Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Copyright © Simon Toyne 2012

Simon Toyne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Starmap image © the trustees of The British Museum. All rights reserved.

Map © John Gilkes 2011

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images (figure, ceiling); IIC/Axiom/Getty Images (shelving).

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007391622

Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007460885

Version: 2016-10-14

To Roxy

(you can read it when you’re eleven)

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The Key Map

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part II

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Part III

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Part IV

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Part V

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Part VI

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Part VII

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

The Tower

About the Author

Also by Simon Toyne

About the Publisher

I

And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind … And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues …

King James Bible Acts 2:2–4

1

Al-Hillah, Babil Province, Central Iraq

The desert warrior stared through the sand-scoured window, goggles hiding his eyes, his keffiyeh masking the rest of his face. Everything out there was bleached the colour of bone: the buildings, the rubble – even the people.

He watched a man shuffle along the far side of the street, his own keffiyeh swathed against the dust. There weren’t many passers-by in this part of town, not with the noon sun high in the white sky and the temperature way into the fifties. Even so, they needed to be quick.

From somewhere behind him in the depths of the building came a dull thud and a muffled groan. He watched for any indication the stranger may have heard, but he kept walking, sticking close to the sliver of shade provided by a wall pockmarked by automatic weapon fire and grenade blasts. He watched until the man had melted away in the heat-haze, then turned his attention back to the room.

The office was part of a garage on the outskirts of the city. It smelled of oil and sweat and cheap cigarettes. A framed photograph hung on one wall, its subject appearing to proudly survey the piles of greasy paperwork and engine parts that covered every surface. The room was just about big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs and small enough for the bulky air-conditioning unit to maintain a reasonable temperature. When it was working. Right now it wasn’t. The place was like an oven.

The city had been plagued for months by power cuts, one of the many prices they’d had to pay for liberation. People were already talking about Saddam’s regime like it was the good old days. Sure, people might have disappeared from time to time, but at least the lights stayed on. It amazed him how quickly they forgot. He forgot nothing. He’d been an outlaw in Saddam’s time and had remained one under the current occupation. His allegiance was to the land.

Another grunt of pain snapped him back to the present. He began emptying drawers, opening cupboards, hoping he might quickly find the stone he was looking for and vanish into the desert before the next patrol swung past. But the man who had it clearly knew its value. There was no trace of it here.

He took the photograph off the wall. A thick black Saddam moustache spread across a face made featureless by pudgy prosperity; a white dishdasha strained against the man’s belly as his arms stretched around two shyly grinning young girls who had unfortunately inherited their father’s looks. The three of them were leaning against the white 4x4 now parked on the garage forecourt. He studied it now, heard the tick of the cooling engine, saw the shimmer of hot air above it, and a small but distinctive circle low down in the centre of the blackened glass of the windscreen. He smiled and walked towards it, the photo still in his hand.

The workroom took up most of the rear of the building. It was darker than the office and just as hot. Neon strips hung uselessly from the ceiling and a fan sat in the corner, silent and still. A vivid slash of sunlight from a couple of narrow windows high in the back wall fell across an engine block dangling on chains that seemed far too slender to hold it. Below it, lashed to the workbench with razor wire, the fat man in the photograph was struggling to breathe. He was stripped to the waist, his huge, hairy stomach rising and falling in time with every laboured breath. His nose was bloodied and broken and one of his eyes had swollen shut. Crimson rivulets ran from where the wire touched his sweat-slicked skin.

A man in dusty fatigues stood over him, his face also obscured by keffiyeh and goggles.

‘Where is it?’ he said, slowly raising a tyre iron that was wet with blood.

The fat man said nothing, merely shook his head, his breathing growing more rapid in the anticipation of fresh pain. Snot and blood bubbled from his nostrils into his moustache. He screwed up his one good eye. The tyre iron rose higher.

Then the desert warrior stepped into the room.

The fat man’s face remained clenched in expectation of another blow. When none came he opened his good eye and discovered the second figure standing over him.

‘Your daughters?’ The newcomer held up the photograph. ‘Pretty. Maybe they can tell us where their babba hides things?’

The voice was sandpaper on stone.

The fat man recognized it, and fear glazed his staring eye as the desert warrior slowly unwound his keffiyeh, slipped off the sand goggles, and leaned into the shaft of sunlight, causing his pupils to shrink to black dots in the centre of eyes so pale they appeared almost grey. The fat man registered their distinctive colour and shifted his gaze to the ragged scar encircling the man’s throat.

‘You know who I am?’

He nodded.

‘Say it.’

‘You are Ash’abah. You are … the Ghost.’

‘Then you know why I am here?’

Another nod.

‘So tell me where it is. Or would you prefer me to drop this engine on your skull and drag your daughters over for a new family photo?’

Defiance surged up inside him at the mention of his family. ‘If you kill me you will find nothing,’ he said. ‘Not the thing you seek, and not my daughters. I would rather die than put them in danger’s way.’

The Ghost laid the photograph down on the bench and reached into his pocket for the portable sat-nav he had pulled from the windscreen of the 4x4. He pressed a button and held it out for the man to see. The screen displayed a list of recent destinations. The third one down was the Arabic word for ‘Home’. The Ghost tapped a fingernail lightly on it and the display changed to show a street map of a residential area on the far side of town.

All the fight drained from the fat man’s face in an instant. He took a breath and, in as steady a voice as he could manage, told the Ghost what he needed to hear.

The 4x4 bounced over broken ground alongside one of the numerous canals that criss-crossed the landscape to the east of Al-Hillah. The terrain was a striking mixture of barren desert and patches of dense, tropical greenery. It was known as the Fertile Crescent, part of ancient Mesopotamia – the land between two rivers. Ahead of them a line of lush grass and date palms sketched out the banks of one of them – the Tigris – and the Euphrates lay behind them. Between these ancient boundaries mankind had invented the written word, algebra and the wheel, and many believed it was the original location of the Garden of Eden, but no one had ever found it. Abraham – father of the three great religions: Islam, Judaism and Christianity – had been born here. The Ghost had come into existence here too, birthed by the land he now served as a loyal son.

The truck eased past a palm grove and bounced out into the chalk-white desert, baked to concrete by the relentless sun. The fat man grunted as pain jarred through his bruised flesh. The Ghost ignored him, fixing his gaze on a hazy pile of rubble starting to take shape through the windscreen. It was too soon to say what it was, or even how close. The extreme heat of the desert played tricks with distance and time. Looking out at the bleached horizon he could have been staring at a scene from the Bible: the same broken land and parchment sky, the same smudge of moon melting upon it.

The mirage began to take more solid form as they drew closer. It was much bigger than he’d first thought: a square structure, ‘man-made’, two storeys high, probably an abandoned caravanserai serving the camel trains that used to travel through these ancient lands. Its flat clay bricks, baked hard by the same sun almost a thousand years ago, were now crumbling back to their original dust.

Dust thou art, the Ghost thought as he surveyed the scene, And unto dust shalt thou return.

Blast marks became apparent as they drew closer, peppering the outer walls. The damage was recent – evidence of insurgence, or possibly target practice by British or American troops. The Ghost felt his jaw clench in anger and wondered how the invaders would like it if armed Iraqis started blowing lumps out of Stonehenge or Mount Rushmore.

‘There. Stop there.’ The fat man pointed to a small cairn of rocks a few hundred metres short of the main ruin.

The driver steered towards it and crunched to a halt. The Ghost scanned the horizon, saw the shimmer of air rising from hot earth, the gentle movement of palm fronds and in the distance a cloud of dust, possibly a military column on the move, but too far away to be of immediate concern. He opened the car door to the furnace heat and turned to the hostage.

‘Show me,’ he whispered.

The fat man stumbled across the baked terrain, the Ghost and the driver following his exact footsteps to avoid any mines he may try to lure them on to. Three metres short of the pile of rocks the man stopped and pointed to the ground. The Ghost followed the line of his extended arm and saw a faint depression in the earth. ‘Booby traps?’

The fat man stared at him as though he’d insulted his family. ‘Of course,’ he said, holding out his hand for the keys to the truck. He took them and pointed the fob towards the ground. The muted chirp of a lock deactivating sounded somewhere beneath them, then he dropped down, brushing away layers of dust to reveal a hatch secured on one side by a padlock wrapped in a plastic bag. He selected a small key then wrenched open the square trapdoor.

Sunlight streamed down into the bunker. The fat man lowered himself on to a ladder that dropped steeply away into the darkness. The Ghost watched him all the way down from over the barrel of his pistol until he looked up, his one good eye squinting against the brightness. ‘I’m going to get a torch,’ he said, reaching out into the dark.

The Ghost said nothing, just tightened his finger on the trigger in case something else appeared in his hand. A cone of light clicked on in the darkness and shone into the swollen face of the garage owner.

The driver went next while the Ghost did a final sweep of the horizon. The dust cloud was further away now, still heading north towards Baghdad. There were no other signs of life. Satisfied that they were alone, he slid down into the dark earth.

The cave had been cut from rock by ancient hands and stretched away several metres in each direction. Military-style shelving units had been set up along each wall with thick sheets of polythene draped over them to protect their contents from the dust. The Ghost reached over and pulled one aside. The shelf was filled with guns, neatly stacked AK-47 assault rifles mostly, all bearing the scars of combat usage. Underneath them were rows of spam cans with stencilled lettering in Chinese, Russian, and Arabic, each containing 7.62mm rounds.

The Ghost worked his way down the shelves, pulling aside each polythene sheet in turn to discover more weapons, heavy artillery shells, brick-like stacks of dollar bills, bags of dried leaves and white powder, and finally – near the back of the cave on a shelf of its own – he found what he was looking for.

He eased the loose bundle of sacking towards him, feeling the drag of the heavy object inside, then unwrapped it reverently, with the same care he would use to peel dressings from burned flesh. Inside was a flat slate tablet. He tilted it towards the light, revealing faint markings on its surface. He traced their outline with his finger – a letter ‘T’ turned upside down.

The driver glanced over, his gun still on the hostage, his eyes drawn to the sacred object. ‘What does it say?’

The Ghost flipped the sacking back over the stone. ‘It is written in the lost language of the gods,’ he said, picking up the bundle and cradling it as if it were a newborn. ‘Not for us to read, only for us to keep safe.’ He walked up to the fat man and glared into his battered face, his pale eyes unnaturally bright in the dim light. ‘This belongs to the land. It should not be tossed on a shelf with these things. Where did you get it?’

‘I swapped it with a goatherd, for a couple of guns and some ammunition.’

‘Tell me his name and where I might find him.’

‘He was a Bedouin. I don’t know his name. I was doing some business up in Ramadi and he brought it to sell, along with some other bits of junk. He said he found it in the desert. Maybe he did, maybe he stole it. I gave him a good price anyway.’ He looked up with his one good eye. ‘And now you will steal it from me.’

The Ghost weighed this new information. Ramadi was a half-day’s drive north. One of the main centres of resistance during the invasion and occupation, it had been bombed and shelled to rubble, and now had a cursed air hanging over it. It was also home to one of Saddam’s palaces, now stripped clean by looters. The relic could easily have come from there. The late president had been a keen stealer and hoarder of his own country’s treasures. ‘How long ago did you buy it?’

‘About ten days, during the monthly market.’

The Bedouin could be anywhere by now, roaming with his sheep across hundreds of square kilometres of desert. The Ghost held the bundle up for the fat man to see. ‘If you come across anything else like this, you hold on to it and let me know. That way you become my friend – understand? You know I can be a useful friend, and you do not want me as your enemy.’

The man nodded.

The Ghost held his gaze for a moment then replaced the sand goggles.

‘What about the rest of this stuff?’ the driver said.

‘Leave it. There’s no need to take away this man’s livelihood.’ He turned to the ladder and started to climb towards the daylight.

‘Wait!’

The fat man looked at him with confusion, puzzled by his surprising act of charity.

‘The Bedouin herder, he wears a red football cap. I offered to buy it, as a joke, and he became offended. He said it was his most precious possession.’

‘What team?’

‘Manchester United – the red devils.’

2

Vatican City, Rome

Cardinal Secretary Clementi drew deeply on his cigarette, sucking the soothing smoke into his anxious body as he looked down on the tourists swarming across St Peter’s Square like a plump god despairing of his creation. Several groups stood directly beneath him, their viewpoint alternating between their guidebooks and the window where he stood. He was pretty sure they couldn’t see him, his well-stuffed black cardinal’s surplice helping him to blend into the shadows. They were not looking for him anyway. He took another long draw on his cigarette and watched them realize their mistake then shift their collective gaze to the closed windows of the papal apartments to his left. Smoking inside the building was forbidden, but as Cardinal Secretary of the city-state, Clementi didn’t consider the odd indulgence in his private office an outrageous abuse of position. He generally restricted himself to two a day, but today was different; today he was already on his fifth, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

He took one last long breath of nicotine-laced air, crushed the cigarette out in the marble ashtray resting on the sill, then turned to face the bad news that was spread across his desk like a slick. As was his preference, the morning papers had been arranged in the same configuration as the countries on a world map – the American broadsheets on the left, the Russian and Australian on the right, and the European ones in the middle. Usually the headlines were all different, each reflecting a national obsession with a local celebrity or political scandal.

Today they were all the same, as they had been for over a week now, each carrying more or less the same picture: the dark, dagger-like mountain fortress known as the Citadel that sat at the very heart of the ancient Turkish city of Ruin.

Ruin was a curiosity in the modern church, a former ancient powerhouse that had become, along with Lourdes and Santiago de Compostela, one of the Catholic Church’s most popular and enduring shrines. Carved out of a vertical mountain by human hands, the Citadel of Ruin was the oldest continually inhabited structure on earth and original centre of the Catholic Church. The first Bible had been written within its mysterious walls, and it was widely believed that the greatest secrets of the early Church were still kept there. Much of the mystery surrounding the place stemmed from its strict tradition of silence. No one but the monks and priests who lived in the Citadel were ever allowed to set foot inside the sacred mountain and, once they had entered, they were never again permitted to set foot outside. Maintenance of the half-carved mountain, with its high battlements and narrow windows, fell exclusively to the inhabitants; and over time the Citadel had developed the half-finished, ramshackle appearance that had given the city its name. But despite its appearance, it was no Ruin. It remained the only fortress in all of history that had never been breached, the only one that had held on to its ancient treasures and secrets.

Then, a little over a week ago, a monk had climbed to the top of the mountain. With TV cameras capturing his every move, he had arranged his limbs to form the sign of the Tau – symbol of the Sacrament, the Citadel’s greatest secret – and thrown himself from the summit.

The reaction to the monk’s violent death had sparked a global wave of anti-Church feeling that had culminated in a direct attack on the Citadel. A series of explosions had ripped through the Turkish night to reveal a tunnel leading into the base of the fortress. And for the first time in history, people had come out of the mountain – ten monks and three civilians, all suffering from varying degrees of injury – and the newspapers had been full of little else since.

Clementi picked up the morning edition of La Republicca, one of the more popular Italian newspapers, and read the banner headline:

CITADEL SURVIVORS LATEST

DID THEY DISCOVER THE SECRET OF THE SACRAMENT?

