Bestselling Conspiracy Thriller Trilogy: Sanctus, The Key, The Tower - Simon Toyne

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he said. ‘You looking good, man.’

      JJ shook his head ruefully. ‘Nah, I need t’lay off a little. Maybe grow a beard, git you to introduce me to your tailor.’ He hit pause on his controller and held it out to the kid by Rodriguez’s shoulder. ‘You take over,’ he said. ‘Shoot me some white folks.’

      He levered himself out of the soft leather sofa and stood in front of Rodriguez. ‘Man,’ he said, looking up at him. ‘You get taller?’

      Rodriguez shook his head. ‘I always been this big. You just ain’t seen me in a while.’

      They embraced, bumping shoulders and slapping each other on the back like it was old times, then stood back and regarded each other awkwardly, because it wasn’t.

      ‘You got something for me?’ Rodriguez said.

      JJ dipped into the fish tank and pulled a dripping plastic bag from behind a tower of coral. ‘Some exotic tastes you got, my friend.’

      Rodriguez took it and examined the contents: a Glock 34, a spare clip, an Evolution-9 silencer and a small plastic lunch box containing a pistol with a fat barrel and twelve stubby, shotgun-style cartridges.

      ‘What you need that for?’ JJ asked. ‘Scared of the dark?’

      Rodriguez snapped the lid down tight and slipped his bag from his shoulder. ‘I ain’t afraid of nothing,’ he said, and tossed across a thick wad of cash.

      He watched JJ count the money, his jittery fingers rubbing his nose every few bills like he had an itch that wouldn’t quit. His momma used to do that. Rubbed it until it was raw. He glanced over at the other two, blazing away at each other with fake guns while real ones lay on the table. JJ definitely wouldn’t last another two years, not unless he saw the light that led to salvation. He’d be lucky if he made it to Christmas.

      87

      Dr Miriam Anata was standing by a drinks machine in the hallway of a local news station when the tinny strains of ‘Ode to Joy’ sounded inside her jacket – charcoal grey today, but still a pinstripe; she liked to think of it as her trademark.

      She was supposed to have turned off her phone, but too many people were ringing her for interviews and she was damned if she’d give them the excuse to call someone else. She reached in to answer it, but accidentally disconnected the call in the process. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

      Turning her attention back to the drinks machine, she fed in enough coins to bail out a bottle of iced tea and send it thumping down into the tray. She popped the lid and drank thirstily. She’d been under hot studio lights almost constantly since the monk had fallen to his death the previous day. Not that she minded. It was a heaven-sent opportunity to boost her book sales. The key, she’d learned early on, was to frame all her answers in reference to one of her titles. That way the producer couldn’t edit them out.

      ‘Ode to Joy’ piped up again and she pounced on the answer button before it had finished the opening bar.

      ‘Hi, Dr Anata?’ The voice belonged to a woman. American, she thought, or possibly Canadian – she could never really tell the difference; either way it was a big market for books.

      ‘This is she.’

      ‘Great,’ the woman continued. ‘Listen, I know you’re busy, but I could really use your help right now on some background information.’

      ‘Is this an interview request?’

      ‘Erm … I suppose it is, yes.’

      ‘And what channel did you say you were with?’

      The line went silent for a moment.

      ‘Dr Anata, I’m not calling from a news channel … I’m part of the story,’ Liv said, before she had a chance to cut her off. ‘I’m … I’m the monk’s sister.’

      Miriam paused, not sure if she’d heard right – not sure if she believed her.

      ‘I’ve seen his body,’ Liv continued, ‘or photos at least. He disappeared before I got to see him in person. There were some markings on him, some kind of ritual scars. I wonder if you could take a look at them and give me your expert opinion on what you think they might mean.’

      Miriam felt light-headed at the mention of scars. ‘You have these photos?’ she whispered.

      ‘No,’ Liv said. ‘But I can show you what they look like. And there’s some other stuff as well. Stuff that might have something to do with the Sacrament.’

      Miriam leaned heavily against the vending machine. ‘What stuff?’ she asked.

      ‘It’s probably easier if I show you.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘When are you free?’

      ‘I’m free right now. I’m in a TV studio, close to the city centre. Where are you?’

      Liv paused, cautious of revealing her location to anyone. A cop friend had once told her the best place to hide was in a crowd. She needed somewhere public and busy and close by. She looked at the newspaper with the picture of Samuel standing on top of the most visited ancient attraction in the world. ‘I’ll meet you at the Citadel,’ she said.

      88

      Kutlar could still smell the garlic and sweat coming off the empty seat beside him. He blinked as the van emerged from the tunnel. A silhouetted figure walked down the alley between the car parks towards them.

      Kutlar opened the notebook. He stared intently at the hourglass icon, watching the tiny black pixels tumbling inside it, virtual sand showing him how quickly his own time was running out.

      Johann reached the van and swapped places with Cornelius as the street map on the screen reconfigured itself. An arrow pointed to the location of Liv’s phone. The hourglass reappeared momentarily then the map widened to show a second arrow, above and to the left of the first – their own position, traced through Cornelius’s signal.

      They were close.

      Cornelius watched the arrow at the centre of the screen jump a little further up the street. ‘She’s moving.’

      Johann turned towards the ring-road.

      The next time the screen refreshed itself the second arrow was moving too, circling the first one now, like a buzzard homing in on its prey.

      Brother Samuel’s body had been stripped to the waist and arranged with his arms outstretched, echoing the shape that loomed from the altar at the far end of the chapel of the Sacrament. The Abbot cast his eyes across the ruined flesh, glowing bright and waxy against the stone floor, pierced repeatedly by broken bones, held together by rough sutures where the coroner had sliced it apart.

       Could these remnants of a man really rise up and fulfil the prophecy?

      The Abbot noticed the thin tendril of a blood vine curl around the altar. He followed it into the darkness until he found its root twisting up from one of the wet channels cut into the floor. He wrapped it around his hand and tugged hard until it tore free then stepped over to one of the large hemp-and-tallow torches and held the sinewy plant over the flame. It hissed in the heat, shrivelling away to nothing but blackened fibre and a smear of red sap on the Abbot’s hand.

      The torch flame guttered as the door opened behind him. The Abbot turned, rubbing his hand against the rough wool of his cassock where the sap was starting to irritate his skin. Brother Septus, one of the monks who had helped bring Samuel up the mountain, hovered on the threshold.

      ‘We are ready for you, Brother Abbot,’ he said.

      The Abbot nodded and followed him to another room in the upper chambers of the Citadel, one that had lain mostly silent since the time of the Great Inquisitions.

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