Alex Scarrow - The Doomsday Code

The sound of voices outside the barn caught Cabot’s attention. ‘My brothers are unhappy at yer arrival.’ He shot a quick look at Becks. ‘And the presence of a woman . This will unsettle them.’ He got up. ‘I will be back. I trust yer intentions are friendly? Yes?’

‘We mean no harm,’ Bob rumbled.

‘We’re friends,’ said Liam. That seemed to reassure Cabot. They watched him weave his way through the darkness towards the slatted light of the barn door.

He turned to the others. ‘Did he just say “grail”?’

‘Affirmative,’ said Bob.

Becks cocked her head for a moment, consulting her database. ‘Information: there are many historical cross-references linking the Knights Templar to an object referred to as the Holy Grail.’

‘Holy Grail? What’s that?’

‘There are many references to the Holy Grail being the cup Jesus Christ drank from at the “Last Supper”. Supposedly having magical properties.’ She looked at him. ‘This is of course entirely illogical. It is more likely to refer to some religious text.’

‘We also have detailed files,’ added Bob, ‘that describe the Templars as being a military religious order set up to protect Christian pilgrims entering the Holy Lands from Muslim raiders. But also many uncited records that claim the real reason for the establishment of the Templars was specifically to seek and safeguard the Holy Grail.’

Liam cocked an eyebrow. ‘Hold on … so, does that mean this Grail and Pandora are one and the same thing?’

Both of them nodded. ‘That is a possibility,’ added Becks.

Liam’s eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose we’ve missed our one-hour return window?’

‘Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds to go.’

‘All right, no point running back across that field like mad things. We can catch the one tomorrow. Presuming Mr Cabot will put us up here for tonight, we can talk to him some more about this Holy Grail thing.’

2001, New York

The three of them stared in silence at the wavering image in the middle of the floor.

‘Is that … is that sky I’m seeing there?’ said Adam, squinting at the shimmering mirage. It looked like the flickering reflection one might see staring down a dark well: a dancing, glinting, shifting reflection that hinted more than showed things.

‘Yes,’ said Maddy. ‘And that looks like a field or something.’

‘Good God!’ he whispered. ‘So I’m seeing a field and — and … the actual sky! From nine hundred years ago!’

‘But no Liam and support units,’ said Sal.

‘OK,’ Maddy said, stepping back to the desk and hitting a button. ‘It’s been open long enough. They must have decided to overnight it there.’

The portal puffed out of existence.

‘I hate it when this happens,’ said Maddy. ‘I wish they could just drop us a line and let us know what they’re up to.’ She tapped the desk mic to wake up the version of Bob’s AI installed on the computer system. ‘Bob?’

› Yes, Maddy.

‘Begin recharge for the twenty-four-hour window.’

› Affirmative.

Adam joined her. ‘But you said there is a way for them to communicate? What did you call it again?’

‘A drop-point document.’

‘That’s it. So why don’t we tell them to use the Voynich? You know … if they manage to find it?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t.’ She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘You’ve cracked it, someone else might . And, anyway, if another team are using it and we start overwriting their messages with ours, who knows what chaos that’ll cause.’

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘What about gravestones?’

Both Sal and Maddy looked at him. ‘Uh?’

‘Well … not exactly a gravestone as such, but it’s in the graveyard at the back of Kirklees Priory.’

‘What is?’ asked Sal.

‘Inscribed masonry. There are dozens that date back to the building of the priory. You can find them if you dig around a bit.’

‘What, you’re saying I send us over to England and we snuffle around some cemetery — ’

‘No need,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been there. I went there years ago, after all that Voynich publicity died down. I wanted to know what was so important about Kirklees. So I went and checked it out for myself. There’s not much to see there, of course. The old priory building, and a gated orchard, which is all bloody brambles and stinging nettles. But I did uncover several slabs of masonry, some of them inscribed with Latin. They’re grave markers, knocked over or fallen but, you know, still intact — and you can still read the lettering. I photographed some of them.’

Maddy laughed. ‘And what? You’re suggesting they carve mission updates for us?’

He shrugged. ‘That would work, wouldn’t it? If carving a message in a stone causes one of your time waves, then surely the slight change in history would change the content of the photos I took?’ He looked from Maddy to Sal and back to Maddy again. ‘Or am I getting this all wrong?’

Maddy stared at him silently for a moment before finally snapping her fingers. ‘Yes … yes, I guess that could work!’ She glanced quickly at Sal. ‘If … we need it. But you know what? I really don’t plan to lose Liam in history again. Not this time.’ She looked at a display window showing the displacement machine’s charge progress bar.

‘Thirty minutes and we’ll open the portal again. I’m sure they’ll be right there waiting for us.’

1194, Kirklees Priory, Yorkshire

Liam heard the scraping of footsteps and the horses beyond, in the barn, stir before he heard the light tap on their wooden door.

‘Yes?’

‘I have food for ye.’ It was Sebastien Cabot.

‘Ah!’ Liam’s stomach had been grumbling for the last hour. The short winter day had passed without an opportunity to speak with Cabot in private again, and Liam was beginning to wonder whether his decision to overnight in 1194 was going to give them an opportunity to learn any more.

He hopped up eagerly and opened the door leading into their guest quarters.

The young monk he’d seen standing in the priory’s doorway earlier today brought in a couple of wooden bowls and a loaf of bread. Behind him Cabot entered with another bowl and a flagon of something that sloshed around as he placed it on the dirt floor.

‘A hot broth for a cold day,’ he said, ‘and a little mead to warm yer toes.’

Cabot dismissed the boy and then sat down on one of the wooden cots. By candlelight he looked older than he had this morning. The folds on his face, both wrinkles and the long twisting scar, told of a long life, and not much of it lived here in such a lonely and forlorn place.

‘My brothers seemed to have spent more time today gossiping like old women than in contemplation and prayer.’

Liam picked up one of the bowls and hungrily dipped a torn hunk of bread into the thick broth. ‘So, Mr Cabot, you said earlier that you fought alongside King Richard?’

He nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘In a real battle?’

‘Many battles, lad.’

‘But you’re a Cistercian monk, so you are. I didn’t think your kind got involved in wars and fighting.’

Cabot looked up at him. ‘I’ve not always been of this order, lad. Before, two winters gone now, I was one of the Order of Templars.’

‘You were a Templar Knight?’ asked Becks.

‘Not a knight,’ he replied. ‘I am not noble-born. But a sergeant.’

‘Sergeant?’ said Liam, tugging another hunk of crusty bread from the loaf.

‘Information,’ said Bob, ‘sergeant: lower-born professional soldier also serving in auxiliary roles within the order, i.e. maintenance of equipment and property.’