It was the same question all the papers had been asking, using the explosion as a pretext to dredge up every old legend about the Citadel and its most infamous secret. The whole reason the power base had moved to Rome in the fourth century was to distance the Church from its secretive past. Ever since, Ruin had looked after its own affairs and kept its house in order – until now.

Clementi picked up another paper, a British tabloid showing a shining chalice floating above the Citadel with the headline:

CHURCH ON ROAD TO RUIN

‘HOLY GRAIL’ OF SECRETS ABOUT TO BE REVEALED?

Other papers concerned themselves with the more lurid and morbid side of the story. Of the thirteen people who had emerged from the mountain, only five survived, the rest having died from their injuries. There were plenty of pictures: harshly lit shots snatched from over the heads of the paramedics as they stretchered the monks to the waiting ambulances, the flash photography highlighting the green of their cassocks and the red of the blood that ran from the ritualized wounds that criss-crossed their bodies.

The whole thing was a huge PR disaster, making the Church look like a demented, secretive, mediaeval cult: bad enough at the best of times, calamitous right now when Clementi had so many other things on his mind and needed the mountain to hold its secrets tighter than ever.

He sat down heavily at his desk, feeling the weight of the responsibilities he alone carried. As Cardinal Secretary of State, he was de facto prime minister of the Vatican city-state and had far-reaching executive powers over the Church’s interests, both domestic and international. Ordinarily, the executive council in the Citadel would have dealt with the situation in Ruin. Like the Vatican, it was an autonomous state within a state with its own powers and influence, but since the explosion he had heard nothing from the mountain – nothing at all – and it was this silence, rather than the clamour of the world’s press, that he found most disturbing. It meant the current crisis in Ruin was very much his concern.

Reaching over the sea of newsprint, Clementi tapped his keyboard. Already his inbox was bursting with the day’s business, but he ignored it all, clicking instead on a private folder labelled RUIN. A prompt box asked for his password and he carefully typed it in, knowing if he got it wrong the whole computer would lock and it would take at least a day for a technician to unlock it again. An hourglass icon appeared as his server processed the complex encryption software, then another mailbox opened. It was empty – still no word. Leaving the subject line blank, he typed into the body of a new message:

Anything?

He hit send and watched it disappear from his screen, then shuffled the newspapers into a neat pile and sorted through some letters that required his signature while he waited for a reply.

The moment the explosion had torn through the Citadel, Clementi had mobilized agents of the Church to closely monitor the situation. He had used Citadel assets to maintain distance from Rome, hoping that the executive council inside the mountain would recover quickly and take over responsibility for the clean-up. In his orderly politician’s mind he saw it as deploying weapons to deal with an oncoming threat. He had never imagined he might be called upon to personally fire them.

Outside he could hear the chatter of the tourists drifting up from the square as they marvelled at the majesty and wonder of the Church, little knowing what turmoil boiled inside it. A sound like a knife striking a wineglass announced the arrival of a message.

Still nothing. There is a rumour that a ninth monk is about to die. What do you want me to do with the others?

His hand hovered over the keyboard ready to type a reply. Perhaps the situation was resolving itself. If another monk died there would be just four survivors remaining – but three of these were civilians, not bound by silence and obedience to the mother church. They posed the greatest threat of all.

His eyes crept across to the stack of newspapers on the corner of his desk and saw their photographs staring back at him – two women and one man. Ordinarily the Citadel would have dealt with them swiftly and decisively because of the threat they posed to the long-held secret of the mountain. Clementi, however, was a Roman cleric, more politician than priest, a creature far removed from the trials of direct action. Unlike the Prelate of Ruin, he was not used to signing death warrants.

He rose from his desk and drifted back towards the window, distancing himself from his decision.

There had been signs of life inside the mountain over the past week – candles passing behind some of the high windows, smoke leaking from the chimney vents. They would have to break their silence sooner or later, re-engage with the world and tidy up their own mess. Until then he would be patient and keep his hands clean and his mind focused on the future of the Church and the real dangers that faced it, dangers that had nothing to do with Ruin or the secrets of the past.

He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the window sill, preparing to seal his decision with the sixth of the day, when the sound of shoe-leather on marble rose in the corridor outside. Someone was heading his way, in far too much of a hurry for it to be routine. There was a sharp tap on his door and the pinched features of Bishop Schneider appeared.

‘What?’ Clementi’s question betrayed more irritation than he intended. Schneider was his personal secretary and one of the lean, career bishops who, like a lizard on the rim of a volcano, managed to live dangerously close to the white heat of power without ever seeming to get singed. His efficiency was beyond reproach, yet Clementi found it very hard to warm to him. But today Schneider’s smooth veneer was absent.

‘They’re here,’ he said.

‘Who?’

But there was no need for an answer. Schneider’s expression told him all he needed to know.

Clementi grabbed the cigarettes and thrust them into his pocket. He knew he would probably smoke them all in the next few hours.

3

Ruin, Southern Turkey

The rain drifted down like ragged phantoms from the flat, grey sky, swirling as it caught the fading heat of the dying day. It fell from clouds that had formed high over the Taurus mountains, pulling moisture from the air as they drifted east, past the glacier and towards the foothills where the ancient city of Ruin lay fringed by jagged crags. The sharp peak of the Citadel, rising from the centre of the city, tore at the belly of the clouds, spilling rain that glossed the side of the mountain and cascaded to ground level, where the dry moat stood.

In the old town, tourists struggled up the narrow lanes towards the Citadel, slipping on the cobbles, rustling along in souvenir rain ponchos made from red plastic to resemble monks’ cassocks. Some were merely sightseers, ticking the Citadel off a long list of world monuments, but others were making the trip for more traditional reasons, pilgrims come to offer prayer and tribute in exchange for peace of mind and calmed souls. There had been many more than usual in the last week, prompted by recent events and the strange sequence of natural disasters that had followed: earth tremors in countries that were traditionally stable, tidal waves striking those with no flood defences, weather that was both unpredictable and unseasonal – just like the thick, cold rain that was now falling in this late Turkish spring.

They continued their slippery way upwards, rising into the cloud to be greeted, not by the awe-inspiring sight of the Citadel, but by the ghostly outlines of other disappointed tourists staring into the mist towards the spot where the mountain should be. They drifted through the haze, past the shrine of wilting flowers where the monk had fallen, to a low wall marking the edge of the broad embankment and the end of their journey.

Beyond the wall, long grass moved gently where water once flowed, and there – just visible like a wall of night rising up from the edge of the mist – was the lower part of the mountain. It had the monumental and unnerving presence of a huge ship in a fog bank bearing down on a tiny rowing boat. Most of the tourists quickly headed away, stumbling through the luminous fog in search of shelter in the souvenir shops and cafés that lined the far side of the embankment. But a patient few remained, standing at the low wall, offering up the prayers they had carried with them: prayers for the Church; for the dark mountain and for the silent men who had always dwelt there.

Inside the Citadel, all was quiet.

No one moved through the tunnels. No work was being done. The kitchens were empty and so was the garden that flourished in the crater at the heart of the mountain. Neat piles of rubble and wooden props showed where tunnel repairs had been made, but those who had carried out the work had now moved on. The airlock leading into the great library remained shut, as it had done since the blast knocked out the power and disrupted the climate control and security systems inside. Rumour had it that it would open again soon, though no one knew when.

Elsewhere, there were signs that the mountain was returning to normal. The power was back on in most areas and prayer and study rotas had been posted in all the dormitories. Most significantly, a requiem Mass had been organized to finally lay to rest the bodies of the Prelate and the Abbot, whose deaths had plunged the mountain into a leaderless and unprecedented chaos. Every man in the mountain was heading there now, treading in solemn silence to pay their last respects.

Or almost every man.

High in the mountain, in the restricted upper section where only the Sancti – the green-cloaked guardians of the Sacrament – were permitted to tread, a group of four monks neared the top of the forbidden stairs.

They too walked in silence, trudging up the darkened stairway, each weighed down with the heavy trespass they were undertaking. The ancient law that bound them was clear: anyone venturing here without permission would be executed as an example to those who sought to discover the great secret of the mountain uninvited. But these were not ordinary times, and they were no ordinary monks.

Leading the way was Brother Axel, bristling like a brush, his auburn hair and beard a close match for the red cassock that showed he was a guard. Hard on his heels came the black-cloaked figure of Father Malachi, chief librarian, his stooped figure and thick glasses a legacy of decades spent hunched over books in the great library caves. Next came Father Thomas, implementer of so many of the technological advancements in the library, dressed in the black surplice of a priest. And finally there was Athanasius, wearing the simple brown cassock of the Administrata, his bald head and face unique among the uniformly bearded brethren of the Citadel. Each man was head of their particular guild – except Athanasius who was only acting head in the absence of an abbot. Collectively they had been running the mountain since the explosion had removed the ruling elite from their midst, and collectively they had taken the decision to discover for themselves the great secret they were now custodians of.

They reached the top of the stairs and gathered in the dark of a small vaulted cave, their torches picking out roughly carved walls and several narrow tunnels that led away in different directions.

‘Which way?’ Brother Axel’s voice seemed too big in the narrow confines of the chamber. He had led most of the way, surging up the stairs as though it was something he was born to, but now he seemed as hesitant as the rest of them.

Discovering what lay inside the chapel of the Sacrament was usually the pinnacle of a monk’s life, something that would only happen if they were selected to join the elite ranks of the Sancti. But they were here on nobody’s invitation and this group’s deep-seated fear of learning the forbidden knowledge was both intoxicating and terrifying.

Axel stepped forward, holding out his torch. There were niches cut into the rock walls with solid wax oozing down where candles had once burned. He swept his torch over each tunnel in turn, then pointed to the central one. ‘There’s more wax here. It has been used more than the others; the chapel must be this way.’

He moved forward without waiting for confirmation or agreement, ducking to enter the low tunnel. The group followed, with Athanasius reluctantly bringing up the rear. He knew Axel was right. He had trod this forbidden floor alone just a few days previously and seen the horrors the chapel held. He steeled himself now to witness them again.

The group continued down the tunnel, the light from their torches now picking out rough symbols on the walls of crudely rendered women undergoing various tortures. The further they went, the fainter the images grew, until they faded entirely and the tunnel opened into a larger antechamber.

They huddled together, instinctively keeping close while their torches explored the darkness. There was a small, enclosed fireplace on one wall, like a blacksmith’s forge, dark with soot and dripping ash to the floor, though no fire burned in it now. In front of it stood three circular whetstones, mounted on sturdy wooden frames with treadles to turn the wheels. Beyond them on the back wall a large circular stone with the sign of the Tau carved at its centre had been rolled to one side to reveal an arched doorway.

‘The chapel of the Sacrament,’ Axel said, staring into the darkness beyond the door. For a moment they all stood, tensed and nervous as if expecting a beast to come rushing out of the dark towards them. It was Axel who stepped forward to break the spell, holding his torch in front of him like a talisman against whatever might be waiting there. The light pushed away the dark, first revealing more dead candles inside the door, drowned in puddles of cold wax, then a wall, curving away to the left where the chapel opened out. Then they saw what the sharpening stones were for.

The walls were covered with blades.

Axes, cleavers, swords, daggers – all lined up from floor to ceiling. They reflected the torches, glittering like stars and carrying the light deeper into the chapel to where a shape rose up in the dark, about the same height as a man and as familiar to each of them as their own face. It was the Tau, symbol of the Sacrament, now transformed in front of them into the Sacrament itself.

At first it appeared like darkness solidified, but as Axel took a step forward, light reflected dully on its surface, revealing that it was made of some kind of metal bonded together with rivets. The base was bolted with brackets to the stone floor, where deep channels had been cut, radiating out to the edge of the room where they joined deeper gulleys that disappeared into the dark corners. A withered plant curled around the lower part of the cross, clinging to the sides in dry tendrils.

The group drew closer, drawn by the gravity of the strange object, and saw that the entire front section of the cross was open, hinged at the far end of the cross beam and supported by a chain fixed to the roof of the cave.

Inside the Tau was hollow and filled with hundreds of long needles.

‘Can this be the Sacrament?’ Father Malachi voiced what everyone in the group was thinking.

They had all been brought up on the legends of what the Sacrament might be: the tree of life from the Garden of Eden, the chalice Christ had drunk from as he was dying on the cross, perhaps even the cross itself. But as they stood now, confronted by the reality of this macabre object in a room lined with sharpened blades, Athanasius could sense gaps starting to open up between their unquestioning faith and the thing that stood before them. It was what he had hoped would happen. It was what he needed to happen in order to steer the Citadel away from its dark past and towards a brighter, purer future.

‘This can’t be it,’ Axel said. ‘There must be something else; something in one of the other tunnels.’

‘But this is the main chamber,’ Athanasius replied, ‘and here is the Tau.’ He turned to it, averting his gaze from the interior, where dark memories of the last time he had stood here were snagged on the sharp spikes within.

‘It looks like it may have contained something,’ Malachi said, stepping closer and peering at it through his thick glasses, ‘but without the Sancti here to explain, we may never know what it was or the significance it held.’

‘Yes. It’s a great pity they are no longer here in the mountain,’ Axel turned pointedly to Athanasius. ‘I’m sure we all pray for their rapid return.’

Athanasius ignored the jibe. The Sancti had been evacuated on his orders, a decision he had made in good faith and did not regret. ‘We have coped together,’ he replied, ‘and we shall cope together still. Whatever was here has gone – we have all borne witness to this – now we must move on.’

They stood for a while, staring at the empty cross, each lost in their own private thoughts. It was Malachi who broke the silence. ‘It is written in the earliest chronicles that if the Sacrament is removed from the Citadel, then the Church will fall.’ He turned to face the group, his glasses magnifying the concern in his eyes. ‘I fear what we have discovered here can augur nothing but evil.’

Father Thomas shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Our old idea of the Citadel may have fallen, in a metaphorical sense, yet it does not follow that there will also be a physical end to everything.’

‘Exactly,’ Athanasius continued. ‘The Citadel was originally created to protect and keep the Sacrament, but it has become so many other things since. And just because the Sacrament is no longer here does not mean the Citadel will cease to prosper or have purpose. One may remove the acorn from the root of a great oak and yet the tree will still flourish. Never forget, we serve God first, not the mountain.’

Axel took a step back and pointed his finger at Thomas and then at Athanasius. ‘This is heresy you speak.’

‘Our very presence here is heresy.’ Athanasius swept his hand toward the empty Tau. ‘But the Sacrament has gone, and so have the Sancti. The old ways no longer bind us. We have a chance to choose new rules to live by.’

‘But first we must choose a new leader.’

Athanasius nodded. ‘On this at least we agree.’

At that moment a noise rose up from the deeper depths of the mountain and echoed within the chapel, the sound of the requiem Mass beginning.

‘We should go and join our brethren,’ Thomas said. ‘And until we have new leadership, I suggest we say nothing of what we have seen here – it will only lead to panic.’ He turned to Malachi. ‘You are not the only one who knows the chronicles.’

Malachi nodded, but his eyes were still magnified with fear. He turned and took a last long look at the empty Tau as the others filed out behind him. ‘If the Sacrament is removed from the Citadel, then the Church will fall, not the mountain,’ he muttered, too quiet for anyone else to hear. Then he quickly left the chapel, afraid to be left there alone.

