The Key (21 page)

‘You wanted to know what it was like inside the Citadel,’ he said. ‘Well, here’s your answer.’

Even in this crude drawing the scale and complexity of the Citadel was awe-inspiring. The map had been drawn in cross sections, showing different levels within the mountain, each getting smaller the higher up they got. On the smallest of these Gabriel saw an outline of a door with the words ‘
forbdn stair ldng to chapel of Scmnt’
written next to it. He had passed through that very door and climbed those stairs. He used it as a reference point and began tracing backwards down other tunnels he had walked, past the door leading out to the hidden garden and descending unfamiliar stairs and corridors to the lowest section of the map where, tucked away in a distant cave, a cross was marked with a skull drawn next to it, like a child’s version of a pirate treasure map.

‘There,’ he said, ‘that is where the Starmap is hidden.’

‘But what’s the significance of this?’ Anata pointed to the symbol marked next to it – XIV – the number fourteen expressed in Roman numerals.

Gabriel stared at the cross and the Roman numerals and realized with a resigned weariness what he had to do. A little under two weeks after he had miraculously escaped from the one place on earth no man but his grandfather had ever got away from, he was going to have to break into the Citadel again to try to recover what Oscar had hidden.

The tribute cave had already attracted quite a crowd by the time Athanasius and Brother Axel got there. Monks were gathered in nervous knots, or clearing up stacks of spilled rice and tinned food that had been knocked from the storage shelves by the earthquake, moving them away from the great wooden spindle in the centre of the room that operated the lifting gear.

‘Bring that up again!’ Axel ordered, moving through the crowd towards the brown-cloaked Ascension monks straining against the spokes on the spindle. ‘What were you thinking of, sending the platform down in answer to that bell? Is this the proper time to receive tribute?’ He turned to Athanasius. ‘See what happens when tradition is ignored? Everything starts to unravel.’

One of the brown cloaks kicked the brake into place and turned to Axel. ‘We thought someone might be sending news or assistance following the earthquake.’

‘And how do you know it was an earthquake?’ Has anyone confirmed that? What if the disturbance we felt was another bomb, designed to flush us out further?’ Axel stalked over to the wall and pointed at the small TV screen that usually displayed an image of whatever was below. It was still blank following the partial power failure. ‘You cannot see who is ringing that bell and yet you are prepared to send the platform down to them. You could be hauling anything up here.’

Athanasius stepped forward. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that what we all experienced was indeed an earthquake.’ He pointed through one of the slits cut into the outer rock of the mountain. ‘See for yourself – the city is mostly dark. Their power must have failed also. If another bomb had been aimed purely at us, I doubt it would have affected the entire city. And the tremors we felt were long, not short and sharp like an explosion. I think we all know what an explosion feels like.’

Axel stared into the dark night where the bright city usually shone. There were only a few isolated patches of light to show there was anything out there at all. He turned back to the assembled crowd, his eyes darting from face to face as if he was mentally taking names. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘send it down, but I want this room cleared of all but essential personnel before you bring it up again. And do not start the ascension until I have guards in place. Earthquake or not, I do not want to take any chances.’

The Ascension monks took the strain and released the brake. The wooden platform settled on to the suspended ropes with a sailing-ship creak and slowly sank from view.

Though the Citadel had undergone many modifications and improvements over the years, the mechanics and operation of the Ascension platform had remained mostly unchanged. Tens of thousands of years previously, when tribesmen travelled from far and wide to give tribute to the holy men of the mountain, this was how they had been received. Gifts of food or other offerings were placed on the wooden platform and hoisted up by hand into what had come to be known as the tribute cave.

It was also how fresh blood entered the mountain.

