Bestselling Conspiracy Thriller Trilogy: Sanctus, The Key, The Tower

‘Interesting,’ Oscar said. ‘And there still appears to be no official word from the Citadel claiming him. They’re frightened of something.’

‘Maybe, but there’s something else in the file, something … unbelievable.’ She looked at the photograph of the pretty young journalist staring out at her from the browser window. ‘He has a sister.’

She heard her father catch his breath.

‘That can’t be,’ he said. ‘If he had a sister, he can’t have been a Sanctus. He can’t even have come from inside the Citadel.’

‘But he has the scars,’ she said. ‘He was definitely fully ordained. He’s been branded with the Tau. So he must have come from inside the Citadel and he must have seen the Sacrament.’

‘Then find the sister,’ Oscar said. ‘Find her and protect her with everything we have. And I mean everything.’

The line went quiet. Both of them knew what he meant.

‘I understand,’ Kathryn said finally.

‘I know it’s dangerous,’ Oscar said, ‘but this girl will have no idea what’s coming at her. We have to protect her. It’s our duty.’

‘I know.’

‘And one other thing …’

‘Yes?’

‘Make up the spare room and get some good scotch in,’ he said, the warmth returning to his voice. ‘I think it’s time I came home.’

40

The Abbot swept through the dark stone corridors of the mountain on his way to the Prelate, troubled by the lack of comforting news he carried with him. It was bad enough that for the first time in nearly ninety years someone had almost escaped from the Citadel. That he had perished in the process was the only bright spot on the horizon. The fact that he now appeared to have a living relative made it possibly the worst breach of Citadel security in the last two hundred years – perhaps even longer. There was also no getting away from the fact that it was ultimately his responsibility.

Nothing short of rapid and successful containment of the situation would be expected, and in order for that to happen he needed to be given a free hand to act as decisively as he saw fit – not only inside the Citadel, but outside as well – and for that he would need the Prelate’s blessing.

He nodded to the guard permanently stationed by the Prelate’s private quarters. Traditionally the Citadel guards would have been skilled with crossbow, sword and dagger, but times had changed. Now a wrist holster containing a Beretta 92 double-action pistol with a full clip loaded with parabellums nestled within the loose sleeves of their russet red cassocks. The guard heaved open the door to let him pass. He wasn’t one of the men he’d picked from the stack of files.

The door banged shut behind him, echoing briefly in the cavernous hallway. The Abbot strode towards the elegant stairway leading up to the Prelate’s stateroom. He heard the hiss of a ventilator somewhere in the darkness ahead, rhythmically forcing oxygen into its occupant’s ancient lungs.

The chamber was even darker than the hallway and the Abbot had to slow as he entered it, unsure of what lay in his path. A meagre fire crackled in the grate, sucking air from the room in exchange for a little illumination and a dry, smothering heat. The only other light came from the bank of electronic machines that worked round the clock, oxygenating the Prelate’s blood, removing his waste, keeping him alive.

The Abbot moved tentatively towards the huge four-poster bed dominating the space and began to make out the gaunt shape, white and insubstantial, lying in the middle of it. In the dim glow it looked as though the Prelate was trapped in the centre of a web of tubes and wires like a cave-dwelling spider. Only his eyes appeared to have any substance. They were dark and alert and watched his visitor make his approach.

The Abbot reached across the acres of linen to take the Prelate’s claw-like hand. Despite the stifling heat in the room, it was as cold as the mountain. He lowered his head and kissed the ring hanging loosely on the third finger which bore the seal of his exalted office.

‘Leave us,’ the Prelate said, in a voice both dry and laboured.

Two Apothecaria in white cassocks rose from their seats like phantoms. The Abbot had not even noticed them in the shadows. Each checked and adjusted something on one of the many machines, turning up the alarm volumes so they could hear them from the stairs, then silently glided from the room. The Abbot turned back to his master and found the bright eyes burning into him.

‘Tell me … everything …’ the Prelate whispered.

The Abbot outlined the sequence of the morning’s events, leaving nothing out, while the Prelate continued to skewer him with his needle eyes. Everything sounded worse spoken out loud than it had when rehearsed in his head on the way over. He also knew from experience that the Prelate was not a man given to leniency. He had been Abbot himself the last time a novice had betrayed them, during the time of the First Great War, and his ruthlessness in clearing up that potential mess had ultimately provided his ticket to the Prelature. The Abbot secretly hoped that a successful containment operation now might do the same for him.