4

Room 406, Davlat Hastenesi Hospital

Liv Adamsen burst from sleep like a breathless swimmer breaking surface. She gasped for air, her blonde hair plastered across pale, damp skin, her frantic green eyes scanning the room for something real to cling to, something tangible to help drag her away from the horrors of her nightmare. She heard a whispering, as though someone was close by, and cast about for its source.

No one there.

The room was small: a solid door opposite the steel-framed bed she was lying on; an old TV fixed high on a ceiling bracket in the corner; a single window set into a wall whose white paint was yellowing and flaking as if infected. The blind was down, but bright daylight glowed behind it, throwing the sharp outline of bars against the wipe-clean material. She took a deep breath to try to calm herself, and caught the scent of sickness and disinfectant in the air.

Then she remembered.

She was in a hospital – though she didn’t know why, or how she had come to be there.

She took more breaths, long and deep and calming. Her heart still thudded in her chest, the whispering rush continued in her ears, so loud and immediate that she had to stop herself from checking the room again.

Get a grip, she told herself. It’s just blood rushing through your veins. There’s no one here.

The same nightmare seemed to lie in wait for her every time she fell asleep, a dream of whispering blackness, where pain bloomed like red flowers, and a shape loomed, ominous and terrifying – a cross in the shape of a letter ‘T’. And there was something else in the darkness with her, something huge and terrible. She could hear it moving and feel the shaking of the earth as it came towards her, but always, just as it was about to emerge from the black and reveal itself, she would wake in terror.

She lay there for a while, breathing steadily to calm the panic, tripping through a mental list of what she could remember.

My name is Liv Adamsen.

I work for the New Jersey Inquirer.

I was trying to discover what happened to Samuel.

An image of a monk flashed in her mind, standing on top of a dark mountain, forming the sign of a cross with his body even as he tipped forward and fell.

I came here to find out why my brother died.

In the shock of this salvaged memory Liv remembered where she was. She was in Turkey, close to the edge of Europe, in the ancient city of Ruin. And the sign Samuel had made – the Tau – was the sign of the Sacrament, the same shape that now haunted her dreams. Except it wasn’t a dream, it was real. In her blossoming consciousness she knew that she had seen the shape, somewhere in the darkness of the Citadel – she had seen the Sacrament. She focused on the memory, willing it to take sharper form, but it kept shifting, like something at the edge of her vision or a word she could not recall. All she could remember was a feeling of unbearable pain and of … confinement.

She glanced up at the heavy door, noticing the keyhole now and recalling the corridor beyond. She had glimpsed it as the doctors and nurses had come and gone over the past few days.

How many days? Four? Five, maybe.

She had also seen two chairs pushed up against the wall with men sitting on them. The first was a cop, the uniform a dark blue, the badges unfamiliar. The other had also worn a uniform: black shoes, black suit, black shirt, a thin strip of white at the collar. The thought of him, sitting just a few metres from her made the fear rise up again. She knew enough of the bloody history of Ruin to realize the danger she was in. If she had seen the Sacrament and they suspected it then they would try to silence her – like they had silenced her brother. It was how they had maintained their secret for so long. It was a cliché, but it was true – the dead kept their secrets.

And the priest standing vigil outside her door was not there to minister to her troubled soul or pray for her rapid recovery.

He was there to keep her contained.

He was there to ensure her silence.

Room 410

Four doors down the corridor Kathryn Mann lay in the starched prison of her own single bed, her thick black hair curled across the pillow like a darkening storm. She was shivering despite the hospital heat of her room. The doctors had said she was still in shock, a delayed and ongoing reaction to the forces of the explosion she had survived in the confines of the tunnel beneath the Citadel. She had also lost hearing in her right ear and the left one had been severely damaged. The doctors said it may improve, but they were always evasive when she asked how much.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this wretched and helpless. When the monk had appeared on top of the Citadel and made the sign of the Tau with his body she had believed the ancient prophecy was coming true:

The cross will fall

The cross will rise

To unlock the Sacrament

And bring forth a new age

And so it had happened. Liv had entered the Citadel, the Sancti had come out and now they were dying, one by one, the ancient enemy, the keepers of the Sacrament. Even with her damaged ears, Kathryn had heard the clamour of medical teams running in answer to the flat-lining wail of cardiac alarms all around her. After each alarm she would ask the nurse who had died, fearing it might be the girl. But each time it had been another monk, taken from this life to answer for themselves in the next, their deaths a portent of nothing but good. She had been kept apart from Liv so did not know for sure what had happened inside the Citadel, or even if she had discovered the Sacrament, though the steady deaths of the Sancti gave her some hope that she had.

But if this was a victory, it was a hollow one.

Whenever she closed her eyes she saw the body of Oscar de la Cruz – her father – lying broken and bloodied on the cold concrete floor of the airport warehouse. He had spent most of his long life hiding from the Citadel after escaping from within its walls and faking his own death in the trenches of the First World War. But they had still got him in the end. He had saved her life by smothering the grenade, thrown by a dark agent of the Citadel, meant for her and Gabriel.

It was Oscar who had first taught her about the Citadel, its sinister history and the secrets it contained. It was he who had taught her to read the prophetic symbols etched on the stone when she was still a girl, filling her with its meaning – a loving father telling dark stories to his blue-eyed little girl as later she had done with Gabriel, a mother passing the same stories to her son.

And when all this comes to pass – Oscar had always told her, when the ancient wrong has been righted, then I will show you the next step.

She had often wondered what private knowledge his words had hinted at – and now she would never know.

The Sancti had been unseated, but her own family had been destroyed in the process: first her husband; then her father – who next? Gabriel was in prison at the mercy of organizations she had learned not to trust; and she too had seen the priest, keeping steady watch just beyond her door, another agent of the same church that had already taken so much from her.

I will show you the next step – her father had told her. But now he was gone – killed just before his life’s work had finally been realized – and she could see no step that might give her hope, or help save her, or Gabriel or Liv, from the danger they were in.

5

Vatican City, Rome

Clementi swept from his office with as much speed as his large frame could manage.

‘When did they arrive?’ he asked, his black surplice flaring out behind him like ragged wings.

‘About five minutes ago,’ Schneider said, struggling to keep up with his master.

‘And where are they now?’

‘They were escorted down to the boardroom in the vault. I came to fetch you as soon as I heard they were here.’

Clementi hurried past the two Swiss guardsmen, hoping His Holiness would not choose this moment to emerge from his apartment and enquire about Clementi’s undue haste. As Cardinal Secretary of State, he had to work closely with the Pope – both literally and figuratively – discussing policy and getting his signature on important documents. The file in his hand did not contain any papal signatures or seals. His Holiness was not even aware of its contents or intent, something Clementi had worked hard to maintain.

He reached the end of the corridor and quickly barged through the door into the bare emergency stairwell beyond. ‘Do we know which of the Group is present?’

‘No,’ Schneider replied. ‘The guard wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to press him. I felt it better he remain vague on the details.’

Clementi nodded and descended into the gloom, brooding on what might await him at the end of this unscheduled summons.

The Group was a name he had given to the three as a means of turning them into a single entity, a mind trick designed to strike a balance of power in their arrangement: one of him, one of them. But it had not worked. They were far too powerful and distinctive to subsume into a homogenous whole and, try as he might, they remained as individual and formidable as when he had first approached them and laid out his scheme. The Group met as infrequently as possible, and always in secret, such was the delicate nature of their shared enterprise. With the calibre of people involved, arranging any meeting at all was a minor miracle of scheduling and they had not been due to meet again for another month; yet one or more of them was here right now, unannounced and unexpected – and there was only one viable explanation as to why.

‘This has to be about the situation in Ruin,’ Clementi said, arriving at a featureless metal door set into the wall of the first-floor landing.

He placed his doughy hand on a glass panel beside it, his cardinal’s gold ring clinking against the glass, and a pale strip of light swept across his palm, casting pale, shifting shadows across his face that reflected in the polished metal of the door. Clementi looked away. He had always hated his appearance, his moon face with its fringe of curly hair – once blond, now white – making him appear like an oversized cherub. A dull thunk sounded inside the door and he heaved it open, hurrying into the dark and away from the sight of himself.

A narrow tunnel lit up in a flicker of neon as he moved down it, the walls turning from smooth concrete to rough stone as he passed from the Apostolic Palace into the stone foundations of the squat, fifteenth-century tower built next to it. After ten or so steps he reached a second door that opened into a small, windowless room, packed with shelves and crammed with box files.

‘Go on ahead,’ he said. ‘Give my apologies and say I am cutting short another meeting and will be there directly. I will meet you in the lobby so you can brief me as to exactly who is there. I do not wish to enter a meeting of this importance without at least knowing who is present.’

Schneider bowed and slipped away, leaving Clementi alone with his churning thoughts. He listened to his chamberlain’s footsteps receding, his eyes fixed on the crossed keys of the papal seal and the letters IOR that adorned every file in the room. He was in a section of the fortified tower of Niccolo V, built into the eastern wall of the Apostolic Palace, that now served as the headquarters and only branch of one of the world’s most exclusive financial institutions. IOR stood for Istituto per le Opere di Religione – the Institute for Works of Religion – more commonly referred to as the Vatican Bank. It was the most secretive financial institution in the world and the prime cause of Clementi’s present worries.

Set up in 1942 to manage the Church’s huge accumulated wealth and investments, the bank had a little over forty thousand current account holders, no tax liabilities and the sort of unassailable privacy any Swiss bank would be proud of. As such, it had attracted some of the wealthiest and most influential investors in the world; but it had also courted more than its fair share of controversy.

In the 1970s and 80s the Institute had been used by the now disgraced financier Michele Sindona to launder Mafia drug money. After this Roberto Calvi, famously referred to as God’s banker, had been appointed to take a tighter hold of the Church’s vast resources; instead he had used the bank to illegally siphon billions of dollars from another financial institution, leaving the Church with an embarrassing and expensive moral responsibility when it eventually went bust. Calvi had been found dead a few weeks later, his pockets filled with building bricks and bank notes, hanging beneath Blackfriars Bridge in London. Much had been made of the ecclesiastical connotations of this location, especially in the light of Calvi’s membership of a masonic lodge known as the ‘Black Friars’, but no one had ever been convicted of his murder. The long shadow cast by these scandals lingered on, and for Clementi the rehabilitation of the Vatican Bank had become a personal obsession. What’s more, he had the perfect background to facilitate it.

As an undergraduate at Oxford he had studied history and economics as well as theology, discerning God’s miracle at work in all three disciplines. In Clementi’s eyes, the power of economics was a force for good, creating wealth so that people could be lifted from the evils of poverty and relieved of their earthly suffering. History had also taught him the perils of economic failure. He had studied the great civilizations of the past, focusing not only on how they had amassed their great wealth but also on how they lost it. Again and again, empires that had been built over hundreds, sometimes thousands of years, tipped from prosperity into rapid decline, leaving nothing behind but legends and ruined monuments. His economist’s brain had pondered on what had become of their great wealth. Inevitably some of it passed to conquerors and became the seeds of new empires, but not all. History was littered with accounts of vast treasure stores that had vanished, never to be found again.

Once he had graduated and begun his rise within the Church, Clementi had served God in the best way he knew, by applying his learning and skill to update the Vatican’s revenue streams so that money started flowing in where once it had only flowed out. He knew that economics now ruled the world where faith had once held sway and that, in order to wield the sort of power and influence it had once held, the Church would have to become an economic heavyweight again.

The further Clementi rose, the more influence he had, and he used it to overhaul the outdated financial systems until finally his long service and deft stewardship was rewarded with the appointment to Cardinal Secretary of State and with it the keys to the main prize – the Vatican Bank itself.

His first act as Cardinal Secretary had been to amass all the bank’s various confidential accounts and then personally audit them so he could see the exact state of the Church’s finances. It was a task he didn’t trust anyone else to carry out and it had taken him nearly a year to painstakingly sort the false records from the true and unpick all the subterfuge and false accounting to reveal the full picture. What he had discovered, in a room identical to the one he now stood in, had made him physically sick. Somehow, through systematic corruption and hundreds of years of appalling management, all the vast reserves of money that had been accumulated over the preceding two thousand years had evaporated.

Trillions of dollars – gone.

The Church still held a huge portfolio of property and priceless works of art, but there was no cash – no liquidity. The Church was effectively bankrupt, and, because of centuries of complex deception and false accounting, nobody knew it but him.

Clementi recalled the desolation of that moment, staring into the abyss of what the Church had become and what would surely follow when the truth came to light. If the Church had been a publicly listed company it would have been declared insolvent and broken up by the courts to pay what it could to creditors. But it was not a company, it was God’s ministry on earth, and he could not stand by and allow it to be brought down by the mundane evils of greed and mismanagement. Instead he had relied on the things the Church had always fallen back on in times of need – its independence and its secrecy – and he had kept his discovery hidden.

Left with no choice but to carry on the dishonest practices bequeathed to him by his predecessors, Clementi had concealed the true accounts and set about maintaining the illusion of solvency by constantly moving around what little money there was and making what savings he could while he prayed for a miracle. But he did not despair, for even in the awfulness of his isolation and the great responsibility he alone carried, he could detect God’s hand already working. For had He not bestowed upon Clementi the gifts to understand the complexities of finance and then blessed him with the position of Cardinal Secretary of State?

But the amounts of money lost were too colossal to be recovered by mere economies and financial restructuring. In addition to balancing the books, he needed to find a way to refinance the Church. In the end he found the solution in the most unlikely of places. The key to ensuring the Church’s future, it turned out, was to look to its past – he had found his answer in Ruin.

Almost three years had passed since his moment of revelation, three years of carefully influencing world events by granting audiences and indulgences to presidents and prime ministers in exchange for favours only the Church could bestow. Like some papal legate of old, Clementi had nudged these modern-day Christian kings and emperors into war just so he could gain access to heathen lands the true church had once called its own. And now, just when his audacious scheme was on the verge of completion, it was being threatened by the same ancient and secretive place where the idea had originated.

He thought back to the newspapers on his desk, their headlines predicting the fall of the Citadel and salivating over the prospect of discovering what secrets lay within.

And one of those secrets was his.

If it were to be discovered, everything he had accomplished would be destroyed and the Church would be lost.

A sudden surge of anger welled up inside him and he cursed himself for his human weakness. He had delayed too long over the messy situation surrounding the Citadel. Wrenching open the door, he entered the blank corridor beyond, windowless and unexceptional save for its curved walls that followed the shape of the tower. He would demonstrate to the Group the true strength of his resolve by effectively signing four death warrants in front of them. Then they would see how committed he was; and they would be bound by blood, each to the other.

He burst through the door into the main lobby and stalked across the marble floor, past the ATMs that gave instructions in Latin, towards the steel-framed lift that descended to the vaults in the bedrock of the building.

The lift doors opened as he approached and Schneider jumped when he saw his master bearing down on him with fury in his eyes.

‘Well,’ Clementi said, stepping in and punching the button to take them straight back to the vaults. ‘Which one of our esteemed associates am I about to face?’

‘All of them,’ Schneider said, just as the doors closed and they started to descend. ‘The whole Group is here.’

6

Baghdad, Central Iraq

Dry dust clung to the evening air of Sadr City market, mixing with the smell of raw meat, ripe fruit and decay. Hyde sat across from the main market in the shade of a covered café, an imported American newspaper lying open on the table in front of him next to the sludgy remains of a small glass of coffee. Two flies were chasing each other round the saucer. In his head he placed a bet on which would take off first. He got it wrong. Story of his life.

