by Simon Toyne
He had just stepped on to the bridge when everything went wrong.
The first thing he heard was hurrying footsteps, scuffing over the dry flagstones towards him — three or four people by the sound of it. Instinctively he spun round, his hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun, then an intense white light blinded him.
‘James Harris, World News. What’s inside that box?’
He saw the edge of a camera lens beneath the bright light and the spongy end of a microphone thrust in his direction. He considered shooting out the light and taking his chances with whoever was behind it, but his mind caught up and made him stop. The camera was probably sending a feed to somewhere else or even broadcasting live.
He thrust his hand back in his jacket, but not before the cameraman had seen the gun and zoomed in on it for a second.
‘There is nothing in the box,’ he said. ‘You have no authority here. You should not be here.’
‘They have my permission.’ A new voice and the outline of a man, one arm in a sling, the other holding out a police badge.
Police and press. All wrong.
There was nothing for it but to abandon his mission and escape.
He took a step towards the camera, smiling broadly, his arms rising up in the beginnings of a gesture of surrender. The cameraman backed away, but not quite fast enough. Dick brought his arm down in a rapid swipe, knocking the camera to the floor. There was a shattering of glass as the top light broke and everything was plunged into darkness. Then he threw himself at the policeman.
Pain lanced through Arkadian’s arm as the man ran through him, knocking him backwards on to the flagstones. He twisted round — bringing fresh, tearing agony to his shoulder — and reached for his gun, but the hulking figure was already disappearing round the corner of the loading shed. He was gone. None of the others were going to pursue him. They were too preoccupied with the main focus of the exclusive story he had promised them.
The cameraman had picked up the camera and was zooming in on the lid while the reporter prised it open, giving a running commentary as he did so.
Arkadian struggled to his feet. He wanted to go after his attacker, but was in no physical state to run, so he drifted over to the box, hoping to God it contained good news.
The lid pulled away and clattered to the ground.
Liv was lying on her side, wrapped in blankets and bandages like a Halloween mummy. The reporter was asking her questions, but it was clear she was drugged. At least he hoped that was why none of the preceding racket had roused her. Arkadian reached in and pressed his fingers to her neck.
There was a pulse.
She was alive.
Dragan watched it all play out beneath him like a helpless God. As soon as the bright light flashed and the large figure knocked it out and fled he knew it was trouble.
He watched the others surround the box, the lid slide off it, and felt something surge within him when he saw the figure curled inside. He was drawn towards it and had to grip on to the cave wall to stop himself from tipping down into the gap. So close that he could see it, too far for it to do him any good. He felt like weeping, or raging, or killing something. But all he could do was watch as the group departed, taking the girl with them.
81
Arkadian held on to Liv all the way down the bumpy streets of the old town, his good arm wrapped round her like a father comforting his child, his bad arm singing with pain at every bump.
They were travelling in one of the ‘moon buggies’ used to ferry the old and infirm up the mountain. Right now he felt he qualified on both counts. The reporter was driving, while the cameraman scanned the streets with his lens like a soldier on point. Nobody spoke, aware that the giant man they had accosted could still be out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush his ambushers.
By the time they reached the bottom, Liv was starting to stir, shaken awake by the juddering descent. Arkadian punched the exit codes into the emergency hatch and smiled when the rising steel shutter revealed that the second part of the rescue plan was waiting.
The reporter saw it too. ‘What’s that ambulance doing here?’
‘I called for it. Wasn’t sure what state the hostage would be in. Pull over by the rear doors and I’ll have them check her out, make sure she’s OK before you get to talk to her.’
The reporter steered over to the parked ambulance and hit the brakes hard enough to telegraph his annoyance. The deal he had done with Arkadian gave him exclusivity on the story and now he could feel it slipping away.
The driver’s door of the ambulance opened and a skinny, pale man with shoulder-length black hair got out and moved towards them. He dropped to his knee and grabbed Liv’s wrist. ‘Pulse is weak,’ he said after a few beats. ‘BP is low.’ He lifted one of Liv’s eyelids and shone a bright penlight into it, switched eyes and did the same. ‘Pupils are constricted but responsive. Looks like some kind of barbiturate poisoning. I need to put her on oxygen and a drip and shift her to the hospital immediately so we can find out what they doped her with and start flushing it out.’
He threw open the doors and dragged out a retractable trolley, the legs springing open and clattering against the flagstones.
‘Give the man a hand,’ Arkadian said. ‘I would, but…’
‘Keep filming,’ the reporter barked at the cameraman before stepping forward to help lift Liv on to the trolley.
The long-haired medic strapped her down then manoeuvred the stretcher back to the ambulance, slotting it into place with a hefty shove.
The reporter turned to Arkadian. ‘You said we could interview her.’
‘And so you shall, just as soon as she’s been given the all-clear from the hospital. You wouldn’t want to endanger her health in the pursuit of a story would you?’
Behind him the ambulance shuddered to life and the two-tone lights on the roof began to spin their bright colours across the greyness of the old town wall. ‘I’ll keep the rest of the press away, I promise,’ Arkadian said. ‘In fact, I’ll ride with these guys to ensure it.’ He climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital, just ask for me at the desk — they’ll tell you where to go.’ The ambulance pulled away.
