The Key

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.