He picked up the glass and sipped at the muddy contents, scanning the market from behind his scratched marine-issue Oakleys. He hated the coffee in Iraq. It was boiled and cooled nine times to remove all impurities and rendered almost undrinkable in the process. At least all the boiling meant there’d be no germs in it. Most Iraqis drank it with cream and a ton of sugar to mask the taste. Hyde drank it black to remind him of home, the bitter taste fuelling his hatred of the country he didn’t seem able to escape. Black was also his favourite colour. Whenever life got too complicated and things started getting him down he would find a casino with a roulette table and bet everything he had on black, reducing his troubles to the single spin of a wheel. If he won, he would walk away with enough money to buy some peace of mind, never risking his doubled pot on another spin. If he lost, he literally had nothing left to lose. Either way, he would leave the table changed somehow. He liked the simplicity of that.

He checked his watch. His contact was late so he waved the waiter over and watched him fill a fresh glass with the hated black liquid. He couldn’t just sit with nothing to drink, he felt exposed enough as it was. His six-foot frame and white skin made him stand out, as did the redness of his beard, so he assumed he was being watched, though he couldn’t see anyone. He picked up his paper and pretended to read, all the while surveying the crowd from behind his shades.

Sadr City was in the eastern suburbs. Before the invasion it had been called Saddam City and before that, Revolution. But none of that changed its inherent nature: Sadr City was a slum, quickly and cheaply built at the end of the 1950s to house the urban poor. These days there were even more people here, packed into houses and apartment blocks that had already been crowded when the concrete was still wet on the walls. And the market was where they all came to do their shopping. Right now was the busiest time, with everyone stopping by on the way home from work to buy fresh food, refrigerated through the heat of the day at someone else’s expense. So many civilians crammed into one space made it an operational nightmare.

A few years ago someone had ridden a motorcycle packed with explosives straight through a sloppy evening checkpoint and blown himself up by the main entrance, taking seventy-eight other people with him. By the looks of the rickety buildings, they had simply dragged the bodies away, hosed the blood off the streets and carried on. You could still see craters in the walls where chunks of shrapnel had torn holes. But the thing that made this a suicide bomber’s paradise also made it a preferred meeting place for his ultra-cautious contact: there was no better place to hide than in a crowd.

Hyde was cautious too. He had arrived early and claimed the best seat in the café for surveillance. It offered a one-eighty degree view of the street, with a solid wall behind making it impossible to approach without being seen. He’d bet himself that he could spot his man before he got to him. It was a game he liked to play every time he was sent on this particular detail. The contact was known for his ability to appear and disappear with ease. It was why he’d never been caught, despite the best efforts of several agencies on both sides of the political street. But Hyde had something of a reputation too. Back when he was in 8th Recon he had been the sharpest scout in his platoon. He’d prided himself on never letting anyone creep up on him, though his buddies had constantly tried; they’d even had a name for the game – Hyde and Go Seek. Now he was in civilian life, he had to work harder to keep those skills honed. He’d seen what working for the private companies could do to you; men who had been out of the army just two, three years, their muscle turned to flab, still trading on reputations they’d long since lost. That wasn’t going to happen to him. Get sloppy in a place like this and pretty soon you’d get dead. So he pushed himself, treating every assignment as if it was a hot mission, just in case it turned out to be.

He started another sweep of the market, left to right, comfortable in his tactics. He had just reached the furthest point where the wall blocked his view when the scrape of a chair made him whip his head round.

‘You have the money?’ the Ghost said, settling into the chair on his blind side, his strangled voice barely audible above the noise of the street.

Goddamn – he did it again.

Hyde folded the newspaper and placed it on the table, trying not to appear rattled. ‘What, no chit-chat? No “Hi, how’s it goin’? How are the wife and kids?”’

The Ghost stared at him, his pale grey eyes cold despite the trapped heat of the day. ‘You don’t have a wife.’

‘And how would you know that?’

‘Nobody in your line of work has a wife – at least not for very long.’

Hyde felt anger catch light inside him. His fists clenched. He’d got the divorce papers from Wanda in the mail six weeks ago, after she’d hacked his Facebook page and found some messages she was not supposed to see. But this guy couldn’t know that. He was just trying to push his buttons with a lucky guess. And it had worked. Right now he wanted to drive his fist straight through the middle of those freaky grey eyes.

The Ghost smiled, as if he was reading Hyde’s thoughts and feeding off his anger. Hyde looked away and reached for his coffee, draining it to the thick gritty dregs before he’d even realized what he was doing. He’d met some hard characters in his time, but this guy was something else. He was taller than the average Iraqi and wiry with it. He also carried about him a sense of danger and physical threat, like a grenade with its pin pulled. The local crew said he was a desert spirit and refused to have anything to do with him. That’s why Hyde always got these gigs. He didn’t believe in spirits, he just did what he was told; old army habits died hard.

‘It’s in the bag under the table,’ he said, staring out at the market crowds rather than engaging with the grey eyes again. ‘Got my boot stamped down on the handle. You give me the package, I lift my foot.’

Something clunked down on the tabletop and a scrap of sacking was pushed towards him.

Hyde shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. ‘Zero points for presentation.’ He flipped open the sacking and examined the object inside. The stone looked incredibly ordinary. It could almost have been one of the chunks of masonry you found lining the streets in piles all over the city. He turned it over and saw the faint marks on its surface, just lines and swirls. ‘Hell of a price to pay for a chunk of old rock,’ he said, wrapping it up and lifting his foot off the bag containing fifty million Iraqi dinars, worth around forty thousand American dollars.

The Ghost stood up, the bag already in his hand. ‘Make the most of it,’ Hyde said, relaxing a little now the money wasn’t his responsibility. ‘Looks like the cash cow’s about to get slaughtered.’

The Ghost hesitated then sat back down. ‘Explain.’

Hyde savoured the look of confusion on his face. Now it was the freak’s turn to be caught out. ‘You really should stay more in touch with the burning issues of the day.’ He slid his newspaper across the table. Above the fold on the front page was a picture of the Citadel of Ruin next to the headline:

WORLD’S OLDEST STRONGHOLD ABOUT TO FALL?

‘If the holy guys in the mountain aren’t around to drive up prices, guess the bottom will drop right out of the market for bits of old stone.’ Hyde trapped a greasy note under the empty coffee glass and hoisted the bundle of sacking under his arm as he stood to leave. ‘This might be your last big payday my friend.’

‘The Citadel has never given up its secrets,’ the Ghost muttered, opening out the page and staring at the three photographs of the civilian survivors on the bottom of the page.

‘Nothing lasts for ever,’ Hyde said. ‘Just ask my soon-to-be-ex wife.’ Then he turned and walked quickly away, before the freak with the grey eyes had a chance to come back at him.

Hyde felt good as he left the dangerous buzz of the market behind and headed back to his 4x4. For the first time he’d got one over on the Ghost. He wasn’t such a badass after all. He’d looked like he was going to puke when he saw the newspaper. He was just another hustler, trying to make a buck.

He squinted up at the deepening sky. Sun down was in an hour and so was curfew. He needed to get across town and rejoin the rest of his crew at the hotel. They’d be heading out of town again at dawn, returning to the oilfields in the dusty badlands west of the city. He preferred it out there. Less noise. Less people.

He rounded another corner and saw the truck parked in the shade of a row of buildings, the red company logo on the door the only splash of colour in the drab street. Tariq was in the driver’s seat, keeping guard to make sure no one stuck rocks up the exhaust pipe, or booby-trapped it in some way. Vehicles belonging to Western companies were always getting blown up or sabotaged.

Hyde waved to draw his attention. Tariq looked over and froze. Hyde spun away, sensing movement from his left, instinctively reaching for the automatic inside his jacket. He turned his head and found himself staring into a pair of pale grey eyes.

‘You forgot this,’ the Ghost said, draping the newspaper over Hyde’s extended gun. He stepped closer, ignoring the gun pressing into his chest. ‘These people,’ he tapped the photographs on the cover, ‘they may come here, searching for – something. If they come, let me know.’

Hyde glanced down and saw a satellite phone number scrawled beneath the three photographs. His lip curled into a sneer as he prepared to tell the Ghost where to go, but it was too late. He had already gone.

7

The Citadel, Ruin

The sound of the lament hit Athanasius like a wave as he and the other heads stepped into the cathedral cave and made their way to the front. It was the one space in the Citadel big enough to house everyone, and here everyone now was, united in their grief.

At the back were the numerous grey cloaks, the unskilled monks yet to be assigned a guild, separated from the higher orders by a vivid red line of guards. The brown cloaks came next – the masons, carpenters and skilled technicians who maintained the fabric of the Citadel – so tired after the work of the past week that Athanasius could see them swaying where they stood. In front of them were the white-hooded Apothecaria, medical monks whose skills elevated them above all but the black cassocks – the spiritual guilds, priests and librarians who spent their lives in the darkness of the great library, hoarding the knowledge that had been gathered in the dark mountain since mankind first learned to write and remember.

The sound continued to pulse from the congregation as Athanasius took his place at the altar and turned to face them all. It was traditional when the Prelate, the head of the mountain order, was gathered to God that the Abbot would deliver the eulogy and assume the role of acting Prelate until an election confirmed him in the position or chose someone else. But there were two bodies lying in state below the T-shaped cross at the front of the cave: the Prelate on the left, and the Abbot on the right. For the first time in its measureless history the Citadel had no leader.

As the lament neared its conclusion, Athanasius stepped up to the pulpit carved from a stalagmite and looked over the heads of the gathered monks to the raised gallery where the Sancti – the green cloaks – usually stood, segregated from their brethren to ensure the great secrets they kept remained so. There should have been thirteen of them including the Abbot, but today the gallery was empty. In the absence of an Abbot, or a natural heir drawn from the ranks of the Sancti, it fell to the Abbot’s chamberlain to deliver the eulogy – it fell to Athanasius.

‘Brothers,’ he said, his voice sounding thin after the richness of the requiem, ‘this is a sad day for all of us. We are without a leader. But I can assure you this situation will very soon be rectified. I have consulted with the heads of each guild and we have agreed to hold elections for the office of both Prelate and Abbot immediately.’ A murmur rippled through the congregation at this news. ‘All candidates must declare themselves by Vespers tomorrow, with elections to follow two days later. Such haste has been agreed by mutual consent because of the need to re-establish order coupled with the lack of a natural heir.’

‘And why are we in this situation?’ a voice called from the middle of the congregation. ‘Who ordered the Sancti to be taken from the mountain?’

Athanasius looked towards the voice, trying to catch sight of the monk who had challenged him. ‘I did,’ he said.

‘On whose authority?’ Another voice, from further back in the massed ranks of grey cloaks.

‘I acted on the authority of my own conscience and a sense of compassion for my brother monks. The Sancti had been struck down by some sort of haemorrhagic fever; they needed urgent medical attention and the explosion had cracked the walls to provide a quick means of evacuation. Modern ambulances were waiting outside. I did not think to question this providence. I merely thanked God for it and acted quickly to save the lives of my brothers. Had the Sancti remained in the mountain, they would now be dead, of that I feel sure.’

‘And what has become of them?’ A different voice now. Athanasius paused, fearful that the whole congregation was massing against him. Since assuming caretaker responsibilities, he had been privy to the Abbot’s usual digests and communiqués from the outside world. By this method he had learned the fate of the monks he had sought to save.

‘All have died – save two.’

Another murmur rippled through the crowd.

‘Then we should await their return,’ Brother Axel called out. The noise became a rumble of approval amid a general nodding of heads.

‘I fear that is unlikely,’ Athanasius replied, addressing the congregation rather than his challenger. ‘The last remaining Sancti suffered the same affliction as the others and their condition is grave. We cannot rely on them returning or having the strength to lead if they do. We must look to new leadership. The elections are set.’

A new disturbance broke out and everyone turned towards it. A figure had entered the door at the back of the cave and was now moving steadily towards the altar, his approach accompanied by the hum of voices and a strange, dry hissing sound. It was Brother Gardener, his name earned from many years of service in the pastures and orchards that flourished at the heart of the mountain.

The dry whispering grew louder with each step and so did the murmur of voices until Brother Gardener reached the altar and grimly stepped aside to reveal the source of the noise. It was the branch of a tree, broken off at the thickest part, its leaves and blossom brown and withered.

‘I found it in the orchard under one of the oldest trees,’ Brother Gardener said, his voice low and troubled. ‘It’s rotted right through.’

He looked up at Athanasius. ‘And there’re others, lots of others; mostly the older ones but some of the younger ones too. I’ve never seen anything like it. Something’s happening. Something terrible. I think the garden is dying.’

8

Vatican City, Rome

Clementi emerged from the lift into the softly lit vault and headed to the same boardroom where the Group had last met. Everyone had been best of friends then. All the trickier elements of the plan had been carried out and the recovery team had been deployed in the field ready to find and deliver the great treasure Clementi had promised – but that was before the explosion in Ruin.

Clementi turned to Schneider. ‘Make sure no one else comes down here until our meeting is concluded,’ he said, then heaved against the heavy door and passed into the boardroom.

They were all present, as Schneider had warned him, the Holy Trinity of conspirators – one American, one British and one Chinese.

In a world obsessed with money and power their faces were instantly recognizable. At one time or another each had graced the cover of Fortune magazine as revered owners of some of the biggest companies in the world, modern-day empires whose assets and influence crossed international borders and set the political agenda in their own and other countries. In previous ages they would have been emperors or kings and worshipped as gods, such was the extent of their power. They had also collectively lent the Church six billion dollars, through private accounts managed personally by Clementi, to underwrite their joint venture and prevent the Church from collapsing beneath its colossal debt. But they had not been persuaded to do this out of a sense of duty or a love of God, it was purely for the potentially huge financial gains Clementi’s proposition had promised, and, as in all such ventures, there came a time when dividends were expected – and that time was now.

‘Gentlemen,’ Clementi said, settling into a seat across the table from them, ‘what an unexpected honour.’

No one replied. Clementi felt the skin tighten on his scalp, like a nervous candidate at a job interview. Reminding himself that he had invited them into his scheme, not the other way round, he tried to calm himself by reaching for a cigarette and lighting up. Xiang, the Chinese industrialist, was already smoking, the smoke from his cigarette making all three of them appear like they were smouldering. Despite their differences in age and nationality, each man carried the same dense gravity of absolute power and authority. At eighty-three, Xiang was the oldest; his suit, hair and skin as grey as the ash that dripped from his cigarette. Lord Maybury, the English media baron, was ten years younger, with unnaturally dark hair hinting at a degree of vanity and fear of getting old, and the sort of slightly shabby suit only centuries of good breeding could get away with. Pentangeli was the youngest at sixty-two. He was a third generation Italian-American who, despite the bespoke Armani suit and grooming, still carried a certain menace about him, something he had inherited from the grandfather who had arrived penniless from Calabria and fought his way to a fortune in the land of the free. Pentangeli was the only one of the Group who was a practising Catholic and, as usual, it was he who acted as their initial spokesperson.