The novices were hauled up one at a time in a ceremony known as the Ascension, which took place at the summer and winter solstice. The act of a man being elevated by the efforts of the monks inside the mountain was deliberately symbolic and the reason the system had never been updated. On some days, when the low cloud cut the top off the mountain, an ascending novice would literally rise into it and disappear as if he had gone straight to heaven. It was a spectacular piece of sacred theatre and one that still drew huge crowds whenever it was performed. So famous was the ritual that people would even gather to witness the weekly delivery of supplies, eagerly snapping pictures of sacks of flour and crates of live chickens rising up into the mountain on the creaky wooden platform.

Few, however, would be witnessing the Ascension today. The old town was deserted and the tribute cave had emptied rapidly following Brother Axel’s orders. The only people remaining now were the heads of the guilds, two Ascension monks labouring at the wheel, and five red-cloaked guards who had emerged one by one from the dark and now stood by the edge of the loading bay, their hands tucked into the wide sleeves of their cassocks where their weapons were kept.

A piece of white cloth appeared on the main rope and spooled out from around the spindle, signalling that the platform was about to reach the bottom.

‘Hold steady,’ one of the Ascension monks commanded, taking the strain and slowing the wheel to ease the rope out ever more gradually until the marker drew level with a notch carved into the stone ceiling.

A hundred metres below them the platform touched down on the smooth flat surface of the offering stone. One of the brown cloaks pulled on the ratchet lever to lock the wheel in place then rested against the huge spindle and watched the summoning bell swing to a stop.

The silence in the cave was profound after the solemn clanging. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. All eyes were fixed on the ropes snaking into the darkness, twitching slightly as something was loaded on to the platform below. Then a single loud clang rang through the cave, signalling that whatever was down there was loaded and ready to rise. The brown cloaks took the strain again, kicked the brake loose and started to haul the platform up the side of the mountain. ‘It’s not too heavy,’ one of them said, heaving on the wheel with a well-practised rhythm. ‘It’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’

‘Just bring it up, slow and steady,’ Axel replied, his eyes fixed on the rectangle of night in the floor of the cave. He stepped closer to the edge, his hand reaching automatically into his sleeve.

Athanasius watched Axel, taking the opportunity to consider the man who had so recently challenged him and would undoubtedly do so again in the forthcoming elections. He was an authoritative presence, there was no doubt about that. Eight years as captain of the guards had gifted him the ability to deliver orders with supreme confidence and conviction. This quality would be attractive to many in the mountain who were used to strong command. But there was a chink in his armour.

Elections in the Citadel had historically been run to fill one vacancy – the position of Abbot. When the Prelate died, the Abbot automatically became acting head of the monastery until he was confirmed. This had always been a formality with seldom a challenge mounted – and certainly never a successful one. This time, however, it would be different. There was no automatic succession. Both the Prelate and the Abbot were dead and all their natural heirs – the Sancti – were gone. This time the men of the mountain would not only be voting for a new Abbot but a new Prelate as well, and between these two positions, the whole future of the Citadel would be decided. Because of this Athanasius had realized that, as in the American presidential race, success would depend on the combined appeal of both candidates, not the influence and standing of one. And Axel had no obvious allies. He had risen to his position through ambition and single-mindedness. He might be respected, but he wasn’t liked. So if he ran for Abbot, who would be his Prelate? And if he ran for Prelate, who would serve directly under him? He might be able to convince one of the guards to stand as his running mate, but everyone would realize he was merely a puppet candidate whose sole purpose was to ensure that Axel achieved his long-held goal. And if Axel was elected, Athanasius knew he would re-establish the Sancti in the name of tradition, slam the door on any reform and restore everything to the way it had been before. He was, after all, a soldier; strict orders and routine were what he trusted and understood. The old ways suited him perfectly.

There were of course others in the Citadel who would put themselves forward and stand a chance of election. Father Malachi, for example, was well respected and a definite candidate, but Athanasius felt sure he could forge some kind of alliance with him. As chamberlain to the previous Abbot, he knew the workings of the Citadel more than most and was therefore a useful ally.

