The Key (33 page)

Dick eased the van into the warehouse built on the lower side of the old town wall, reversed it into a loading bay and cut the engine. Heavy vehicles were not allowed into the old town, so the tons of food and merchandise that had to be carted up to all the cafés and gift shops each day were delivered using the funicular. Resembling a large, slow rollercoaster, the funicular ran directly through the old town wall and up the side of the hill in a concealed stone tunnel that started in the main goods warehouse.

Checking the area was deserted, Dick slipped out of the driver’s seat, grabbed a hand pallet truck and opened the back of the van. He slid the coffin-shaped box on to the truck and wheeled it over to the solitary carriage that had been left lined up by the entrance to the tunnel with its side door open and ready. When he’d loaded the box inside he wedged his large frame into the personnel section at the rear of the carriage and opened an email on his phone to reread the instructions he had been sent.

Flipping open the safety guard on the control panel, he punched the third of three red buttons. The carriage slowly started to move, pulled along the track by a ratcheted chain, the soft rubber tyres and electric engine making hardly any noise in the stillness of the night. It moved into the dimly lit tunnel then started to climb, all the way up to the third and final stop, right at the top of the old town where the embankment encircled the base of the Citadel.

The time was three forty-one.

Dragan clung to the rough wall of the tribute cave and looked down through the hatch like a ragged bird of prey. He saw no movement, only the sodium-lit streets of the old town spreading out below him like a luminous yellow stain.

He could feel the cold of the night seeping into his weakened flesh, but he could also feel something akin to the first hint of rain on the breeze or the sun coming out from behind cold clouds to warm him. Just as the ocean responded to the pull of the moon the cells of his body were reacting to the approach of the Sacrament.

Soon it would be back, flooding the mountain with its cleansing force and radiating through his body, restoring health to the pitiful thing he had become.

Behind him he heard the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor as the two red-cloaked guards waited by the great spindle of the lifting gear. He had played on their fears and appealed to their ambition by promising to elevate them to the ranks of the Sancti in exchange for their help.

Return the Sacrament
, he had told them,
and everything will be restored to the way it was.

The Citadel, the Sancti – and him.

Dick felt the automatic brakes engage and the carriage start to slow. Up ahead the faint glow of sodium light leaked into the tunnel from the embankment terminal.

Final destination.

He felt a sense of calm and contentment. Once the box was loaded on to the Ascension platform and he had rung the bell to raise it, his mission would be over.

It would be
com-plete
.

This was one of his favourite words, so perfect in its form and meaning. Even the act of saying it made the mouth perform a full workout of sounds and plosives leaving the lips stretched in a satisfying smile. It was how he had felt when he had first discovered the words of God in prison and filled the empty vessel of his old self.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop and he stepped out on to the loading bay. It was the size of a double garage, with storage racks lining the walls and electric hand-carts parked to one side, plugged into the wall to charge overnight. The racks were all empty, everything having been distributed for the night. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the insect whirr of an electric motor as he took one of the smaller carts and steered it over to the carriage. He dragged the box on to it and headed across the platform towards the exit.

The cool night air hit him as he emerged from the loading shed and headed up a shallow ramp to the embankment. The Ascension platform was directly across from him, accessed by a wooden bridge. He made his way towards it, enjoying the solitude and sense of satisfaction that his work was nearly done.

He had just stepped on to the bridge when everything went wrong.

The first thing he heard was hurrying footsteps, scuffing over the dry flagstones towards him – three or four people by the sound of it. Instinctively he spun round, his hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun, then an intense white light blinded him.

‘James Harris, World News. What’s inside that box?’

He saw the edge of a camera lens beneath the bright light and the spongy end of a microphone thrust in his direction. He considered shooting out the light and taking his chances with whoever was behind it, but his mind caught up and made him stop. The camera was probably sending a feed to somewhere else or even broadcasting live.

He thrust his hand back in his jacket, but not before the cameraman had seen the gun and zoomed in on it for a second.

