Police and press. All wrong.
There was nothing for it but to abandon his mission and escape.
He took a step towards the camera, smiling broadly, his arms rising up in the beginnings of a gesture of surrender. The cameraman backed away, but not quite fast enough. Dick brought his arm down in a rapid swipe, knocking the camera to the floor. There was a shattering of glass as the top light broke and everything was plunged into darkness. Then he threw himself at the policeman.
Pain lanced through Arkadian’s arm as the man ran through him, knocking him backwards on to the flagstones. He twisted round — bringing fresh, tearing agony to his shoulder — and reached for his gun, but the hulking figure was already disappearing round the corner of the loading shed. He was gone. None of the others were going to pursue him. They were too preoccupied with the main focus of the exclusive story he had promised them.
The cameraman had picked up the camera and was zooming in on the lid while the reporter prised it open, giving a running commentary as he did so.
Arkadian struggled to his feet. He wanted to go after his attacker, but was in no physical state to run, so he drifted over to the box, hoping to God it contained good news.
The lid pulled away and clattered to the ground.
Liv was lying on her side, wrapped in blankets and bandages like a Halloween mummy. The reporter was asking her questions, but it was clear she was drugged. At least he hoped that was why none of the preceding racket had roused her. Arkadian reached in and pressed his fingers to her neck.
There was a pulse.
She was alive.
Dragan watched it all play out beneath him like a helpless God. As soon as the bright light flashed and the large figure knocked it out and fled he knew it was trouble.
He watched the others surround the box, the lid slide off it, and felt something surge within him when he saw the figure curled inside. He was drawn towards it and had to grip on to the cave wall to stop himself from tipping down into the gap. So close that he could see it, too far for it to do him any good. He felt like weeping, or raging, or killing something. But all he could do was watch as the group departed, taking the girl with them.
81
Arkadian held on to Liv all the way down the bumpy streets of the old town, his good arm wrapped round her like a father comforting his child, his bad arm singing with pain at every bump.
They were travelling in one of the ‘moon buggies’ used to ferry the old and infirm up the mountain. Right now he felt he qualified on both counts. The reporter was driving, while the cameraman scanned the streets with his lens like a soldier on point. Nobody spoke, aware that the giant man they had accosted could still be out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush his ambushers.
By the time they reached the bottom, Liv was starting to stir, shaken awake by the juddering descent. Arkadian punched the exit codes into the emergency hatch and smiled when the rising steel shutter revealed that the second part of the rescue plan was waiting.
The reporter saw it too. ‘What’s that ambulance doing here?’
‘I called for it. Wasn’t sure what state the hostage would be in. Pull over by the rear doors and I’ll have them check her out, make sure she’s OK before you get to talk to her.’
The reporter steered over to the parked ambulance and hit the brakes hard enough to telegraph his annoyance. The deal he had done with Arkadian gave him exclusivity on the story and now he could feel it slipping away.
The driver’s door of the ambulance opened and a skinny, pale man with shoulder-length black hair got out and moved towards them. He dropped to his knee and grabbed Liv’s wrist. ‘Pulse is weak,’ he said after a few beats. ‘BP is low.’ He lifted one of Liv’s eyelids and shone a bright penlight into it, switched eyes and did the same. ‘Pupils are constricted but responsive. Looks like some kind of barbiturate poisoning. I need to put her on oxygen and a drip and shift her to the hospital immediately so we can find out what they doped her with and start flushing it out.’
He threw open the doors and dragged out a retractable trolley, the legs springing open and clattering against the flagstones.
‘Give the man a hand,’ Arkadian said. ‘I would, but…’
‘Keep filming,’ the reporter barked at the cameraman before stepping forward to help lift Liv on to the trolley.
The long-haired medic strapped her down then manoeuvred the stretcher back to the ambulance, slotting it into place with a hefty shove.
The reporter turned to Arkadian. ‘You said we could interview her.’
‘And so you shall, just as soon as she’s been given the all-clear from the hospital. You wouldn’t want to endanger her health in the pursuit of a story would you?’
Behind him the ambulance shuddered to life and the two-tone lights on the roof began to spin their bright colours across the greyness of the old town wall. ‘I’ll keep the rest of the press away, I promise,’ Arkadian said. ‘In fact, I’ll ride with these guys to ensure it.’ He climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital, just ask for me at the desk — they’ll tell you where to go.’ The ambulance pulled away.
The reporter jumped behind the wheel of the news truck and started the engine. He jammed it in gear and stamped on the accelerator as soon as the cameraman scrambled inside. There was a bang from outside and the wheel jerked to the right. He fought to keep it straight for a few metres, then hit the brakes and jumped out of the cab to see what was wrong.
A small piece of wood was embedded in the flat front tyre. He hooked his fingers round the edge and wrenched it free, the nails sticking out of the wood catching the streetlights as it clattered away across the road. Sabotage. He looked up just in time to see the ambulance slip round the corner at the end of the road and disappear from sight.
‘Is she really suffering from a barbiturate overdose?’ Arkadian asked.
The driver shook his head. ‘Unlikely. She may have been dosed up with a barbiturate of some kind, but not to any dangerous level: she was responsive and her BP is fine. Was I convincing? I’m not used to dealing with them when they’re still breathing.’
The driver was Dr Bartholomew Reis, senior pathologist at the city coroner’s office. He had worked hundreds of cases with Arkadian and was the only person he trusted who could borrow an ambulance at short notice and make a convincing medic.
‘Where to now?’ Reis asked, switching off the siren and lights and easing the ambulance through the empty streets of Ruin.
‘Keep heading east and out of the city,’ Arkadian replied, watching the hospital loom up ahead then slip past and disappear behind them. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re near.’
82
Vatican City
Clementi was dragged from a troubled dream by the harsh sound of a phone ringing. He checked the clock by his bed. The numerals showed that it was a little after four in the morning; the worst of all times to receive a call. He reached for the phone in the dark and snatched it up to silence the ring.
‘Hello?’
‘How quickly can you log on to your secure server?’ It was Pentangeli, the American member of the Group.
