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

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reached for her keys or answered her phone, something whispered in her mind and she took an early lunch and the train from Jersey to the heart of the big anonymous city, where no one knew her and the memories suited the circumstances, and where, if she lost it completely, nobody would bat an eyelid.

      She walked now from the bridge, heading to the shoreline, her hand dipping into her bag and fishing out a slightly crushed pack of Lucky Strikes. Cupping her hand against the steady wind to light a cigarette, she stood for a moment on the edge of the rippling lake, breathing in the smoke and listening to the bump of the boats and the distant hiss of the city. Then she slid her finger under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open.

      Inside was a letter and a folded document. The layout and language was all too familiar, but the words they contained were terribly different. Her eyes scanned across them, seeing them in clusters rather than whole sentences:

       … eight year absence …

       … no new evidence …

       … officially deceased …

      She unfolded the document, read his name, and felt something give way inside her. The clenched emotions of the past years flexed and burst. She sobbed uncontrollably, tears born not only of the strangely welcome rush of grief, but also of the absolute loneliness she now felt in its shadow.

      She remembered the last day she’d spent with him. Touring the city like a couple of rubes, they’d even hired one of the boats that now floated, cold and empty, nearby. She tried summoning the memory of it but could only manage fragments: the movement of his long, sinewy body uncoiling as he pulled the oars through the water; his shirt sleeves bunched up to his elbows, revealing white-blonde hairs on lightly tanned arms; the colour of his eyes and the way the skin around them crinkled when he smiled. His face remained vague. Once it had always been there, conjured simply by uttering the spell of his name; now, more often than not, an impostor would appear, similar to the boy she had once known but never quite the same.

      She struggled to bring him into focus, gripping the slippery substance of his memory until a true image finally snapped into place; him as a boy, struggling with oversized oars on the lake near Granny Hansen’s house in upstate New York. She’d cast them adrift, hollering after them, ‘Your ancestors were Vikings. Only when you conquer the water will I let you come back …’

      They were on the lake all afternoon, taking it in turns to row and steer until the wooden boat felt like a part of them. She’d laid out a victory picnic for them in the sun-baked grass, called them Ask and Embla after the first people carved by Norse gods from fallen trees found on a different shore, then thrilled them with more stories from their ancestral homeland, tales of rampaging ice giants, and swooping Valkyries, and Viking burials in flaming longships. Later, in the dark of the loft where they waited for sleep, he had whispered that when he died in some future heroic battle he wanted to go the same way, his spirit mingling with the smoke of a burning ship and drifting all the way up to Valhalla.

      She looked down at the certificate again, spelling out his name and the verdict of his official demise: a death not by spear or sword or selfless act of incredible valour, but simply by a period of absence, clerically measured and deemed substantial enough. She folded the stiff paper with practised creases, also remembered from childhood, squatted by the edge of the lake and placed the makeshift boat on its surface. She cupped her hand round the pointed sail and fired up her lighter. As the dry paper began to blacken and burn, she pushed it gently out towards the centre of the empty lake. The flames fluttered for a moment, searching for something to catch hold of, then sputtered out in the cold breeze. She watched it drift until the lapping of the gun-metal water eventually capsized it.

      She smoked another cigarette, waiting for it to sink, but it just lay flat against the reflected image of the city, like a spirit caught in limbo.

       Not much of a Viking send-off …

      She turned and walked away, heading to the train that would take her back to Jersey.

      8

      ‘Just take a moment to listen, ladies and gentlemen,’ the tour guide implored his glassy-eyed charges as they stared up at the Citadel. ‘Listen to the babble of languages around you: Italian, French, German, Spanish, Dutch, different tongues all telling the history of this, the oldest continually inhabited structure in the world. And that same jumble of languages, ladies and gentlemen, brings to mind the famous Bible story of the Tower of Babel from the book of Genesis, built not for the worship of God, but for the glory of man, so God became angry and “confounded their language”, causing them to scatter throughout the nations of the earth, leaving the tower unfinished. Many scholars believe this story refers to the Citadel here at Ruin. Note also that the story is about a structure that was not built in praise of God. If you look up at the Citadel, ladies and gentlemen,’ he swept his arm dramatically upward at the massive structure filling everybody’s vision, ‘you will notice that there are no outward signs of religious purpose. No crosses, no depictions of angels, no iconography of any kind. However, appearances can be deceptive and, despite this lack of religious adornment, the Citadel of Ruin is undoubtedly a house of God. The very first bible was written inside its mysterious walls and has served as the spiritual foundation stone upon which the Christian faith was built.

      ‘Indeed, the Citadel was the original centre of the Christian church. The shift to the Vatican in Rome happening in AD 26 to give the rapidly expanding church a public focus. How many of you here have been to Vatican City?’

      A smattering of reluctant hands rose up.

      ‘A few of you. And no doubt you would have spent your time there marvelling at the Sistine Chapel and exploring St Peter’s Basilica, or the papal tombs, or maybe even attending an audience with the Pope. Sadly, even though the Citadel here is reputed to contain wonders the equal of them all, you will not be able to see any of them, for the only people allowed inside this most secretive and sacred of places are the monks and priests who live here. So strict is this rule that even the great battlements you see carved into the solid stone sides of the mountain were not constructed by stonemasons or builders, but by the inhabitants of the holy mountain. It is a practice that has not only resulted in the uniquely dilapidated appearance of the place, but has given the city its name.

      ‘Yet despite its appearance, it is no Ruin. It is the oldest stronghold in the world and the only one that has never been breached, though the most infamous and determined invaders in history have tried. And why did they try? Because of the legendary relic the mountain supposedly contains: the holy secret of Ruin – the Sacrament.’ He let the word hang in the chill air for a second, like a ghost he had just conjured. ‘The world’s oldest and its greatest mystery,’ he continued, his voice now a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Some believe it to be the true cross of Christ. Some that it is the Holy Grail from which Christ drank and which can heal all wounds and bestow eternal life. Many believe the body of Christ Himself lies in state, miraculously preserved, somewhere within the carved depths of this silent mountain. There are also those who think it just legend, a story with no substance. The simple truth is, ladies and gentlemen, no one really knows. And, as secrecy is the very cornerstone upon which the Citadel’s legend has been built, I very much doubt that anyone ever will.

      ‘Now, if anyone has any questions,’ he said, his brisk change of tone communicating his sincere wish that nobody did, ‘then ask away.’

      His small, darting eyes pecked the blank faces of the crowd staring up at the huge building, trying to think of something to ask. Normally nobody could, which meant they would then have a full twenty minutes to wander around, buy some souvenirs and take bad photos before rendezvousing back at the coach to head off somewhere else. The guide had just drawn breath to inform them of this fact when a hand shot up and pointed skywards.

      ‘What’s that thing?’ a red-faced man in his fifties asked in a blunt northern British accent. ‘That thing as looks like a cross?’

      ‘Well, as I’ve already mentioned, the Citadel has no crosses anywhere on its –’

      He

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