‘Do we have a problem, Father?’ he asked, sliding a newspaper across the table. It was USA Today. On its cover were the familiar images of the Citadel and the three civilians, along with the question being whispered around the world:

DO THEY KNOW THE SECRETS OF THE CITADEL?

‘No,’ Clementi said, ‘there is no problem. It is unfortunate that this has happened now, but—’

‘Unfortunate!’ Maybury jumped in, his smooth privately schooled accent making every word sound condescending. ‘Since time immemorial the Citadel has guarded its secrets. Only now, when one of its biggest directly affects our joint investment, does it start to look leaky. I would call that rather more than unfortunate.’

‘No secrets have been revealed,’ Clementi said, keeping his voice low and calm. ‘This is merely the result of a few misguided terrorists making a token attack on the Church. I can assure you, from the moment they were brought from the mountain, the survivors have been isolated and monitored. Ruin is a city that owes its very existence to the Church. We have far-reaching influence there. They are being held in an old secure psychiatric wing in the main city hospital. A priest and a police guard have been watching them round the clock to prevent the press or anyone else getting close. All police interviews, all consultations with lawyers, all medical discussions with the patients have been recorded and passed to me. I can assure you that not one of them has shown any indication that they learned anything compromising to us during their time inside the Citadel.’

‘Not yet,’ Pentangeli said, flipping open his briefcase to retrieve a document with CIA stamped across the cover. ‘You’re not the only one with friends in high places.’ He slid it across the table for Clementi to read.

It was the transcript of a confidential interview between a patient known as Liv Adamsen and a Dr Yusef Kaya, chief clinical psychiatrist at Davlat Hastenesi Hospital, Ruin. The final paragraph had been outlined in yellow highlighter.

… The patient displays classic symptoms of post-traumatic amnesia, possibly caused by a severe physical or psychological trauma. However, the patient is strong physically and her mind is otherwise lucid and unimpaired, so with time and therapy she should be able to fully recover her lost memories and return to continuous recall.

‘She’s a ticking time bomb,’ Xiang said, in precise, smoke-tinged English. ‘For myself I do not care whether this Sacrament is revealed to the world or not. Frankly, I think it is a myth – I am an atheist, as you know. What does concern me is that, if the Citadel cannot keep this, its biggest secret, might it prove unequal to the task of keeping ours?’

‘And she’s not the only concern,’ Pentangeli added, pulling another document stamped CONFIDENTIAL from his case.

‘Subject one: Kathryn Mann, forty-eight years old, half-Brazilian, half-Turkish, head of a global humanitarian aid charity with offices all over the world, including Ruin. Widow of Dr John Mann, US-born archaeologist and scholar, killed twelve years ago on a dig in Iraq along with the rest of his team after they reportedly discovered something in the desert around the location of Al-Hillah.’ He looked up at Clementi. ‘And you’re not worried about that?’

Clementi said nothing.

‘Subject two: Gabriel Mann, thirty-two, son of Kathryn and John Mann. Studied modern languages and economics at Harvard until his father was murdered, whereupon he joined the army. He rose to the rank of platoon sergeant in Special Airborne, saw combat in Afghanistan and was decorated twice before mustering out and joining the family firm working as a security advisor. In this capacity he worked on a number of projects in Iraq where he conducted his own investigation into his father’s death. Three times he requested travel permits to Al-Hillah in Babil Province, and each time he was rejected because of ongoing insurgent activity and the perceived danger to civilian life.’ He looked over the document at Clementi. ‘Sounds like a man with unfinished business to me. Unfortunately, it’s in an area where we also have some business interests. And that makes us very nervous.’

‘We are all in agreement,’ Xiang said. ‘The risks these people pose is unacceptable to us. We have limited influence in Ruin, but, as you yourself said, through the Church you have plenty. We urge you to use it and use it quickly to protect your interests – and ours.’

Clementi held their collective gaze. An hour ago he might have hesitated, but standing in the file rooms of the Vatican Bank had reminded him of all he stood to lose. The survival of the Church was more important than anything, more important than his own soul. And if he burned in hell for what he was about to do, then it would be a sacrifice worth making. He reached forward and pressed a button on the desk phone in the centre of the table. Like everything in the room, the phone-line was as secure as most countries’ national security network. It could not be traced and it could not be tapped.

He quickly dialled a number from memory, his fingers shaking from the adrenalin flooding his system. He left it on speakerphone so everyone in the room could hear the conversation he was about to have. He wanted them to witness it. He wanted them to be part of it. He studied their faces as the rapid beeps of the number turned into a ringing tone; then a click cut it off and a voice answered.

‘Yes?’

‘I am the light of the world,’ Clementi said, ‘whoever follows me—’

‘—will never walk in darkness,’ the voice answered, completing the security check.

Clementi licked his dry lower lip with a tongue that was even drier. ‘I want you to silence the witnesses, for the sake of the Church.’

There was a pause. ‘All of them?’

‘All of them; how soon can this be accomplished?’

In the background Clementi heard the squeak of rubber shoes on a vinyl floor. ‘It will be done by morning,’ the voice said. Then the phone went dead.

9

Room 406, Davlat Hastenesi Hospital

Liv grabbed a bulky remote-control unit from the table by her bed and fired it at the ancient-looking TV. She had been lying on her bed for long minutes, breathing slowly, hoping that her memory might return, when a single solid fact had surfaced: when she’d arrived in Ruin, however many days ago, her brother’s death had been a big story. Maybe it still was; perhaps the news could plug some of the gaps she was having difficulty filling herself.

The set crackled and the sound faded up. Liv nudged the volume down so as not to alert the watchers in the corridor. The TV was old and the picture fuzzy, but whatever was feeding it a signal was modern enough and there were hundreds of channels available. Liv cycled steadily through them, searching for a news station. If she could just get a few solid facts to grab on to she felt sure she would be able to pull herself together. She continued through a parade of talk shows and daytime soaps until, finally, she found Al Jazeera, the Arabic news channel – but it wasn’t what she was expecting.

At first she thought the station ident was wrong and she must be watching an extreme weather show. Horrific images of a tidal wave in Chile sweeping down a main street carrying people, cars and houses with it segued into a story showing a tearful farmer in the grain belt of Kansas, staring out on a huge field of wheat that had been battered to mud by hailstones the size of oranges.

‘If you read your Bible,’ the farmer said in a voice that wobbled with emotion, ‘you might think Judgement Day was close at hand.’

A whispering static rose in Liv’s head at the mention of this, bringing a vague nausea with it. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth until it ebbed away. Whatever drugs they had her on were having some alarming side effects.

When she opened her eyes she received a fresh shock. The image on the screen had changed, this time to the one that had graced the cover of every newspaper in the world when Liv had first arrived in Ruin. It showed her brother, Samuel, standing on the summit of the Citadel, arms outstretched, his monk’s cassock stretched taut, making the sign of the T-shaped cross with his body.

‘It has been twelve days since the dramatic appearance of a monk on top of the Citadel in Ruin, and ten days since the explosion tore a hole in the base of it—’

Twelve days!

‘Many believe these events in Ruin are in some way connected to the worldwide weather phenomena we have witnessed since, with various religious groups citing them as evidence of God’s anger or signs of the oncoming apocalypse predicted in the Book of Revelation. They also suggest the deaths of the evacuated monks is God gathering his own, and just a few minutes ago, this death toll increased once again.’

The picture cut to a jostling image of a large bald man wearing a black moustache and a serious expression. A caption identified him as Dr Jemya, Chief Medical Registrar of Davlat Hastenesi Hospital, Ruin. He started to read the prepared statement and the sound dipped, translating the Turkish into English.

‘Regretfully I am to announce to you, that at one twenty-five p.m. local time, another of the persons removed from the Citadel lost their life. This brings the death toll to nine.’

The press pack boiled into rowdy life and started pelting him with questions.

What was the cause of death, was it the same haemorrhaging as the others?

‘Yes.’

Do you know what’s causing it?

‘We’re working on it.’

Is it a virus?

‘No.’

Is it contagious?

He didn’t answer, he just turned and ran up the steps to the sanctuary of the hospital.

‘Thirteen people came out of the mountain. Now only four remain.’

The picture changed and Liv stared at her own photograph sandwiched between one of a dark-haired woman she vaguely remembered and another of a green-robed monk lying on a stretcher, blood streaming from uniform cuts all over his body.

‘Of these, three are still in hospital, their condition said to range from comfortable to critical.’

Shaky news footage showed a dark-haired man being manhandled into the back of a police car.

‘The fourth remains in police custody, where he is being held for questioning.’

The picture froze and Liv’s heart rolled over as she recognized his face and a name surfaced in her mind.

Gabriel.

Seeing him brought a cascade of feelings and memories.

She remembered him smiling down to her in the darkness of the Citadel, and his arms holding her in the ER after he had brought her out, protecting her until the cops had come to take him away. He had cradled her face in his hands and held her eyes with his.

If you get the chance, then go, he had said, as far from the Citadel as you can. Keep yourself safe – until I find you.

Then he had kissed her, full on the lips, until they’d pulled him away, leaving her alone in the screaming chaos of the hospital.

She touched her lips, remembering the kiss, wishing she could remember more. She had to get out of here, Gabriel’s warning and her own instincts told her that. She needed to go somewhere safe to try to piece together the fragments of what had happened in the darkness of the mountain, far away from the dark influence of this place and the meds that were making her mind fuzzy. She needed to go home, she felt it with the sharpened instinct of the hunted.

Then, as if something had sniffed her fear and been drawn to it, she heard the squeak of a shoe on the vinyl floor outside. She stabbed the remote to silence the TV and, just as she settled back in her bed – the door began to open.

10

The Citadel, Ruin

The rain lashed the mountain as Brother Gardener led the small delegation outside into the walled garden at the heart of the Citadel. It had been agreed that the heads and acting heads of the main guilds were the only people permitted to enter, until the condition of the trees had been properly assessed.

‘There,’ Brother Gardener said, pointing at the uppermost branches of an apple tree. ‘See the discoloration in the leaves.’

Even Athanasius, who knew little about nature, could see the tree looked wrong. It appeared to be readying itself for autumn rather than bursting with the vigour of spring.

‘When did you first notice this?’ Axel asked, his policeman’s demeanour sliding through the nasal drone of his question.

‘Just yesterday. But I haven’t been spending much time in the garden, what with all the clear-up work inside the mountain.’

‘And before that there was no evidence of this … blight?’

‘No.’

‘So all this has come about since the explosion?’

‘I suppose it has, yes.’

Father Malachi turned to face Athanasius. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘You should never have allowed the Sancti to set foot outside the mountain. Something sacred has been upset by your actions. This is a clear manifestation of it.’

Athanasius stepped past to inspect the withering sections of the tree. ‘Have you ever encountered anything like this before?’

Brother Gardener shrugged. ‘From time to time.’

‘And what were the causes then?’

‘All kinds of things cause blight – drought, insect infestation, disease.’

‘Might something like an earthquake cause it?’

‘It might. If the ground shifts sufficiently, then roots get broken and the tree starves.’

‘And would we all not agree that the shock of the explosion travelling through the mountain was similar to the effects of an earthquake?’ He turned to Malachi. ‘I realize we are all under tremendous strain because of what has happened here, but now is not the time for superstition and panic. Now is the time for clear heads and calm leadership.’ He turned back to Brother Gardener. ‘What would you suggest as the best course of action?’

The big man stroked his beard and surveyed the trees. ‘Well, if it is as you say, then it won’t get any worse. We can cut away the bits that are dead and dying to speed the trees’ recovery. But if it is something else,’ he cast a furtive glance towards Malachi, ‘then it will spread.’

‘And how might we stop it?’

He took a deep breath as if preparing to pronounce heavy sentence. ‘We need to cut as deep as we dare and then burn everything we remove. It’s the only way to make sure any disease has gone.’

‘Very well, then I suggest at first light you assemble what men you need and carry out what has to be done. As for the rest of us, we should reassure our brothers that we have inspected the garden and it has sustained some damage from the after-effects of the explosion, but that Brother Gardener has it in hand.’

‘And what if it turns out to be more than that?’ came the nasal enquiry of Brother Axel.

‘Then we will deal with that too. We are stretched thin as it is. I advise that we deal only with the real problems that face us, not the imagined ones that might.’

Axel held his gaze, giving no indication whether he was swayed by his reasoning.

‘You are right.’ It was Father Thomas. ‘We are all tired and apt to jump at shadows. We should remember that, until the elections install new leaders, our brothers look to us for guidance. So we must steady the ship and seek to reassure rather than agitate.’

Athanasius had always been fond of Father Thomas. He spent many an evening with him discussing subjects ranging from philosophy to archaeology and everything in between. He found his company intelligent, rational and calm.

‘The best way to reassure the brotherhood would be to re-instate the Sancti.’ All eyes turned to Brother Axel. ‘It would demonstrate a return to order and instantly calm the mountain’s mood.’

‘But who would elect them?’ Thomas asked.

‘We cannot address the issue of the Sancti until we have an Abbot to propose them or a Prelate to confirm their elevation,’ Athanasius continued. ‘Therefore any discussion of the Sancti must wait until after the elections.’

Axel switched his gaze between Athanasius and Father Thomas, as though tracing a fine thread stretching between them. He turned to Brother Gardener. ‘I will post some of my men at the entrances to the garden in case any inquisitive brothers decide to take a midnight stroll. If there is anything else you need from me, let me know.’ Then he turned and marched away.

Athanasius watched him go, feeling the chill of the rain more keenly. There were clearly two factions developing in the wake of the explosion: the rational and the fearful. And fear was heady fuel for those who might seek to exploit it; it was how the Sancti had exercised their dominance over the mountain for thousands of years. Although his decision to remove them had been born of compassion rather than political ambition, he couldn’t help but admit in his private moments that he was glad they were gone and hoped never to see their return. He had felt a difference in the Citadel since the Sancti had left. It felt freer somehow; as if the air flowed more smoothly. But as he watched Axel reach the edge of the garden and disappear back into the mountain he realized their return could come about sooner than he had imagined, and that he had just stared a rival in the eye.

11

Room 406, Davlat Hastenesi Hospital

Liv watched the door swing inwards, revealing the darkened corridor and the shadow that stood there, the white slash of his collar glowing brightly in the gloom. She looked up at the priest’s face. It was set in a practised mask of seriousness and compassion, like he was visiting a bereaved parishioner, or listening to a low-grade confession at the end of a dull Sunday. He seemed so normal, and yet she was terrified of him – terrified and full of an anger that rose up inside her, along with the detuned radio noise in her head. Her fists clenched on the bed, twisting handfuls of starched sheet. So complete was her focus on him that she didn’t even notice the second figure enter the room until the door banged shut behind him.

He was bigger than the priest and several inches taller – though his bearish, stooping posture all but levelled them. His right arm was held tightly across his chest by a sling and his other held two black plastic evidence bags. A pair of intelligent eyes regarded her from above half-moon glasses that clung crookedly to an impressive nose. Liv broke into a smile, her anger melting in the warmth of his gaze. It was the detective who had first called her and alerted her to her brother’s death.

‘Arkadian!’ The last time she had seen him was at the airport, in amongst the carnage when the agents of the Citadel tried to silence them all. She had seen him slammed backwards by the force of bullets. ‘I thought you were …’

‘Dead? Not quite. Obviously I’ve been better, but in the circumstances I’m not complaining.’ He lowered himself on to the edge of her bed, his weight squashing the mattress and tipping her closer. His presence calmed her, almost as much as the priest’s caused her distress. ‘How are you?’

