Simon Toyne - The Key

‘So you would agree that the containment worked.’ Athanasius nodded. ‘And you would naturally advocate a similar procedure to help contain the potential spread of the human manifestation of this disease?’

Despite the fevered heat of the room, Athanasius felt a chill as he realized why he had been summoned here. ‘You think I should be quarantined?’

‘Not just you. The only people who have contracted this sickness so far have been those who spent time in the infected parts of the garden and dealt directly with the diseased material. And you were there, as were the other heads of the guilds. You all stood in the garden, inspecting the rotten material, possibly even handling it, while you decided what to do about the blight.’

Athanasius thought back to the two silent guards who had greeted him outside. He had initially thought they had been posted there to keep people out. Now he realized the truth. They were there to keep them in. ‘But if I had been infected, surely I would be displaying symptoms by now?’

‘Not necessarily. Your exposure was limited, so it could be working more slowly within you. These men all had extended and uncontained exposure; and quantity is a key factor in cases of acute mycosis. If there were any other way to do this I would suggest it, but we cannot risk this thing spreading further. All those who may have been contaminated must remain segregated for at least four days and under strict observation. Provided no symptoms present themselves within that time, we can safely assume that the infection has been contained. Otherwise…’ He let the thought hang. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I myself, together with my staff, will remain here too for the duration of the quarantine period.’

Athanasius saw the logic of this, but it presented a problem. The quarantine would mean a four-day delay before he could check through the records on Gabriel’s behalf — always assuming he didn’t end up strapped to a bed or worse. This thought raised another question and, though he feared the answer, he had to ask: ‘How is Brother Gardener?’

‘I’m afraid Brother Gardener died shortly after you last saw him. He suffered massive organ failure caused by his chronic infection. The pustules you see on the skin are also present internally. Violent physical activity bursts them and floods the body with toxins. When the levels get too high, the organs simply shut down.’

Athanasius looked again at the writhing bodies strapped to the beds and imagined the boils running right through their flesh, the same boils that might now be forming in his own body.

‘And where are we to be kept? There is no room here and proximity to those already infected would surely negate the point of a quarantine.’

‘The guards are making arrangements. Myself and the staff will occupy the remaining isolation caves. I’m sure they will come up with something appropriate.’

Athanasius’s mind raced ahead, seeing an opportunity in his imminent isolation. ‘Might I make a suggestion? The library is close by and accessible without the need for passing through the more populated areas of the 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.’

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.