The reporter jumped behind the wheel of the news truck and started the engine. He jammed it in gear and stamped on the accelerator as soon as the cameraman scrambled inside. There was a bang from outside and the wheel jerked to the right. He fought to keep it straight for a few metres, then hit the brakes and jumped out of the cab to see what was wrong.
A small piece of wood was embedded in the flat front tyre. He hooked his fingers round the edge and wrenched it free, the nails sticking out of the wood catching the streetlights as it clattered away across the road. Sabotage. He looked up just in time to see the ambulance slip round the corner at the end of the road and disappear from sight.
‘Is she really suffering from a barbiturate overdose?’ Arkadian asked.
The driver shook his head. ‘Unlikely. She may have been dosed up with a barbiturate of some kind, but not to any dangerous level: she was responsive and her BP is fine. Was I convincing? I’m not used to dealing with them when they’re still breathing.’
The driver was Dr Bartholomew Reis, senior pathologist at the city coroner’s office. He had worked hundreds of cases with Arkadian and was the only person he trusted who could borrow an ambulance at short notice and make a convincing medic.
‘Where to now?’ Reis asked, switching off the siren and lights and easing the ambulance through the empty streets of Ruin.
‘Keep heading east and out of the city,’ Arkadian replied, watching the hospital loom up ahead then slip past and disappear behind them. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re near.’
82
Vatican City
Clementi was dragged from a troubled dream by the harsh sound of a phone ringing. He checked the clock by his bed. The numerals showed that it was a little after four in the morn
ing; the worst of all times to receive a call. He reached for the phone in the dark and snatched it up to silence the ring.
‘Hello?’
‘How quickly can you log on to your secure server?’ It was Pentangeli, the American member of the Group.
‘Ten minutes,’ Clementi said, instantly awake. ‘I need to get into the office.’
‘Do it faster. I’ve just sent you something you really need to see.’
The phone went dead.
Clementi could hear the phone ringing in his office when the elevator opened on to the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace eight minutes later.
He stumbled down the hall, keenly aware that the Holy Father was currently sleeping in the room next door. His own apartment was in a different building, on the other side of the Sistine Chapel. He had run the whole way, or as close to running as his bloated body would allow. Fumbling his key in the lock, he fell into the dark room, knocking a pile of newspapers to the floor as he grabbed the phone to silence it.
‘I’m here,’ he said, his words more breath than substance.
‘Are you looking at your email?’
Clementi collapsed in his chair. ‘I’m just… accessing it.’ He fought for breath, his heart hammering in his chest, fingers shaking as they pecked away at the keyboard. There were two messages in his secure email account, one with the location ID of the compound in Iraq and one with no subject line or sender. He guessed this would be from Pentangeli. He opened it and a pop-up window automatically started playing a video clip.
At first it was too dark and shaky to make out; then the picture settled and a bright light came on, surprising a huge blond man dressed in black pushing a large box. Clementi felt the ground fall away from beneath him as he realized what he was watching.
‘What you’re looking at is raw, unedited news footage, flagged up by one of my senior news producers. They were going to run it as an exclusive on the next news cycle, but I made them spike it. All the media has now been destroyed. The only evidence that this ever happened is the file you’re now looking at.’
The footage steadied again and showed the lid being removed. The camera framed up the sleeping form of the girl curled inside then panned away and tilted up showing the Citadel behind it. It was as damning as it could possibly be.
‘Shortly after this footage was taken the girl was taken away under police escort to Ruin City Hospital — only she never got there. She’s disappeared. Again. I know you said you were “handling” this,’ Clementi couldn’t miss the mocking quote marks around the word, ‘so could you mind telling me where she is now?’
Clementi thought about lying, making up some story about how she was under surveillance and would be silenced within the hour, but he had made so many of those promises in the last few days that he couldn’t bring himself to say it. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
There was a long exhale on the line before Pentangeli spoke again. ‘I don’t know why you’re having such difficulty sorting this mess out. Don’t forget, if this whole thing goes belly up, you’re the one who’ll suffer most. Beyond lending you money, we have no evident connection to this whole business. And one way or another we will get our money back, whether it’s in cash or commodities. Hell, the site of St Patrick’s in downtown Manhattan has got to be worth a quarter of a billion in real estate terms. So if I were you, I would throw everything you have at finding these people, before they stumble on to something that could really do some damage. Between us, we own most of the news and TV stations in the world, but we don’t own them all. Don’t count on the story being spiked if you screw up again. It’s time you got your house in order, Cardinal. Let me know when it’s done.’
83
Liv was aware of sounds and movement breaking through the soft cocoon of her drugged sleep. They were different from before, no longer the drone of a jet engine but something quieter. She could hear the crunch of tyres and feel the gentle movement of a vehicle travelling slowly over an uneven surface. The crunching slowed then stopped. She heard a door open and felt the springs rock as someone got in with her. It was still dark outside, she could sense it even though her eyes remained shut. She could smell the night creeping in through the open door and hear night noises woven into it: the dry rasp of crickets; the click of cooling earth.