She wanted to blurt out everything that was going through her head, but instead her eyes flicked towards the priest listening in the corner of the room and she held back. She leaned in closer. ‘Why is he here?’

‘That’s a good question.’ Arkadian twisted round on the bed. ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Ulvi,’ the priest said, looking like a schoolboy who’d just been caught smoking by the headmaster. He cleared his throat and straightened. ‘Father Ulvi ŞimŞek.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Father. Lady wants to know why you’re here.’

The priest looked at Liv then back to Arkadian. ‘It has been agreed that a member of the Church should be present at every interview.’

‘But this isn’t an interview. She’s already given a statement, which I’m sure you’ve either listened to or read a transcript of.’

‘I have to be here, as a representative of the Church.’

‘And why is that exactly?’

The priest’s face flushed at the continued interrogation. It made Liv feel better, seeing his obvious discomfort, but she still wanted him out of the room. ‘The Church founded this hospital and still owns the land it stands on,’ he said. ‘It has been agreed that all persons who were brought from the Citadel will be monitored by a representative of the Church while they remain our guests.’

‘Well then, how about we come up with our own agreement? You give us five minutes to have a little friendly catch-up and we promise not to tell your boss about it. Who’s to know?’

The priest stared at Arkadian. ‘God will know,’ he said, as if that put an end to the matter. ‘I have been instructed to be present at every interview.’

‘Yes, but you see – this isn’t … oh, never mind.’ He turned back to Liv. ‘We’re just going round in circles here. Why don’t we agree to ignore him, like he’s a butler or something?’ He held up the evidence bags. ‘I have something for you. They found it in the warehouse over at the airport. The tech guys have finished with it. Thought you might want it back.’

He dropped one of the bags on the bed. The plastic crinkled in her hands as she loosened the string around its neck. Inside was her battered holdall, the only piece of luggage she’d brought with her on the journey here. ‘Thanks,’ she said, closing it up again. She would wait until she was alone before going through it. She didn’t want the priest’s eyes roaming all over her private stuff. Then it occurred to her that he’d probably already seen it outside in the corridor, before it was allowed into the room. The thought made her feel trapped and helpless. She looked up at Arkadian. ‘There’s a cop outside in the corridor,’ she said.

Arkadian nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Keep an eye on you and the others. Keep the press out.’

Liv smiled. ‘I am the press.’

Arkadian smiled. ‘Then I guess he’s not doing a very good job. Fortunately for everyone concerned, you can’t remember anything.’

‘Yeah, lucky me.’

‘You’ve been through a lot. These things take time.’

Liv glanced at the priest again, weighing up what he might know against what she might want to keep from him.

‘What exactly have I been through?’ Arkadian looked puzzled. ‘Seriously. My memory is so patchy I can’t work out what’s real and what’s not. It would really help if you could talk me through it.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

Arkadian placed the second evidence bag down on the bed, took her hand and started to talk. He started with her brother’s appearance on top of the Citadel, moved carefully through his death and what they found during the autopsy, and finished with the events at the airport where Oscar had died smothering a grenade meant for all of them, Arkadian had been shot and Liv had been knocked unconscious only to reappear a few hours later being carried out of the Citadel by Gabriel. When he had finished, Liv looked across at the priest. He didn’t look back. Arkadian’s carefully told history, delivered in the precise and methodical manner of a seasoned police detective, had blown the mist from almost every recess of her mind. She could now recall everything, all except the one thing she wanted to remember most – what had happened to her inside the Citadel.

‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing Arkadian’s hand.

‘My pleasure.’ He let go and reached into his pocket. ‘They’ll be letting you out of here soon.’ He handed her a card. ‘When they do, I want you to give me a call. Least I can do is drive you to the airport.’ He looked down at his bandaged arm. ‘Or get someone else to drive us both.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, reminding her of the way her father used to say goodnight when she was younger and the world was a safer place.

‘You look after yourself,’ he said, getting up and heading for the door.

‘What’s in the other bag?’

‘Something for Mrs Mann,’ he said. ‘She’s just down the hall.’

‘Say “Hi” from me,’ Liv said.

‘I will.’

‘And say “Hi” to Gabriel too – when you see him.’

‘Oh, you can tell him yourself. They can’t hold him for ever, and I’m not pressing any charges, even though he stuck an anaesthetic in me. I feel pretty sure he’ll be out before you know it.’

12

Police Headquarters, Central District, Ruin

Gabriel Mann was shoved head first through a fire door by the same stocky guard who had cuffed his hands behind his back a few minutes earlier. He was in the cell block beneath the main Ruin police building, a maze of low ceilings, uneven walls, and cramped corridors, cut hundreds of years previously from the bedrock of the city. Strip lighting flickered green against grey-painted walls, giving the impression that he was in the guts of a building that wasn’t feeling too well.

Gabriel wasn’t feeling his best either.

He had just left a meeting with his legal counsel who had outlined the charges against him. They had found three dead bodies in a hangar at the airport – a location the police could definitively place him at; two had been shot with a nine-millimetre pistol – his hands had tested positive for gunshot residue that matched spent cartridges found at the scene; he had been caught on camera at the city morgue at the same time as a body had been stolen; and he had assaulted a police inspector with a hypodermic needle loaded with Ketamine. It was this last charge that had undoubtedly ensured his charmless treatment at the hands of the silent sub-inspector. Most of the others would ultimately go away, but it would take time – and that was something he did not have.

He had replayed what he had witnessed in the Citadel over and over in his head, trying to make sense of it. He had no idea why he had been allowed to walk free, carrying the girl out with him, but he knew it was only a temporary escape. Whatever had happened to Liv at the top of the mountain before he had found her, whether she had discovered the Sacrament or not, was immaterial. The Sanctus monks sworn to protect the mountain’s great secret would regroup and take steps to silence her. Liv was in mortal danger, so was his mother, and so was he, and he couldn’t protect anyone while he was locked up in here. Escape was the only option – he just had no idea how he was going to do it.

He’d been checking the building as he’d marched through it, looking for possible means of escape. Every door they’d passed had opened into other cells; some had prisoners inside, most were empty. The interview room had been up a flight of stairs, which meant the cell block was in some kind of sub-basement. The only way in or out was through the automatic gate he’d passed through on his way down.

Gabriel began to slow as he approached his cell but another shove sent him stumbling straight past. He recovered his balance and kept on walking, his mind racing with the implications. He had been kept in solitary so far, which had suited him fine. A new cell could mean new cellmates. Not good.

They continued walking deeper into the maze. Paint bubbled on the walls where salts had seeped through the rock and nobody had bothered to fix it. There were fewer cells here and the ones they passed were all empty. It smelled mustier too. Unused. They reached the end of the corridor and another sharp shove sent Gabriel barrelling through a set of fire doors into a short tunnel chopped cleanly in half by a wall of bars. On the other side was a cell containing a steel toilet with no seat, a narrow bench built into the wall and a man so large he made everything around him seem as if it belonged in a child’s nursery.

‘Hands through the bars,’ the sub-inspector ordered.

The giant took one huge step forward, covering the entire width of the cell, and passed wrists as thick as sprinter’s legs through the bars. His eyes never left Gabriel’s face.

Gabriel was grabbed from behind and slammed sideways into the wall. ‘Make a move and I’ll stick you with the taser, understand?’ The guard’s breath smelled of coffee and cigarettes.

Gabriel nodded and felt the pressure ease as the guard turned his attention to the giant. It had surprised him when the stocky weightlifter of a sub-inspector had come alone to take him to his cell. Now he knew why: one cop meant less witnesses.

He glanced up at the smoke detector and closed-circuit camera bolted to the underside of the ducting that ran the length of the corridor, one of the old kind that produced a fuzzy black-and-white picture but no sound. The feed would be routed to the control room he’d passed on his way through the entrance gate. Another cop was probably watching now, ready to send in backup if anything went down. Except the camera wasn’t pointing at the cell. So no one could see what was happening inside it; and once the sub-inspector had locked the door and walked away, no one would care.

His eyes returned to the hulking figure on the other side of the bars. The giant was staring straight at him with the cold-eyed menace of a cell-block challenge. Gabriel held his gaze, taking him in, knowing now that looking away would spare him nothing. The man’s eyes were set deep in a flat face that was topped off by a surprisingly conservatively cut bowl of blond hair that he might’ve ripped off an insurance salesman to wear as a hat.

Gabriel held the bottomless eyes for another beat then took in the rest of him. He was immense; a caricature of a man sculpted from solid muscle by years of steroids and single-minded aggression. A cotton shirt strained to contain him, sleeves rolled up over meaty forearms. The handcuffs looked small and ridiculous on his thick wrists and, just above them, was something else that set alarm bells ringing in Gabriel’s head. It was the blurry blue image of a jailhouse tattoo. Generally speaking, the larger the tattoo, the more time its owner had spent in prison. This one was huge. But it wasn’t the giant’s evident criminal past, or even his intimidating size, that caused Gabriel the most concern, it was what the tattoo depicted. The huge image – created by pouring ink on his arm and repeatedly sticking a pin into himself until it was fixed there for ever – was a cross. Somewhere in this steroid-fried monster’s dark past he had found the light of God. And now the Church had found him, and clearly sent him on a mission to do their dark work.

Escape was no longer an option, it was a necessity. Once the guard had strolled away down the corridor Gabriel would be on his own, locked in the bowels of the earth, with this God-loving monster – and unless he did something fast, he would never get out of here alive.

13

Room 410, Davlat Hastenesi Hospital

Kathryn Mann stared at the object that had just slipped out of the evidence bag on to the hospital bed.

Arkadian had not stayed long. The memory of the last time they had met had hung too heavy over both of them, so he had made his peace offering and left.

‘We found it among your father’s things,’ he had told her. ‘There’s a message for you in there. I thought you should see it.’

Inside the evidence bag she had found a book, bound in leather with a thong wrapped round a button on the cover to keep it closed. Just seeing it had misted her eyes. It was the same old-fashioned make of journal her father had always used. She reached to the bedside table to retrieve her reading glasses then carefully unwound the thong to loosen the cover and found the note written across the middle two pages in her father’s neat hand:

My dearest Kathryn,

My love and light. I believe my work is over now and my return to Ruin will be for good this time. I hope I am wrong, but suspect I am not. No matter. I have lived long and you have filled those years with warmth and joy. If I do live, I will keep my promise and show you the next step, as I always said I would. If not, then you must discover it for yourself and decide whether to forgive me.

Know only that what I kept from you I did for your sake, and for the safety of my grandson.

Kiss Gabriel for me, and light a candle to my name so I may talk to you still.

All my love, for now and always,

Oscar de la Cruz

Every other page was empty. She reread his note, looking to see if she had missed something, but it remained as opaque as the first time she had read it. What had he kept from her? She had always thought they shared everything, that there were no secrets between them; only now, in death, had she discovered this was not so.

She remembered how, even when she was a small child, he had shared confidences with her, explaining that they were different from other people, that they were descendants of the Mala, the oldest tribe on earth, usurped by another who had sought to destroy them and bury the knowledge they kept. He had shown her their secret symbols, taught her the Mala language and revealed the mission they shared to restore rightful order to the world. But he had kept something from her so important that he had felt compelled to confess it from beyond the grave. Maybe she hadn’t known him as well as she’d thought.

Even the note contained something that jarred with her memory of him. He had always been so particular about words, insisting on precision because they carried the most precious cargo of all – meaning. And yet here was a mistake: he had not asked her to light a candle ‘in’ his name, but ‘to’ it.

Then she realized.

It wasn’t a mistake at all.

When she was a girl he had also taught her how their ancestors had kept their secrets. One method was to record messages on paper using lemon juice instead of ink. When the juice dried it was invisible, but the acids affected the paper so that a flame held against it would darken these sections first and reveal the hidden words on the page. When Oscar had written that he wanted her to light a candle ‘to’ his name so he might talk to her still, he had meant precisely that.

There was another message in the space beneath his signature. All she needed to read it was a flame.

14

Police Headquarters, Ruin

Gabriel’s body flooded with adrenalin as his mind ran through possible scenarios. If he ended up alone in the cell with the giant he would die. He had to do something in the next few seconds, before the guard locked him in. He glanced up at the low ceiling of the cell block, less than a foot above his head at the highest point. Not much room for manoeuvre. Fortunately the guard was short, which gave him a few extra inches, but he was also built like an Olympic weightlifter – and he was armed. As well as a taser he had a riot baton and a can of pepper spray clipped to his belt. At least he didn’t have a gun.

A loud clang echoed in the cramped space as the guard unlocked the gate to the cell. Gabriel stepped slightly away from the wall, his back to the guard, the weight on the balls of his feet and his knees bending slightly to give him a light, central balance.

‘One thousand lira if you put me in another cell,’ he said.

There was a snort from behind. ‘What you going to do, write me a cheque?’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘Cash. Right now.’

He was banking on the cop being an old-school turnkey who wouldn’t baulk at boosting his salary with a bit of freelancing. Cash was a drug to a dirty cop and like any junkie he wouldn’t care where it came from so long as he got a fix.

‘Where you going to get a thousand lira?’

‘My lawyer just slipped it to me. It’s in my right pocket. Take me to another cell and it’s yours.’

There was a pause. Gabriel could almost hear the cogs of the man’s brain working.

He felt something press into the small of his back. ‘Move and you get tasered, straight in your spine. And if that pocket comes up empty, I’m going to keep my finger on the button ’til you piss yourself, understand?’

Gabriel nodded. ‘What about my new cell?’

‘We talk about that later.’

Gabriel sank a little lower to the ground, focusing on a spot on the wall where the uneven surface jutted slightly. He felt the guard’s hand frisking the outside of his pocket, then slip inside to extract what was in fact a business card his lawyer had given him.

As part of his military training, Gabriel had undergone several sessions of ‘torture accustomization’, which included being tasered to see how it affected him. Size or fitness didn’t seem to have any bearing. Some of the bigger guys dropped like sacks of potatoes, while others recovered almost immediately. He’d been somewhere in the middle; not totally incapacitated, but pretty close, so he knew if he got this wrong he wouldn’t get a second chance. A zap to the spine would disrupt his whole nervous system and by the time he recovered he would be locked in the cell with the blond gorilla. He focused on the electrodes pressing harder as the guard leaned down. Timing and speed would be everything. The guard leaned lower, his fingertips touched the business card at the bottom of the pocket. Gabriel sprang.

He threw his cuffed hands to the right, knocking the taser away from his spine. At the same moment he raised his leg, trapping the guard’s hand in the folds of his pocket and kicked hard against the wall using the crevice for leverage. As he rose up, the loop of his arms slipped cleanly over the guard’s perfectly positioned head and he squeezed as hard as he could just as the staccato crackle of the taser ripped through the small space.

Gabriel’s right arm, now tight round the guard’s neck, went slack as 50,000 volts pulsed into it. He felt his grip weaken and pulled harder with his unaffected left arm, dragging the slack one tight where the handcuffs linked them and holding on with everything he had. They stumbled backwards and hit the wall, the jolt driving the electrodes deeper into Gabriel’s flesh. His stronger arm began to slacken and the guard twisted his head away as he felt the pressure ease. He was getting free.

