in.
There were two messages waiting for him.
He read the first with a growing sense of unease. Despite his promise to the Group, only one of the four survivors had been silenced during the night. Of the other three, one was under surveillance but still at liberty in America, and the other two were missing. It had been a messy night. Two of the independent agents who had been watching the hospital were among the dead. He opened a picture attachment and winced at a crime-scene photograph showing the priest, wide-eyed in surprise and lying on a hospital bed with his throat cut and his blood pooling around him. The first news reports had wrongly identified him as the monk, but subsequent bulletins had corrected this. The monk was now officially missing, along with Liv Adamsen and Gabriel Mann, the one survivor the Group had seemed particularly concerned about.
He closed the first email and clicked the second, time-stamped several hours after the first, hoping for better news. It had been sent by the third agent and gave a detailed report of the surveillance of the missing woman. Clementi scanned through the details of what flight she had taken and how she had been met by a policeman upon landing. The message also contained a photo attachment under an explanatory note. The subject was seen reading this book throughout the flight…
He clicked it open and caught his breath when he saw the tablet, one of the few extant examples of the lost language not in the possession of the Citadel. The girl had underlined a line of symbols and written something next to it which made his skin go cold.
The key?
She had correctly translated a language only he, and a very few people in the world, could read and one that was central to his desire to restore the Church. He focused on her question mark. Did it mean that the translation was a guess, or that its significance was unknown? Then he saw what else she had underlined on the page and his mind was made up. It was Al-Hillah — the key to everything. She had to know something, and that made her very dangerous indeed.
The time for caution was gone. Yesterday he had agonized over his decision, now he didn’t hesitate. He was much too far in to turn back.
Opening a new window, he typed a short reply: Silence the girl immediately. I expect to hear from you within the hour.
54
Newark, New Jersey
‘This is you.’ Ski pushed open the door with a flourish the hotel room beyond did not deserve.
It was stark and functional and not much bigger than the double bed it contained. A feeble amount of dawn light leaked in from a single window opposite and beyond was a prime view of a solid brick wall.
‘It’s perfect,’ Liv said, stepping across the threshold.
Ski stayed outside in the corridor like a nervous date, digging around in his jacket pocket for something. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a cheap-looking cell phone. ‘It’s got about fifty bucks’ credit on it. You need to call anyone, use that. It’s virtually untraceable.’ Liv took it gratefully. ‘I’ve put my number on there, in case you need to contact me in a hurry. You just take it easy for a while, OK?’ He nodded, as if answering his own question, then turned and was gone. Ski wasn’t one for big shows of emotion, but he had a huge heart, and that counted for more than anything.
Closing the door behind him, Liv twisted the lock until it wouldn’t turn any more before checking out her surroundings. In many ways it wasn’t dissimilar to the hospital room in Ruin. The decor was slightly better and the bed was a double, but other than that it had the same institutional blandness.
Ski had explained to her on the way over that the hotel was used to house key witnesses and jury members during big trials. He had checked her in using a dummy name and false details so that her own name and passport number wouldn’t pop up on any databases. It would keep her off the radar, for a while at least, and that made her feel a little bit safer.
She took her laptop and charger from her bag and plugged them in by the countertop that served as a desk. At one end was a lamp with a mirror on the wall behind it, at the other a flat-screen TV. Liv switched it on and turned to a news channel out of long worn habit. She was about to start unpacking the rest of her things when the news anchor said something that made her head snap to the screen:
‘The first quake occurred last night at eight p.m. local time in the historic Turkish city of Ruin. Though the tremors were not serious, they appeared to set off a chain reaction of other incidents that swept west across Turkey, and south and east into Syria and northern Iraq. Seismologists say this ripple effect has never been recorded before and they have been unable to give an explanation for what may have caused it.’
Liv stared at the map.
Her plane had taken off at precisely eight o’clock.
She recalled the lurch she had felt as the wheels had left the ground, like a cord being snapped inside her, then the lights blinking out below as the plane climbed into the sky. Were these things connected somehow? They couldn’t be. They couldn’t.
‘So far, the only deaths appear to have been at Ruin Hospital. In an official statement, police confirmed that Kathryn Mann — one of the suspects in the recent bombing incident at the Citadel — is among the dead, although it is not known whether this was as a direct result of the earthquake…’
Liv stared at the screen, numb from the news.
‘There are now only three remaining survivors from the Citadel bombing: the monk, whose whereabouts is unknown; Liv Adamsen, who it is believed discharged herself from hospital a few hours before the quake struck; and Gabriel Mann, who escaped from police custody at around the same time.’
Liv felt the blood drain from her face and dry nausea rise up in her throat.
Kathryn — dead.
Gabriel — gone.
She wondered if he had really escaped, or whether something had happened to him too.
Still in a daze, Liv opened her laptop and Googled Ortus, the foundation where he worked. If anyone could make contact with him or tell her where he currently was, it would be them. She skimmed the homepage, found contact details for the Ruin office and reached for Ski’s phone. Having copied its number on to a scratch pad, she dialled the number for Ortus, wondering how long fifty bucks would last dialling international on a no-contract tariff. A foreign ringtone purred in her ear, then someone answered in Turkish.
‘Hi,’ Liv said, powering through the language barrier, ‘do you speak English?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m trying to get a message to Gabriel Mann.’
A pause. ‘He is not here.’
‘I know, but is there anyone who might be able to contact him? I’m a friend of his, and I need to speak to him very urgently.’
‘He is not here.’
Liv wasn’t surprised at the stonewall reception, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. ‘Can I leave a message for him, please? Just a message.’
‘What message?’
‘Ask him to call Liv. He’ll understand. And thank you, it’s very urgent.’ She read out her phone number, thanked the woman again, then hung up. There was no way of knowing whether her message would be passed on or simply dropped in the trash.
Frantically she ran through a mental list of the people she had met during her time in Ruin who might know something, but realized with a creeping sense of dread that most of them were now dead. Perhaps Ski was right about her being cursed. The history of the Sacrament was littered with curses and dire prophesies. Liv had been part of one herself. She remembered sitting in the shadow of the Citadel and discussing them with…
Opening another tab in the browser, she Googled ‘Dr Miriam Anata’. In amongst the hits was a link to a website. Liv opened it and a picture filled the screen of the same formidable woman she had last met in the old
