It felt like a clean-up operation to me, a coordinated move to silence anyone who had been inside the Citadel. Whatever is in the book, I doubt they even know about it.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I came straight here. I didn’t know where else to go. I’m sorry if that was… inappropriate. I don’t mean to bring trouble to your door. If you want me to leave, just say.’

  Dr Anata tilted her head and glared at him through her half-moon reading glasses, giving Gabriel the sort of magnified look of indignation he had seen her dole out a few times before. The familiarity and honesty of it made him feel better somehow. She unwound the leather binding and opened the cover, angling the book towards the candle so they could both see what was written there.

  Dr Anata had spent her life chiselling away at the myths of the Citadel. She had published more books on the subject than anyone living, knew all the legends and lore that surrounded it; so when she turned to the middle pages and saw the symbols forming the shape of the inverted Tau she gasped in shock. Gabriel recognized the heat-blackened writing from games he had played as a child when his mother had written secret messages for him to discover. He shook away the memory and focused on the text, translating in his head the Malan language she had taught him.