Gabriel let his legs crumple beneath him. They hit the floor hard, the guard getting most of the impact, and the taser jarred clear of his flesh. The moment the strength-sapping voltage was gone Gabriel squeezed with both arms, clamping hard on to the guard’s thick neck. He rolled to his right, moving his weight over him as the dry crack of the charge started up once more. This time it made no difference. Gabriel’s arm was now locked in place and every time the taser crackled it just turned him into a dead weight that pressed down harder on the guard’s neck.

The human neck has three distinct areas of weakness that can be exploited by a chokehold: the carotid artery, the jugular vein and the windpipe. All three transport oxygen around the body. If one is cut off, for even a short amount of time, it leads to oxygen starvation and a gradual loss of consciousness. If all three are shut down, this happens in seconds.

It took about ten for the guard to go limp.

He sped things up by frantically stabbing the taser into different parts of Gabriel’s body, but all this did was burn up what little oxygen he had left while Gabriel clung on, weathering the electrical storm, switching the tension to whichever arm was stronger during each attack until the guard stopped moving and the taser clattered to the hard floor. Gabriel glanced up at the giant, making sure it hadn’t fallen where he could get hold of it. His face was a mask of eerie calm, his huge hands shackled in front of him as though praying. ‘What’s your plan now?’ he asked in a surprisingly soft tone. ‘What’s your in-ten-tion? Hoping to make bail before he wakes up?’

Gabriel ignored him. He could feel the blood flowing back into his fingers as fast as it would now be returning to the guard’s oxygen-starved brain. He didn’t have long. He grabbed the keys from the guard’s belt, found the small handcuff key and fumbled it into the lock. His hands sprang apart with a mixture of pain and relief. He rubbed some life into wrists that were cut and sore then quickly started stripping the guard.

‘You like boys?’ The soft voice mocked from behind.

Gabriel pulled the guard’s shirt off and fitted it over his own. ‘I like freedom,’ he said, buttoning it up then doing the same with the uniform trousers. They slipped neatly over his prison-issue jeans but were too wide in the waist and too short in the leg. He fixed them low on his hips, stuffed the tail of the shirt into the waistband and cinched the belt tight just as the guard began to stir. Gabriel grabbed him under the shoulders and rolled him over to the cell, being careful to stay out of range of the giant. He scooped the handcuffs off the floor, snapped one end on the guard’s wrist and the other round the bars of the open cell door just as the guard woke up. His eyes rolled down, focused on Gabriel then he lunged forward. Gabriel sprang back and the handcuff caught on the lower cross bar with a loud clang, yanking the guard to a sudden stop. He looked down at what held him, then back up at Gabriel, just in time to take a face-full of pepper spray. A strangled wheeze squeaked from his constricting throat and he fell to the floor, choking and rubbing at his burning eyes with his free hand.

Gabriel stepped away from the cloud of spray and reached into the uniform shirt pocket for the guard’s pack of cigarettes.

‘Those things’ll kill ya,’ the giant said from behind the bars. ‘Car-cin-o-gen-ic.’

Gabriel pulled a disposable lighter out from inside the packet and clamped a cigarette between his lips. ‘Ah, but that which doesn’t kill you,’ he said, flicking the wheel of the lighter to get a flame, ‘just makes you stronger.’

He lit the cigarette, drew on it deeply, then tilted his head towards the ceiling and emptied his lungs at the smoke detector.

15

Officer Lunz jackknifed forward in his chair. He’d been daydreaming about fishing in his favourite pool in the Taurus foothills when the clanging bell had snatched him back to the control room. He scanned the bank of monitors, his heart thumping in his chest, looking for signs of what might have tripped the alarm.

The images were fuzzy at the best of times but with the sprinklers now filling the corridors with a fine spray, they revealed almost nothing. He could hear the muffled sound of banging and roars of complaint from the twenty or so inmates now being soaked in their cells. At least he hoped that was what the noise was about. He wondered how long it would take for the backup guards to get here. The system was always tripping itself, so response times had been getting slower. The cameras had started shorting out too. The whole system needed replacing, but the city didn’t want to pay for it. Maybe the fact that the sprinklers had gone off this time might make them reconsider.

He reached over to silence the alarm then stopped when he saw a dark shape appear on one of the screens. It was a man stumbling through the spray, an arm covering his face. He was in D section, at the far end of the complex. Lunz pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned into the screen. The figure left one screen and appeared on another, making its steady way towards him.

He glanced over at the closed door of the control room. Beyond it a gate of steel bars stood between him and whoever was now approaching. He unlocked a drawer in the desk, pulled it open and fumbled his holstered gun from inside. He felt its comforting weight in his hand and continued to watch the dark figure moving from screen to screen, drawing ever closer, while he waited for backup to arrive. The other screens remained empty. It obviously wasn’t some kind of breakout. The figure was also dressed in dark clothes which meant he must be a guard. All the inmates were given light olive army surplus T-shirts to wear. He must have got caught in the spray. Lunz checked one last time that the other screens were empty, then rose from his chair and headed out into the corridor, taking his gun with him – just in case.

Outside, the hiss of the water was much louder. He squinted through the bars at the indoor rain until a uniformed figure appeared at the end of the corridor, stumbling towards him through the water haze. The man shouted something, but his voice was muffled by hissing water and the arm clamped across his face.

Lunz felt there was something wrong. He popped the thumb strap and slid his gun clear of the leather holster. ‘You OK?’ he shouted.

The figure continued to bump its way blindly along the wet walls, one hand feeling the way, the other rubbing his face. ‘Pepper spray,’ he shouted. ‘Someone jumped me – grabbed my keys.’

Lunz stared past him towards the closed door at the end of the corridor.

They had his keys.

They’d attacked him with pepper spray.

It wasn’t a false alarm – it was the real deal.

He gulped damp air, trying to clear his head. He pictured arms reaching through the bars of a cell at the far end of the block, fumbling various keys into the outside locks. How long before they found the right one?

The staggering guard stumbled the last few metres of corridor and banged heavily into the gate, doubling over in a spasm of coughs. Even if they were out and already surging along the corridor, he would have time to open the gate, get him out and lock it again. He could do it. But it had to be now. He ducked into the control room, hit a button on the desk and was back out in the corridor as the gate slid open. The guard was still doubled over, coughing and wheezing, both hands on his face rubbing furiously at his burning skin. Lunz grabbed his arm and heaved him backwards as another loud noise rang in the corridor and a voice from behind made him jump.

‘What happened?’

The backup team had arrived.

‘Breakout in D block,’ Lunz said, adrenalin running things now.

The two cops pushed past, guns drawn, but stopped short of where the water was coming down. ‘Switch the sprinklers off, would you!’

Lunz dived back into the control room and hit a button to cut the sprinklers. He picked up the desk phone and punched a number. ‘We got a casualty coming up from the cells,’ he said, watching the two cops tearing along the dripping corridor on the monitors. ‘Guard got a face-full of pepper spray. I’m bringing him up now.’ He put down the phone just as the two guards passed into the main corridor. Still no movement on any of the other screens. Whoever had jumped the guard hadn’t managed to break out of their cell yet. Lunz started to relax a little. He didn’t see the figure rise up behind him or notice the faint smell of pepper until a jet of it squirted into his mouth and wrenched the breath from his lungs.

16

Room 406, Davlat Hastenesi Hospital

There were grey smudges on the handle and the side pocket of Liv’s holdall, graphite powder traces of the forensic scrutiny it had been under.

Inside it was like a time capsule from a previous life: clothes, toiletries, pens, notebooks. She tipped everything out on to the bed, shaking her laptop free from where it had sunk to the bottom. It too bore traces of graphite powder and smelled faintly of the glue fumes they used to raise prints. She hit the power key but nothing happened. The police techs had obviously snooped through her hard drive and run the battery down in the process. She had a power cable, but it had a North American plug on the end, no good for Southern Turkish sockets. She turned the bag round and opened the side pocket. To her surprise, her passport was still inside. She took it out and stared at the scuffed blue cover with the Great Seal in the centre and the words United States of America written below. She had never considered herself to be especially nationalistic or sentimental before, but seeing it now made her want to cry. She so desperately wanted to go home.

The next two things she found did little to help her fragile emotional state. The first was a set of keys. She remembered locking the door to her apartment and dropping them into the bag as she dashed for the cab waiting to take her to the airport. The second was a paper wallet with 1-Hour Foto written on the side. Inside was a collection of glossy prints taken on a daytrip to New York. They showed a younger version of herself and a tall, blond man who looked just like her. It was the last time she had seen her brother Samuel alive. She stuffed them back inside the wallet before emotion overcame her and looked at the small piles of her old life spread across the bed, trying to shake their sentimental meanings and see them instead as a kit of parts to help her escape.

She had enough clothes but no cash, and her credit cards had been maxed out buying her plane ticket over here. Then there was the small matter of the priest and the cop keeping guard in the corridor. If she could create a diversion, she could maybe slip from the room while they were distracted. She thought about the medical staff that came by on their regular rounds. Perhaps one of them might help her, though with the ever-present priest in the room she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to subtly broach the subject, let alone communicate some kind of workable plan. The staff had probably all been vetted anyway and told to report any clandestine contact.

She slid out of bed, careful not to tip her belongings on to the floor, and padded over to the window. The sudden brightness behind the worn blind made her squint, but what lay outside was no help. There was a sheer four-storey drop to the cobbled street below and a tantalizing view of a fire escape snaking down the building opposite. There was also the ominous and unsettling sight of the Citadel, rising above the rooftops and darkening the horizon like a watchful sentinel. She returned her attention to the room, taking stock again of everything it contained, weighing up each item for its possible value in helping her get out.

Apart from the TV and the bed there was very little else: a small table with a plastic cup and a jug of water on it; a row of switches above the bed, a plastic sleeve fixed to the wall containing her medical notes. An emergency alarm cord dangled from the ceiling with a red handle on the end, large enough for a flailing hand to grab. Liv considered what would happen if she pulled it. She had heard the response to other alarms in the last few days, voices and footsteps rushing to surrounding rooms. But although the noise and confusion might create enough of a smokescreen to distract the priest for a moment, all the attention would be on her, and it would be almost impossible to speak or pass a note to anyone without being spotted. She had to think of another way.

17

Police Headquarters

The stairwell leading to the cell block echoed with the thundering boots of cops responding to the alarm. Gabriel met them on the way up. Nobody gave him a second glance. They’d all caught the message that a guard had been sprayed in the face, so when they encountered one – struggling to breathe, eyes swollen shut, another guard helping him – they hurried on past to get at the bastards who’d done it.

Gabriel helped the guard along, his arm wrapped round him, his hand out of sight against the wall, pointing the man’s own gun directly at his crotch to keep him quiet. Gabriel’s other hand held a walkie-talkie that he’d grabbed from the control room and into which he maintained a one-sided dialogue to stop anyone striking up a conversation with him and also to cover up a good portion of his face.

They reached the top of the stairs as another pair of cops burst through the fire doors and started heading down. Gabriel slipped through the door after them into a short corridor. Ahead of him, through a square window set into a door, he could see the reception area. He kept the guard moving, jamming the gun harder into his pelvis to remind him it was there.

When they were a few metres short of the door he crooked the walkie-talkie under his chin, snatched the spray canister off his belt and gave the guard another blast full in the face. He slipped the gun under his shirt and into the waistband of his trousers then burst through the door and into a room full of cops.

All heads turned as they entered the hall, drawn by the fresh coughing fit that accompanied their entrance. The two nearest uniforms rushed forward and took hold of the convulsing guard. Gabriel let them take him and spun away towards the exit. ‘I’ve brought him up to the lobby,’ he barked into the walkie-talkie. ‘Where the hell’s that ambulance?’ Then he stepped out of the front door and was free.

He had no idea how long the guard’s seizure would last, but he wouldn’t have long. The cops in the basement must have worked things out by now. The road he was in was thinly populated, but the street ahead was busier. If he could make it to the corner and into the crowds he’d stand a chance. The corner was maybe six metres away. He kept the walkie-talkie clamped to his face and his eyes forward, resisting the urge to run.

He weaved in and out of what foot traffic there was, putting as many bodies between himself and whoever would shortly be following. The ground was wet from the recent downpour though it was no longer raining. It wasn’t much of a break, but he’d take what he could get. It made his clothes, still drenched from the sprinklers, seem slightly less unusual.

He made the corner just as a siren started up behind him. Squinting against the glare of the bright sky, he matched his pace with the evening crowd and dropped the walkie-talkie into a bin. He had to get off the street as soon as possible. A wet cop wasn’t the best disguise for a fugitive.

18

Davlat Hastenesi Hospital

The challenge of working out how to reveal Oscar’s hidden message using the limited resources at her disposal had given Kathryn the greatest feeling of hope and purpose she had experienced in days.

From her fieldwork she knew you needed three basic things to start a fire: fuel, an accelerant and a flame. For fuel she had torn a couple of pages from the middle of her medical notes, not daring to risk taking any from the notebook, then shredded them to make a loose pile on one edge of the window ledge.

For the accelerant she’d had to think laterally. Roughly speaking it could be anything that would intensify a fire. She’d found what she was looking for in the hand sanitizer-gel dispenser by the door, the sort used in all modern hospitals. The label told her this particular brand was 40 per cent alcohol. Alcohol evaporated quickly to leave skin dry and had antiseptic qualities of its own. It was also a very effective accelerant.

She squirted a thick dollop into her hand, scraped it on to the sill then stacked the pile of shredded paper on top of it so it could start absorbing the flammable fumes as they evaporated. The longer she waited, the more saturated the paper would become and the better her chance of lighting it. But she still needed a flame, and for that she needed the sun to come out.

She lay on her bed, staring out of her window at the bright band of sky between the passing rain clouds and the tops of the mountains. The last time she had lit a fire this way had been on the final trip she had taken with John. It had been one of those spur-of-the-moment things arranged, before Gabriel returned to college and John headed off to Iraq on the dig he would never return from.

They had spent the day off-season hiking along the Presidential Range in New Hampshire and got caught in a freak storm. By the time they made it to where they’d parked their hire car they were soaked to the skin, only to discover they had a flat battery. They headed back to a Ranger’s hut they had passed on the path where some weekend walker had used up the firewood and not bothered to restock it. She and Gabriel had collected as many fallen branches as they could, but it was all too wet to light. They hadn’t even noticed John had gone until he stepped into the cabin brandishing one of his socks on the end of a long stick, dripping with diesel from the car’s fuel tank. They had piled the wet sticks on top of the sock and waited for the fumes to permeate the stack, the same way Kathryn was waiting now. Liquid diesel doesn’t burn well, but the ether-infused sticks had burned just fine. They had spent the night there, huddling together, warmed by the fire – the last time they were all together. Kathryn smiled as she recalled it, remembering their closeness and their firelit smiles while the storm raged outside. Then she realized that the warmth was not in her mind, it was on her skin and flooding the room. The sun had come out.

She leapt out of bed and lunged towards the window. Sunlight was filling the street with warm afternoon light. It had dropped below the clouds and would soon fall behind the distant mountains. She needed to move fast.

She fumbled her reading glasses from the top of her head, and held them over the pile of shredded paper, the magnifying lenses focusing a pinpoint of light on to the top of it.

