Simon Toyne - The Key

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.’

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.

‘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.’

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.