mountain. We could turn one of the reading rooms into a makeshift ward for the duration without too much disruption. No one is using it at the moment and its sealed nature and climate-control systems will ensure the air we breathe will not contaminate the rest of the mountain.’
Simenon nodded. ‘I will propose it. In the meantime, you should leave this room and wait outside in the corridor. The other heads have been sent for. I wanted to talk to you first as I knew you would see the sense and logic of it and possibly help me convince the others.’
‘Of course.’
As if on cue, the sound of someone pounding on the door cut through the moaning and Simenon opened it to discover a bewildered Brother Axel standing outside. Athanasius slipped from the room and put his hand on Axel’s shoulder, turning him away from the terrible sights inside.
Axel shrugged free and stared into his face with thinly disguised anger. ‘Do you see what you have done?’ he said. ‘You have brought a plague down upon us.’
‘Let us hope not,’ Athanasius replied. ‘For both our sakes, let us pray it proves to be something else.’
79
Strong winds over the Atlantic had pushed the white dove on the tail of the DC-9 swiftly on its flight towards the furthest edge of Europe. It landed at Gaziantep International a little ahead of schedule at two fifty a.m.
At three minutes past three, a loader pulled up to the plane and raised its platform to the passenger door. Two things were loaded on to it: a box, roughly the same shape and size as a coffin, and a large, blond man dressed in black, who laid his hand flat on the box, as though he were making a pledge on an oversized Bible. The loader lowered them to a waiting van, its rear doors already open, the key in the ignition. Unassisted, the man slid the box off the loading platform and into the back of the van, then slammed the doors and headed for the driver’s seat. He turned the key in the ignition and the robotic voice of the sat-nav gave him the first direction of the pre- programmed route. Four minutes later he was easing the van through the security gate and on to the service road that ran round the perimeter fence. It took him to the main road leading away from the airport and up into the mountains towards the city of Ruin.
He made it through the mountain pass and entered the outskirts of the city at exactly half past three. The flat voice from the dashboard guided him on to the great wide Eastern Boulevard then on to the inner ring-road that circled the old town and took him to the northeastern section, known as the Umbrasian Quarter. Nine minutes later he had reached his destination.
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 cafes 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.
80
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.