Whoever had got in was standing close now, looking down at her. She imagined the huge blond man preparing another shot to keep her locked inside her own body. She thought of springing up and running into the night, but knew her body was too limp to obey. She braced herself for the bite of the needle. Then he spoke.
‘Liv?’
Her eyes struggled open and she tried to focus. The figure looming over her was backlit by the bright interior light, but she knew who it was.
Gabriel smiled as her eyes rolled open and, in her mind, she smiled back and reached up to touch his face, but in reality her arm remained flat against the mattress and her face remained a mask. Whatever chemical prison she was in, she wasn’t free of it yet. And even as she savoured this moment, memories of the nightmare returned. The last time she had woken from a dream and discovered him there he had been consumed with flame. His image began to liquefy as tears welled up in her eyes but she blinked them away and kept her eyes open. She wanted to look at him for as long as possible, even if he was an illusion.
He reached down and wiped away a tear with his thumb, then leaned over to kiss her. Only when she felt his lips touch hers and the warmth of his breath on her skin did she know that it was real. He was there.
Keep yourself safe, he had told her the last time she had seen him, until I find you.
And, though she had dramatically failed to keep her half of that bargain, he had somehow kept his.
‘You’re safe,’ he whispered, and the words felt like a spell that unlocked her from some dark enchantment. ‘Try to sleep now. We’ll talk more when you’ve rested.’
Then he took her hand and held it, staying by her side until her eyes closed again and she slipped back into the security of sleep.
84
Vatican City
Clementi swallowed drily, his eyes fixed on the darkness of his office, staring at nothing. He had promised to call Pentangeli back once he’d checked in with his field operatives and found out what was happening. The latest report lay open on his desk, filed from the airport in New Jersey. He had dialled the contact number on the cover sheet, but no one was answering. There was a bump next door and the scrape of a chair across the floor. His Holiness was awake, undoubtedly roused by the sound of the phone ringing.
Clementi put the phone down and flicked on the desk lamp, revealing the spill of newspapers across the office floor where he’d knocked them over in his hurry on the way in. He dropped to his knees and started tidying them up in case the Pope decided to pay an unscheduled visit. If asked, he would say it was something to do with the global financial market; His Holiness always glazed over when he started talking about money — therein lay a large part of the Church’s problems.
As he placed the last newspaper back on his desk his eyes snagged on the front page. It showed two photographs, one of Liv Adamsen and one of Gabriel Mann. Above them was the banner headline: MISSING PRESUMED MURDERED?
An overwhelming wave of pure hatred consumed him. How could these people, these nobodies, be causing him such trouble?
He looked back up at the computer monitor to check the time and spotted the unopened email from earlier. It had been sent by Dr Harzan, the operations manager at the desert compound. He had skipped over it because of the ringing phone and the pressing urgency of the other email in the inbox. He opened it now and read its short but wonderful contents. It was miraculous, like a ray of sun shining through storm clouds, or the answer to a long-held prayer. We found it — and it’s far, far bigger than any of us dared hope.
Clementi read and reread the note, all the stress of the last weeks — years even — melting away in the warm glow of those few simple words.
85
It was light when Liv woke.
She’d had the dream again while she slept, only this time it had been different. The Tau had stood, not in some featureless darkness, but in the middle of an empty desert at night, a fingernail moon hanging low in a sky full of stars. It had been a dream shot through with anxiety and dread, although nothing had happened. She had just sat, staring up at the dwindling moon as it sank towards the horizon, slowly disappearing in a drift of sand until, moments before it and she disappeared entirely, she woke up.
She was lying in the lower bunk of a row of three in a wooden dormitory room that reminded her of summer camps she had gone to when she was a kid. It had the same smell of wood and dust and sunshine. There was also coffee brewing somewhere and her stomach growled in response. She tried to sit up and, to her utter relief, her body obeyed. The drug she had been given was losing its grip on her, but she still had the cottonmouth dryness of the recently sedated.
Easing herself out of bed, she slowly got to her feet, testing her balance and feeling the stiffness in her muscles. The room shifted a little as she rose and she had to cling to the steel frame of the bed until it steadied again. She could hear the pulse in her head and feel the dark threat of a headache lurking behind her eyes. Ordinarily she would have popped an Advil and got back into bed, but the smell of the coffee lured her on. She needed the caffeine and the rehydration: but most of all she wanted to see Gabriel again.
She found him in the next room, sitting at a table opposite Dr Anata and Arkadian. They were all hunched over a fold-out map pinned flat by a leather-bound book and a laptop wired to a phone. Gabriel rose from his chair and walked over to her, hesitant and slightly nervous, as if he didn’t quite know what he should do. Liv solved the problem for him by collapsing against him and squeezing him hard. He was wearing a pullover that felt soft against her cheek and held the same cedarwood and citrus smell of him that she remembered from before. She pulled back and looked up into his face. ‘Just checking you’re real,’ she said, her voice raspy from lack of use. ‘You’ve been popping up in my dreams — and not in a good way.’