‘There is nothing in the box,’ he said. ‘You have no authority here. You should not be here.’

‘They have my permission.’ A new voice and the outline of a man, one arm in a sling, the other holding out a police badge.

Police and press. All wrong.

There was nothing for it but to abandon his mission and escape.

He took a step towards the camera, smiling broadly, his arms rising up in the beginnings of a gesture of surrender. The cameraman backed away, but not quite fast enough. Dick brought his arm down in a rapid swipe, knocking the camera to the floor. There was a shattering of glass as the top light broke and everything was plunged into darkness. Then he threw himself at the policeman.

Pain lanced through Arkadian’s arm as the man ran through him, knocking him backwards on to the flagstones. He twisted round – bringing fresh, tearing agony to his shoulder – and reached for his gun, but the hulking figure was already disappearing round the corner of the loading shed. He was gone. None of the others were going to pursue him. They were too preoccupied with the main focus of the exclusive story he had promised them.

The cameraman had picked up the camera and was zooming in on the lid while the reporter prised it open, giving a running commentary as he did so.

Arkadian struggled to his feet. He wanted to go after his attacker, but was in no physical state to run, so he drifted over to the box, hoping to God it contained good news.

The lid pulled away and clattered to the ground.

Liv was lying on her side, wrapped in blankets and bandages like a Halloween mummy. The reporter was asking her questions, but it was clear she was drugged. At least he hoped that was why none of the preceding racket had roused her. Arkadian reached in and pressed his fingers to her neck.

There was a pulse.

She was alive.

Dragan watched it all play out beneath him like a helpless God. As soon as the bright light flashed and the large figure knocked it out and fled he knew it was trouble.

He watched the others surround the box, the lid slide off it, and felt something surge within him when he saw the figure curled inside. He was drawn towards it and had to grip on to the cave wall to stop himself from tipping down into the gap. So close that he could see it, too far for it to do him any good. He felt like weeping, or raging, or killing something. But all he could do was watch as the group departed, taking the girl with them.

Arkadian held on to Liv all the way down the bumpy streets of the old town, his good arm wrapped round her like a father comforting his child, his bad arm singing with pain at every bump.

They were travelling in one of the ‘moon buggies’ used to ferry the old and infirm up the mountain. Right now he felt he qualified on both counts. The reporter was driving, while the cameraman scanned the streets with his lens like a soldier on point. Nobody spoke, aware that the giant man they had accosted could still be out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush his ambushers.

By the time they reached the bottom, Liv was starting to stir, shaken awake by the juddering descent. Arkadian punched the exit codes into the emergency hatch and smiled when the rising steel shutter revealed that the second part of the rescue plan was waiting.

The reporter saw it too. ‘What’s that ambulance doing here?’

‘I called for it. Wasn’t sure what state the hostage would be in. Pull over by the rear doors and I’ll have them check her out, make sure she’s OK before you get to talk to her.’

The reporter steered over to the parked ambulance and hit the brakes hard enough to telegraph his annoyance. The deal he had done with Arkadian gave him exclusivity on the story and now he could feel it slipping away.

The driver’s door of the ambulance opened and a skinny, pale man with shoulder-length black hair got out and moved towards them. He dropped to his knee and grabbed Liv’s wrist. ‘Pulse is weak,’ he said after a few beats. ‘BP is low.’ He lifted one of Liv’s eyelids and shone a bright penlight into it, switched eyes and did the same. ‘Pupils are constricted but responsive. Looks like some kind of barbiturate poisoning. I need to put her on oxygen and a drip and shift her to the hospital immediately so we can find out what they doped her with and start flushing it out.’

He threw open the doors and dragged out a retractable trolley, the legs springing open and clattering against the flagstones.

‘Give the man a hand,’ Arkadian said. ‘I would, but …’

‘Keep filming,’ the reporter barked at the cameraman before stepping forward to help lift Liv on to the trolley.