But Axel was a different case. The best way to deal with him was to keep him isolated in his candidacy and hope his staunch adherence to the old hierarchy would alienate the large moderate faction within the mountain. The Sancti were gone, and there were many who did not mourn their passing and would relish their return even less. These were the people Athanasius would appeal to. These were the key to the Citadel’s future.

‘Hold steady!’

He looked up as the second distance marker rose from the darkness, indicating that the Ascension platform was nearing the top. Axel stopped pacing and stepped forward to peer over the lip of the tribute hatch, withdrawing his gun from his sleeve as he did so. Then he gasped and stepped away, levelling his gun at the darkness. The rest of the guards followed his lead, just as the supporting ropes rose, bringing the platform level with the floor.

Standing in the middle of the platform was a man, dressed in the apparel of a priest. Red eyes stared out at them from blackened skin and his lips curled in a parody of a smile as he regarded them coolly. ‘Such a welcome for an old friend,’ it said, in a voice that was ragged but familiar. ‘Have I really changed that much?’

It was the syrupy Slavic voice that made Athanasius realize who was standing before them. Brother Dragan, youngest of the Sancti, now returned from the dead and risen back into the mountain, his bloody eyes scanning the faces of the assembled men like Death seeking out the weakest.

‘Fetch me my robes,’ he commanded. A guard scuttled off, tripping in his haste to obey. ‘And send word to the Abbot that I have returned.’

Axel cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible. Brother Abbot has sadly passed.’

Dragan shuffled forward stiffly and stepped off the platform on to the solid rock floor of the tribute cave. ‘Send word to the Prelate then.’

‘Again, that will not be possible. I regret that he too is no longer with us.’

‘So who is the most senior monk remaining?’

Axel turned to look at the heads of the guilds, huddled by the spindle in the centre of the room. ‘We have been running things democratically until such time as elections provide new leaders.’ He turned back to Dragan. ‘But now that God has seen fit to bless us with your return, you are the most senior monk in the Citadel.’

Dragan nodded and his lips curled in another ghastly smile. ‘In that case, take me to the Prelate’s quarters and spread the word throughout the mountain that, by the grace of God, a Sanctus has returned.’

And with that he walked past everyone into the darkness of the mountain, dragging Athanasius’s dreams of reform with him.

Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of the prophecy and blessed are those who hear and who keep what is written in it; for the time is near.

Revelation 1:3

Badiyat al-Sham, Al Anbar Province, Western Iraq

There was nothing on earth like being in the desert at night.

The same thin air that offered so little protection from the hellish daytime sun let in the absolute cold of space when darkness fell to steal the heat away again. And then there were the stars: billions of them, filling the sky with pinpoints of light and casting a microscopic glow over everything. The Bedouin used the stars to travel at night, their desert eyes accustomed to levels of light that city dwellers could never perceive. The Ghost used this skill now to pick his way over the stony ground and gravel paths, following the line of the dragon’s back into the place the Bedouin called the land of thirst and terror.

The Syrian Desert was over half a million square kilometres of nothing. It spread across the land like a crusted sore, spilling out of Syria into northern Iraq, Jordan and Saudi Arabia. There were no settlements in the heart of it and no proper roads. During the Iraq War the insurgents had fallen back here, using the prehistoric brutality of the desert environment as their main defence against the technological might of the modern war machine. And it had worked; machinery broke down, dust storms grounded all air support, even hi-tech thermal-imaging systems could be rendered blind by the simple strategy of lying under a blanket on a warm rock. It was impossible to fight people when they had the land and nature on their side.

The insurgents had used the desert as their main base of operations, resupplying themselves with men and equipment that flowed over the leaky and unpatrolable border with Syria. It was only when the invaders had taken all the towns that they moved back to the cities to harry the new government with the more traditional terrorist tactics of roadside bombs and the ever-present threat of kidnap. So the desert was empty again – and yet, as the Ghost rode on through the night, he began to sense that he was not alone.