A tiny image of the sun appeared on the paper and she held it as steady as her hand would allow. The bright dot darkened. It started to smoulder. The paper curled into ash around the dot, but it did not light. She moved the glasses, chasing the edge of the blackening paper with the bright dot, focusing the heat on the meagre kindling she had made. A curl of red glowed at the edge as the paper turned to ash but still it did not catch. She cupped her hand round it and blew gently across the top, trying not to disturb the pile or blow away the alcohol fumes trapped inside. She continued to blow, gentle and steady, focusing her attention on the red ember until her lungs were empty. Then, just as her breath was almost exhausted, it finally caught and flame started to devour the ripped-up paper.

She grabbed the diary from the bed and opened it to the centre pages, which she had marked with several more squares of torn paper. She had no idea how long the hidden message might be, but she only had a limited amount of fuel and the flame was burning quickly. She screwed up a square of paper, fed it to the fire, then gently offered up the first blank page to the flame.

The effect was almost instant. The heat darkened the paper wherever acid ink had soaked into it, creating swirls of symbols that steadily filled the page. The body of text, arranged to form the shape of an inverted Tau, was a mirror of the first prophecy she had grown up with and written in the same ancient script. Kathryn’s eyes scanned the Malan symbols, the language of her tribe, translating them in her head as she read:

The Key unlocks the Sacrament

The Sacrament becomes the Key

And all the Earth shalt tremble

The Key must follow the Starmap Home

There to quench the fire of the dragon within the full phase of a moon

Lest the Key shalt perish, the Earth shalt splinter and a blight shalt prosper, marking the end of all days

She read it again, trying to dig meaning from the words. It seemed like a warning, but was too incomplete for her to understand.

There had to be more.

She grabbed another scrap of paper and fed it to the dying flame. The fire was burning faster than she had anticipated and smoke was starting to fill the room. She turned to the next page in the diary and held it over the flame.

More darkened text emerged, much more, but the fire was burning so quickly she didn’t even stop to read it. She knew she was almost out of fuel and the smoke levels in the room were getting dangerously high so she kept moving blank pages over the heat, one after the other, feeding the flames until there were none left and the fire shrank to nothing and died in a final curl of smoke.

Outside she could hear footsteps approaching. In a few moments someone might walk into her room with the priest right behind them. She pulled open the window as far as it would go, scooping up the evidence of the fire and feeding it to the breeze. She left the window open in an effort to dilute the smell of smoke and scrubbed her hands with sanitizing gel while she cast around for somewhere to hide the diary. The room was bare. There were no hiding places. Kathryn lunged towards the bed and hid the diary in the only place she could see and undoubtedly the first place anyone would look. She hid it under the mattress.

19

Father Ulvi ŞimŞek sat in the hospital corridor, his fingers working the string of worry beads he always carried, still brooding about the earlier visit from the police inspector. He had been so dismissive and superior, questioning his presence there as if he were nothing.

If only he knew.

He counted the beads through his fingers, smooth stones made warm by the heat of his hand. There were nineteen on the black cotton string, each one made from a particular type of amber he had chosen because of its dark, reddish colour. Nineteen beads – nineteen lives, each one recalling a face. He counted in his head, his lips moving slightly as he remembered the names and how each had died.

Despite the priest’s clothes, Ulvi’s service to the Church was more specialized. He considered himself a soldier of God, trained by his country but now serving a greater sovereign lord. The beads reminded him of his own past – in the west of Turkey, close to the ancient borders with Greece – and while others of his faith said the Rosary to help purge them of their sins, he used the beads to remind him of where he had come from and what he had done. The dark stains on his soul were too deep to be cleansed in this world. And the world was imperfect. Only God was pristine. So he chose not to pretend that he could better himself here, or atone for what he had done. He was what he was, a darker instrument of the Lord’s bright purpose. And God Himself had made him this way; He alone would judge him when the time came.

Ulvi reached the end of his roll call of remembrance and slipped the bracelet back into his pocket. He heard the clink as it snaked past his mobile phone and down to the ceramic knife beneath it, the blade as sharp as glass but invisible to the metal detector that had swept over him at the start of his shift. Elsewhere in his jacket was a hypodermic syringe with a nylon needle, a small bag of powdered flunitrazepam, and an ampoule of Aconitine poison. He had brought them with him every day since the cops had grown used to him and the routine checks had become sloppy.

He looked over at the policeman, slumped in his chair, his attention dulled and elsewhere. He was still reading the paper, working backwards from the sports pages like he did every day, slipping so far down in his chair that his chin almost touched the buttons of his uniform shirt. He was clearly cut from the same cloth as his boss. Arrogant. Dismissive. Stupid.

No matter.

A bored guard was one who could easily be dealt with. As the night shift wore on, and the hospital grew quiet, Ulvi would offer to make coffee to help keep them awake, and in the small staff kitchen down the hall he would slip the flunitrazepam into the cop’s cup. He could imagine the look on the man’s stupid face when he woke in the morning with a date-rape drug hangover only to discover that all three of his charges were dead in their beds. He’d like to see how that played out. He’d also like to see the look on that snotty inspector’s face, but he would be long gone by then, off on another mission, serving God in his own dark way. He settled back in his chair, calmer now the waiting was almost over.

By tomorrow morning the message had said.

He wondered if there were others, agents like himself who had received the same message. The sensitive nature of his work meant he always worked alone so nothing could be traced to his masters if things went wrong. But nothing would go wrong, he was far too experienced for that.

Ulvi slipped his hand into his other pocket and gathered three loose beads into his palm, each like a solid drop of fresh blood waiting to be threaded on the black string of his rosary. He rolled them between his fingers, reciting the names in his head: Kathryn Mann, Liv Adamsen, Brother Dragan Ruja. He had been surprised when the remaining monk had been included in the mission. But it was not for him to question orders. The monk had already given his life to God anyway – Ulvi was just there to collect it.

He settled in his chair and reached for the novel he had brought to help pass the time. It was about the Knights Templar – warrior priests like him. He was about to start reading when he became aware of footsteps drawing closer. The cop heard them too and looked up from his newspaper as a nurse appeared round the corner and continued marching towards them. Ulvi checked his watch. It was too early for the evening rounds and she was walking with a sense of purpose and hurry. She must have been summoned by someone in the rooms.

The nurse arrived at the small table and picked up the signing-in sheet. She didn’t acknowledge the presence of either of the men watching her. There had been tension ever since the hospital staff had been asked to clear out what few patients there were in the old psychiatric ward and stop the renovation work.

Be patient, Ulvi thought. You’ll have your building back by morning, I promise.

He watched her write the time, her name, then ‘406’ in the ‘Room’ column. Liv Adamsen’s room. Ulvi picked up the keys from the desk and smiled at the nurse, but she gave him nothing in return.

So rude, these people, he thought as he walked ahead of her down the corridor. The sooner I’m done here, the better.

20

Liv was sitting up in bed, straining to hear the sounds outside in the corridor.

The footsteps had come from the right, so that was the direction she needed to head when she got out of the room. There was a loud, single rap on the door and she pulled the sheets tight around her neck as it started to open.

The priest stepped into the room and she immediately felt the dread expand within her. The nurse followed and walked over to switch off the call light that had summoned her. ‘You OK?’ she asked in accented English, automatically pulling a digital thermometer from her pocket and placing it against Liv’s forehead.

‘Yes, fine, I think – I just need to ask you something.’ The nurse pressed a button to get a reading and the thermometer beeped. ‘When I was admitted, what happened to all my stuff?’

‘Personal items are stored in property office behind reception.’ The nurse studied the display on the thermometer, then grabbed Liv’s wrist to check her pulse.

‘So how would I go about getting them back?’

‘You sign when you leave.’ She counted the heartbeats then let the wrist drop, looking into Liv’s face for the first time since entering. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes …’ Liv glanced over at the priest, as if embarrassed about what she was about to ask. ‘Can you tell me how I’m doing, you know – medically.’

The nurse plucked her notes from the wall holder and studied the file. ‘Some hormone imbalance – oestrogen levels very high, but not dangerous. You have high temperature, nausea. Maybe you have some virus. Big concern is memory.’ She flipped to the end and read through the psychiatrist’s notes. Liv had tried to make them out for herself but they were written in Turkish. And much as she wanted to leave this place, there was no point in making a run for it if she was going to drop down dead a hundred metres from the door.

‘Psychiatric report is good,’ the nurse said. ‘They only keep you here for observation.’

‘What drugs am I on?’

The nurse scanned the notes and shook her head. ‘No drugs. Just rest and observation.’

Liv was surprised at this and didn’t entirely believe it. There was far too much weirdness going on in her head for her not to be doped in some way.

‘So in theory, I could carry on as normal,’ Liv said, watching the nurse’s face for the slightest twitch of a professional lie. ‘I mean, there’s nothing I should avoid – going on a plane or scuba diving, for example?’

The nurse glanced at the priest and shrugged. ‘You do what you like.’

‘Thank you,’ Liv said, the words coming out like a sigh of relief.

‘Not a problem. Anything else?’

‘Yes, there is one more thing,’ Liv said, throwing the sheet off to reveal she was fully clothed. ‘I’d like to discharge myself – immediately.’

Liv had already grabbed a bag from the floor and was halfway to the door when Ulvi’s brain caught up with what was happening. Instinctively he moved to step in front of her, but she side-stepped him and squeezed through the open door.

Outside in the corridor the police officer rose from his seat and stepped towards her. ‘Back in your room.’

‘Why?’ Liv said, looking calmly up into his face.

‘Because … you’re not well.’

‘That’s not what the nurse just said.’ Liv glanced over her shoulder to where the nurse now stood. ‘And I’m not under arrest, am I?’

The cop opened his mouth to say something then seemed to think better of it. ‘No,’ he said.

Liv smiled and cocked her head to one side. ‘So would you step aside, please.’

He looked down at her, an internal debate raging in his head. He came to a conclusion and stepped aside.

‘You must stay here,’ the priest said, his words sounding like an order.

‘No,’ Liv said, already walking away. ‘I really mustn’t.’

She swung her bag over her shoulder and marched quickly away in the same direction she had heard the nurse arriving from.

Ulvi watched her go, weighing up his options. If he followed her now he could shadow her, wait until she was far away from the crowds, in a hotel room maybe: isolated; unobserved. It was tempting. But the other two targets were still here which meant so was the bulk of his mission.

He watched Liv reach the junction in the corridor and disappear round it.

In his mind he played back the events that had just taken place in the room, slowing them down, analysing them, then smiled as he remembered something Liv had said to the nurse.

She had asked if it was safe to fly.

He didn’t need to follow her after all. He knew exactly where she was going. He hoped there were other agents in the field with him. His loss would be their gain. He pulled his phone from his pocket and carefully tapped out a text to his controller.

21

Kathryn Mann had heard the voices outside, but her damaged hearing had not allowed her to hear who was speaking or what they were saying. Whoever it was had gone away now and she listened to the silence until she thought it safe to retrieve the book from her feeble hiding place.

The pages whispered in the silence of the room, like hints of the secrets they kept. She slipped her reading glasses down from her hair, bringing the first page into focus.

Please forgive the elaborate form of this message, but you will see why I took pains to ensure only you might discover it. The text I have transcribed here is a copy of something I received several years ago. The origin of it, and the means by which it came to me, are the reasons I kept it from you all these years. I know we never had secrets. Let me explain why this remained the only one I ever kept from you, then hopefully you will understand why I sought to keep it so.

The original tablet that contained this message is lost. The only reason I know of its existence is because a photograph was sent to me from an anonymous source a few months after John was killed. On the back of the photograph was a handwritten note saying simply:

This is what we found. This is why we were killed.

How the person that sent it knew of my existence I have often pondered. Maybe John confided in them, or left it for someone to pass on to me in the event of his death, the same way I am now communicating it to you. I believe whoever sent it to me chose me deliberately because of my peculiar past. I was already dead in the eyes of the Citadel and so passing this dangerous knowledge to me would not put me at any risk. Even the vengeful Citadel would not seek to kill a man who was already dead.

Know that I often debated whether to share this information with you. I hated keeping a secret from you, but in the end I erred on the side of caution. If John was killed because he discovered this tablet then even a suspicion that you knew anything about it would place your life in danger. I knew that you would inevitably pass it on to Gabriel. So you see my dilemma. My desire to share this knowledge, weighed against the risk it might pose to the two people I hold most dear in the world. How could I take that risk? I couldn’t – I didn’t.

But now I sense the endgame is near. I return to Ruin in the hope that the words of this second prophecy will show us the way after the first has been fulfilled. And if for some reason I cannot pass this on to you personally, then I am writing it here so you may discover it for yourself.

If you are reading this then I am dead…

Kathryn broke off, the starkness of the phrase puncturing her emotional resolve and bringing forth the hot tears she had been holding at bay. She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She could not bear to think of him writing this lonely note like a condemned man facing the prospect of his own death. She wiped her eyes again then replaced her glasses and continued reading.

…I hope the fulfilment of the first prophecy shines a light on this second so that it may now help you on your journey towards restoring the rightful order of things. I spent many evenings musing about the meaning of it, but without knowing what the Sacrament is, it always remained a riddle. For my part, there is one thing I can shed some light on.

During my brief time in the Citadel I chanced upon something that I think may be the Starmap mentioned here. It came into the library with the same consignment of relics as the fragments that formed the first prophecy. It too had the Tau symbol on it, as well as what looked like constellations and directions written in a language I could not understand. I intended to study it further and learn what language it was written in, but I never had time. Soon afterwards I learned that my presence was suspected in the Citadel so I stole the slate fragments and fled. I would have brought the Starmap as well, but it was too heavy. I knew if I tried to swim the moat with that weighing me down I would sink. So I did the next best thing. I hid it.

I didn’t want the Sancti and their kind to benefit from whatever knowledge it contained so I put it somewhere they were unlikely to find it. My hope is that it rests there still and that with the first prophecy fulfilled you may now have free access to the Citadel yourselves and, by following the map I will outline, you will finally retrieve it.

Then the message ran out.

Kathryn looked at the next blank page. There had to be more here than she’d had time to reveal.

She flipped back to the first symbols she had revealed and read the first few lines again.

The Key unlocks the Sacrament

The Sacrament becomes the Key

And all the Earth shalt tremble

The Key must follow the Starmap Home

There to quench the fire of the dragon within the full phase of a moon

The full phase of the moon lasted just over twenty-eight days. Assuming that the evacuation of the Sancti from the mountain marked the moment of release for the Sacrament, then ten days had already passed. She read the rest of the message with a growing sense of dread.

Lest the Key shalt perish, the Earth shalt splinter and a blight shalt prosper, marking the end of all days

She wondered at the sickness that seemed to have struck the Sancti. Could this be the blight that was mentioned? In the chaos of the ER when she had first arrived at the hospital she had glimpsed what it had done to the monks – the blackened skin, the blood-red eyes, the bleeding. If that spread out into the world it would be like the darkest vision from the Book of Revelation, turning all men into the image of demons. She looked at the blank page, restless with a desire to know what else was written there. It would be a whole day before the sun swung round again and shone back through her window, a day she could not afford to lose. She felt the weight of what she had just learned and the frustration of knowing that it was locked in this room with her, with the clock already ticking.

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