The long-haired medic strapped her down then manoeuvred the stretcher back to the ambulance, slotting it into place with a hefty shove.

The reporter turned to Arkadian. ‘You said we could interview her.’

‘And so you shall, just as soon as she’s been given the all-clear from the hospital. You wouldn’t want to endanger her health in the pursuit of a story would you?’

Behind him the ambulance shuddered to life and the two-tone lights on the roof began to spin their bright colours across the greyness of the old town wall. ‘I’ll keep the rest of the press away, I promise,’ Arkadian said. ‘In fact, I’ll ride with these guys to ensure it.’ He climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital, just ask for me at the desk – they’ll tell you where to go.’ The ambulance pulled away.

The reporter jumped behind the wheel of the news truck and started the engine. He jammed it in gear and stamped on the accelerator as soon as the cameraman scrambled inside. There was a bang from outside and the wheel jerked to the right. He fought to keep it straight for a few metres, then hit the brakes and jumped out of the cab to see what was wrong.

A small piece of wood was embedded in the flat front tyre. He hooked his fingers round the edge and wrenched it free, the nails sticking out of the wood catching the streetlights as it clattered away across the road. Sabotage. He looked up just in time to see the ambulance slip round the corner at the end of the road and disappear from sight.

‘Is she really suffering from a barbiturate overdose?’ Arkadian asked.

The driver shook his head. ‘Unlikely. She may have been dosed up with a barbiturate of some kind, but not to any dangerous level: she was responsive and her BP is fine. Was I convincing? I’m not used to dealing with them when they’re still breathing.’

The driver was Dr Bartholomew Reis, senior pathologist at the city coroner’s office. He had worked hundreds of cases with Arkadian and was the only person he trusted who could borrow an ambulance at short notice and make a convincing medic.

‘Where to now?’ Reis asked, switching off the siren and lights and easing the ambulance through the empty streets of Ruin.

‘Keep heading east and out of the city,’ Arkadian replied, watching the hospital loom up ahead then slip past and disappear behind them. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re near.’

Vatican City

Clementi was dragged from a troubled dream by the harsh sound of a phone ringing. He checked the clock by his bed. The numerals showed that it was a little after four in the morning; the worst of all times to receive a call. He reached for the phone in the dark and snatched it up to silence the ring.

‘Hello?’

‘How quickly can you log on to your secure server?’ It was Pentangeli, the American member of the Group.

‘Ten minutes,’ Clementi said, instantly awake. ‘I need to get into the office.’

‘Do it faster. I’ve just sent you something you really need to see.’

The phone went dead.

Clementi could hear the phone ringing in his office when the elevator opened on to the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace eight minutes later.

He stumbled down the hall, keenly aware that the Holy Father was currently sleeping in the room next door. His own apartment was in a different building, on the other side of the Sistine Chapel. He had run the whole way, or as close to running as his bloated body would allow. Fumbling his key in the lock, he fell into the dark room, knocking a pile of newspapers to the floor as he grabbed the phone to silence it.

‘I’m here,’ he said, his words more breath than substance.

‘Are you looking at your email?’

Clementi collapsed in his chair. ‘I’m just … accessing it.’ He fought for breath, his heart hammering in his chest, fingers shaking as they pecked away at the keyboard. There were two messages in his secure email account, one with the location ID of the compound in Iraq and one with no subject line or sender. He guessed this would be from Pentangeli. He opened it and a pop-up window automatically started playing a video clip.

At first it was too dark and shaky to make out; then the picture settled and a bright light came on, surprising a huge blond man dressed in black pushing a large box. Clementi felt the ground fall away from beneath him as he realized what he was watching.

‘What you’re looking at is raw, unedited news footage, flagged up by one of my senior news producers. They were going to run it as an exclusive on the next news cycle, but I made them spike it. All the media has now been destroyed. The only evidence that this ever happened is the file you’re now looking at.’