The Abbot finished his report and the old man’s eyes released him and fixed instead on a spot somewhere in the darkness above the bed. His long hair and beard were wispy and whiter even than the sheets that covered him like a shroud. His only movements were the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the quiver of arteries pulsing weakly beneath the paper-thin skin.

‘A sister?’ the Prelate said finally.

‘Not yet confirmed, your holiness, but nevertheless a source of grave and immediate concern.’

‘Grave and immediate concern … for her, perhaps …’

The Prelate’s speech was fractured into small clusters of words, each sentence broken every few seconds by the respirator as it pushed air into his tired lungs.

‘I’m glad your holiness agrees,’ the Abbot replied.

The sharp eyes turned on him once more.

‘I have agreed nothing,’ the Prelate replied. ‘I assume by this visit … where you bring me nothing … but bad news … and question marks … that you wish for me … to grant you permission … to silence the girl.’

‘It would seem prudent.’

The Prelate sighed and returned his gaze to the canopy of darkness above his bed.

‘More death,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘So much blood.’

He took several deep breaths and the hiss of the respirator rose to fill the silence.

‘For thousands of years now,’ he continued in the same halting manner ‘we have been keepers … of the Sacrament … a secret that has been handed down … in an unbroken line … from the original founders … of our church. Dutifully … we have kept the secret … but it has also kept us … It keeps us still … locked away from the world … demanding so much sacrifice … so much blood … just to keep it hidden. Do you ever ask yourself … Brother Abbot … what is our purpose here?’

‘No,’ he replied, unsure of where the question was heading. ‘Our work here is self evident. It is God’s work.’

‘Do not patronize me with seminary platitudes,’ the Prelate said with surprising energy. ‘I am not a fresh-faced novice. I mean our specific purpose. Do you really believe it is God’s pure work we do here?’

‘Of course.’ The Abbot frowned. ‘Our calling is righteous. We shoulder the burden of mankind’s past for the sake of its future.’

The Prelate smiled. ‘How blessed you are, to have such confidence in your answer.’ His eyes drifted upwards once more. ‘As death creeps nearer … I must confess … things look very different to me … Life shines … in strange ways … once lit by death’s dark light … But I will be cured of life … soon enough …’

The Abbot began to remonstrate, but the Prelate raised his almost transparent hand to silence him.

‘I am old, Brother Abbot … too old … As I approach my second … century, I feel … the burden of my years … I used to think … the long life, and staunch … health one enjoyed … as a result of living … inside this mountain … was a blessing … I believed it was proof … that God smiled upon us … and upon our work … Now I am not … so sure … In every culture … and in all of literature … long life is ever portrayed … as nothing more … than a terrible curse … visited upon the damned …’

‘Or the divine,’ the Abbot said.

‘I hope you are right … Brother Abbot … I have given it … much thought of late … I wonder … when my time finally comes … will the Lord be pleased … with the work I have done … in His holy name …? Or will He be ashamed …? Will all my life’s efforts … prove to be nothing … more than a bloody exercise … in protecting the reputations … of men who have long since … turned to dust …?’

His voice trailed away with a dry rattle and the dark eyes flitted across to a pitcher of water by his bed.

The Abbot poured a glass and lifted the Prelate’s head to it, helping him take tiny sips between the relentless insinuations of the ventilator. Despite the oppressive heat, the Prelate’s head felt inhumanly cold. He laid it carefully back down on the pillow and returned the glass to the table. When he looked back, the Prelate’s eyes were focused once more on the patch of nothingness above his bed.

‘I stare death in the face … every day …’ he said, studying the darkness. ‘I watch him … and he watches me … I wonder why … he keeps his distance … Then you come here … talking soft words … that do little to hide your … hard desire for blood … and I think to myself … perhaps Death is cunning … Maybe he keeps me alive … so I can grant you … the powers you request … Then your actions will provide him … with far fresher souls … than mine to sport with …’

‘I do not desire blood,’ the Abbot said. ‘But sometimes our duties require it. The dead keep secrets better than the living.’