‘Ten minutes,’ Clementi said, instantly awake. ‘I need to get into the office.’
‘Do it faster. I’ve just sent you something you really need to see.’
The phone went dead.
Clementi could hear the phone ringing in his office when the elevator opened on to the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace eight minutes later.
He stumbled down the hall, keenly aware that the Holy Father was currently sleeping in the room next door. His own apartment was in a different building, on the other side of the Sistine Chapel. He had run the whole way, or as close to running as his bloated body would allow. Fumbling his key in the lock, he fell into the dark room, knocking a pile of newspapers to the floor as he grabbed the phone to silence it.
‘I’m here,’ he said, his words more breath than substance.
‘Are you looking at your email?’
Clementi collapsed in his chair. ‘I’m just… accessing it.’ He fought for breath, his heart hammering in his chest, fingers shaking as they pecked away at the keyboard. There were two messages in his secure email account, one with the location ID of the compound in Iraq and one with no subject line or sender. He guessed this would be from Pentangeli. He opened it and a pop-up window automatically started playing a video clip.
At first it was too dark and shaky to make out; then the picture settled and a bright light came on, surprising a huge blond man dressed in black pushing a large box. Clementi felt the ground fall away from beneath him as he realized what he was watching.
‘What you’re looking at is raw, unedited news footage, flagged up by one of my senior news producers. They were going to run it as an exclusive on the next news cycle, but I made them spike it. All the media has now been destroyed. The only evidence that this ever happened is the file you’re now looking at.’
The footage steadied again and showed the lid being removed. The camera framed up the sleeping form of the girl curled inside then panned away and tilted up showing the Citadel behind it. It was as damning as it could possibly be.
‘Shortly after this footage was taken the girl was taken away under police escort to Ruin City Hospital — only she never got there. She’s disappeared. Again. I know you said you were “handling” this,’ Clementi couldn’t miss the mocking quote marks around the word, ‘so could you mind telling me where she is now?’
Clementi thought about lying, making up some story about how she was under surveillance and would be silenced within the hour, but he had made so many of those promises in the last few days that he couldn’t bring himself to say it. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
There was a long exhale on the line before Pentangeli spoke again. ‘I don’t know why you’re having such difficulty sorting this mess out. Don’t forget, if this whole thing goes belly up, you’re the one who’ll suffer most. Beyond lending you money, we have no evident connection to this whole business. And one way or another we will get our money back, whether it’s in cash or commodities. Hell, the site of St Patrick’s in downtown Manhattan has got to be worth a quarter of a billion in real estate terms. So if I were you, I would throw everything you have at finding these people, before they stumble on to something that could really do some damage. Between us, we own most of the news and TV stations in the world, but we don’t own them all. Don’t count on the story being spiked if you screw up again. It’s time you got your house in order, Cardinal. Let me know when it’s done.’
83
Liv was aware of sounds and movement breaking through the soft cocoon of her drugged sleep. They were different from before, no longer the drone of a jet engine but something quieter. She could hear the crunch of tyres and feel the gentle movement of a vehicle travelling slowly over an uneven surface. The crunching slowed then stopped. She heard a door open and felt the springs rock as someone got in with her. It was still dark outside, she could sense it even though her eyes remained shut. She could smell the night creeping in through the open door and hear night noises woven into it: the dry rasp of crickets; the click of cooling earth.
Whoever had got in was standing close now, looking down at her. She imagined the huge blond man preparing another shot to keep her locked inside her own body. She thought of springing up and running into the night, but knew her body was too limp to obey. She braced herself for the bite of the needle. Then he spoke.
‘Liv?’
Her eyes struggled open and she tried to focus. The figure looming over her was backlit by the bright interior light, but she knew who it was.
Gabriel smiled as her eyes rolled open and, in her mind, she smiled back and reached up to touch his face, but in reality her arm remained flat against the mattress and her face remained a mask. Whatever chemical prison she was in, she wasn’t free of it yet. And even as she savoured this moment, memories of the nightmare returned. The last time she had woken from a dream and discovered him there he had been consumed with flame. His image began to liquefy as tears welled up in her eyes but she blinked them away and kept her eyes open. She wanted to look at him for as long as possible, even if he was an illusion.
He reached down and wiped away a tear with his thumb, then leaned over to kiss her. Only when she felt his lips touch hers and the warmth of his breath on her skin did she know that it was real. He was there.
Keep yourself safe, he had told her the last time she had seen him, until I find you.
And, though she had dramatically failed to keep her half of that bargain, he had somehow kept his.
‘You’re safe,’ he whispered, and the words felt like a spell that unlocked her from some dark enchantment. ‘Try to sleep now. We’ll talk more when you’ve rested.’
Then he took her hand and held it, staying by her side until her eyes closed again and she slipped back into the security of sleep.
84
Vatican City
Clementi swallowed drily, his eyes fixed on the darkness of his office, staring at nothing. He had promised to call Pentangeli back once he’d checked in with his field operatives and found out what was happening. The latest report lay open on his desk, filed from the airport in New Jersey. He had dialled the contact number on the cover sheet, but no one was answering. There was a bump next door and the scrape of a chair across the floor. His Holiness was awake, undoubtedly roused by the sound of the phone ringing.
Clementi put the phone down and flicked on the desk lamp, revealing the spill of newspapers across the office floor where he’d knocked them over in his hurry on the way in. He dropped to his knees and started tidying them up in case the Pope decided to pay an unscheduled visit. If asked, he would say it was something to do with the global financial market; His Holiness always glazed over when he started talking about money — therein lay a large part of the Church’s problems.
As he placed the last newspaper back on his desk his eyes snagged on the front page. It showed two photographs, one of Liv Adamsen and one of Gabriel Mann. Above them was the banner headline: MISSING PRESUMED MURDERED?
An overwhelming wave of pure hatred consumed him. How could these people, these nobodies, be causing him such trouble?
He looked back up at the computer monitor to check the time and spotted the unopened email from earlier. It had been sent by Dr Harzan, the operations manager at the desert compound. He had skipped over it because of the ringing phone and the pressing urgency of the other email in the inbox. He opened it now and read its short but wonderful contents. It was miraculous, like a ray of sun shining through storm clouds, or the answer to a long-held prayer. We found it — and it’s far, far bigger than any of us dared hope.
Clementi read and reread the note, all the stress of the last weeks — years even — melting away in the warm glow of those few simple words.
They had found it, buried in the desert of northern Iraq, hidden throughout history, only to be found again by him, for the greater glory of God.
