Ten more agonizing steps.
. . Eight more. .
. . Seven.
Cornelius drove straight through Kutlar as if he wasn’t there. He felt the crump as the police car smashed through both his legs and saw the windscreen cobweb where his head struck it on his way over the top.
He glanced in his rear-view mirror. Saw the body land head first on to the concrete, arms flopping lifelessly, legs twisting at unnatural angles. He slammed on the brakes. Threw the car into reverse. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance where Kutlar was concerned and he also didn’t want to leave a body in plain view.
The engine screamed as he hit the accelerator and the crumpled pile of flesh and clothes grew bigger in the rear-view mirror. He braked a metre short, popped the boot and slipped from behind the wheel, leading with his gun. He rounded the rear of the car, half hoping to find Kutlar still alive. He liked the idea of him spending the rest of his life as a cripple, drinking through straws and shitting in bags. He was met instead by a fixed, blank stare and was almost disappointed.
He ducked down and quickly scooped the body from the ground. Felt broken bones crunch inside the swollen flesh of Kutlar’s legs as he wedged him inside the tight boot space next to the body of the driver. He had to lean his whole weight on the boot lid to get it to click shut then looked around the open ground of the airport as he made his way back to the driver’s seat. He saw no movement. Heard no distant sounds of sirens heading his way. He wanted to go back and sweep the warehouse, tie up any loose ends, but he had his orders and his primary objective had been achieved.
He climbed behind the wheel and glanced in the back where the girl lay unconscious. A set of handcuffs fed through a thick D-ring in the floor held her arms out in front.
He watched her chest move as she breathed and figured the crack on the head would keep her out long enough to get where they were going. He locked the doors anyway, just to be safe, then put the car in gear and eased on to the service road leading away from the airport and back to the city of Ruin.
VI
Chapter 122
‘Leave us!’ the Abbot said.
The Apothecaria looked up, surprised by a command coming from someone other than their master. They rose uncertainly, their attention switching from the Prelate, to the life-support machines they monitored, to the Abbot standing massively by the door.
‘You will find,’ the Prelate’s dry voice rustled from somewhere in the nest of white linen, ‘that I am in charge here. You would do well to remember that.’
‘Forgive me, Father,’ the Abbot said, ‘but I have urgent news. . regarding the Sacrament.’
The Apothecaria continued to hover, waiting for further instruction. ‘Then you may leave,’ the Prelate said. The Abbot watched them check their machines then glide from the room, shutting the door behind them.
‘Come closer,’ the Prelate called out to the dark. ‘I want to see your face.’
The Abbot moved towards the bed, stopping by the machines the phantoms had just deserted. ‘I’m sorry to call unannounced,’ he said, turning down the volume on the life-support monitor. ‘But there is something happening with the Sacrament. Something extraordinary.’ He arrived at the Prelate’s bedside and was immediately skewered by his sharp black eyes.
‘And does this, have anything to do, with three Carmina, who cannot be found in the mountain?’
The Abbot smiled. ‘Ah, that,’ he said.
‘Yes, that.’ There was surprising energy behind his anger.
‘That is what I wish to discuss.’ The Abbot looked down at the old man. He had aged even more in the few hours since he had last seen him, his life energy was almost gone, his regenerative powers almost spent. ‘I have just received word that they have found Brother Samuel’s sister,’ he said, watching the Prelate, waiting for his reaction. ‘I have instructed them to bring her here, to the Citadel — to me.’
The merest hint of heat coloured the gelid skin of the old man’s face. ‘It is customary to wait, until one is Prelate, before one starts acting as such.’
‘Forgive me,’ the Abbot said, reaching over as if to tenderly brush some lank hair away from the Prelate’s eyes. ‘But sometimes one must act like a leader, in order to become one.’
He grabbed a pillow and pressed it down hard on the Prelate’s face, smothering it with one large hand while the other seized his wrists, holding them tightly so the taloned fingers couldn’t scratch. Behind him he heard the faint sound of an alarm from one of the machines registering a dangerous change in the old man’s vital signs. The Abbot glanced at the door, listening for the arrival of hurrying steps. There were none. He held the Prelate until the fight faded from the struggling sticks of his arms, then removed the pillow. The Prelate’s eyes stared up towards the darkness above his head and his mouth hung open, forming a circle. The Abbot moved across to the life-support machine and turned up the volume on the alarm, giving voice to his final, silent howl.
‘Help! Come quick,’ he yelled, leaping forward to the bed. Footsteps scurried across the stone landing outside and the door flew open, bringing the Apothecaria into the room. One swept over to the machines, the other came to the Prelate. ‘He started choking,’ the Abbot said stepping back. ‘Is he all right?’
The alarm continued to howl through the room and the Apothecaria by the bed started pounding the old man’s chest while the other dragged over a defibrillator.
‘Do what you can,’ the Abbot said, ‘I’ll fetch help.’
He slipped through the door and into the empty hallway, heading not for help but to the lower chambers of the mountain. There would be no inquest, for the Abbot was now acting Prelate and he would not request one. Besides, his sad death would be greatly overshadowed by what was still to come.
The Abbot had removed his final obstacle. Now he could fulfil his destiny.
Chapter 123
Gabriel came round gradually.
At first his eyes refused to open and he lay where he’d fallen, breathing in air that smelt of explosive and scorched wood — and something else. It was a smell he’d last encountered in the Sudan after guerrilla forces ambushed one of their aide trucks. When Gabriel went to inspect the site with government troops the same smell had hung in the air like a greasy cloud. It was only when he saw the blackened body of the driver fused to the steering wheel that he’d realized what it was. His eyes flew open as he made the connection and remembered what had happened.
He looked around. Saw he was lying on the floor against the wall of the warehouse, his mother slumped on top of him. He slapped her face a couple of times. Pressed nervous fingers against the side of her neck and felt her pulse. It was strong and regular.
He grabbed her shoulders and gently rolled her off him and on to her side, his head pounding as he shifted position and put her in the recovery position. He listened through the painful pulse for sounds of movement elsewhere in the building. Heard nothing.
His gun lay on the concrete floor where it had been knocked from his hand. He scooped it up and pulled the slide back, checking the gun was undamaged and the action still smooth, then he slipped from behind the crates. He did not look towards the office. He didn’t want to see what he knew was there, not until the area was clear or he was sure the bastard who’d done it was good and dead.
He ducked into the tunnel between the rows of crates, and made his way quickly towards the front of the warehouse, keeping low all the way. He had no idea how long he’d been out, which was a problem. When the firing started, the Inspector had been calling for backup. Airport security also patrolled the perimeter every twenty minutes. If he got trapped in a security clamp-down of any sort he’d be put out of circulation and that just played
