The Key (19 page)

As time moved on, however, and other ancient civilizations grew and prospered, they too wished to preserve knowledge as well as study and copy the works that had already been preserved. But the Citadel, ever known for its secrecy and silence, denied all access.

In response, the great emerging civilizations built their own libraries, starting with the Library of Ashurbanipal and progressing through the Royal Library at Alexandria, and the Library of Pergamum (see separate chapters). For a time these libraries grew and prospered, but as the civilizations that supported them crumbled and fell, so the libraries were either destroyed, looted by invading armies, or – in an ironic twist of fate – their contents acquired and transported back to the one library that still remained intact: the great library of Ruin.

Liv turned the page and discovered an eighteenth-century engraving depicting the Citadel’s great library. It showed dark caves and tunnels lined with books and tablets stretching away while monks holding candles wove between stalagmites to study the things no one else was allowed to. Beneath the engraving was a quote from a Dr Parnesius, an eighteenth-century Oxford historian, quipping that ‘while all roads lead to Rome, all books are read in Ruin’.

In modern times, as museums have become richer and the competition to house rare items has grown, the Guggenheims and Gettys have set up their own archaeological archive departments. As a result a competitive black market in ancient texts has flourished, enabling such treasures as the Dead Sea Scrolls to come to light and remain in it rather than be locked away in the mountain fortress of Ruin. And while these discoveries have helped broaden our understanding of our prehistoric past, the oldest languages, such as proto-cuneiform, and the knowledge they contain remain unsolved. The only hope of decoding them would be the discovery of a key.

Liv stared at this last word. Coincidence or omen? Ordinarily, she wasn’t a strong believer in either, but nothing about her current circumstances could be described as ‘ordinary’. She put it to the back of her mind and did what she always did – she followed the evidence.

Turning again to the index, she scanned the ‘K’ section. There were several page references for ‘Key’. She turned to the main one.

The most famous ‘Key’ in the history of ancient languages is the Rosetta Stone. Prior to its discovery in 1799 by Napoleon’s Commission des Sciences et des Arts our understanding of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics had faded from knowledge. Originally displayed within a temple, the stone was inscribed with a decree clearly intended to be read by all who passed. Carved in around 196 BC at a time when language was starting to proliferate, the decree was written in the three most commonly used languages of the time: Ancient Greek, Demotic script and Egyptian hieroglyphs. By comparing the known Greek it was therefore possible to work out the meaning of the other two ‘lost’ languages.

The discovery of these ‘key’ stones – carved on the cusp of changing world history – are now considered to be the holy grail of archaeological orthography. The most sought after being the so called Star-stone, or Imago Astrum, mentioned in the dynastic history of Ancient Babylon as being the key to understanding all ancient knowledge and whose loss to the world is believed to be referenced in the story of the Tower of Babel. As the stone was lost, so was our ability to understand the earliest of languages. Many believe the Imago Astrum found its way into the vast collection of the Institute of Ancient Writings in Ruin. Some even believe it may refer to the legendary Sacrament itself.

There was a picture reference at the foot of the page. Liv turned to it and found herself staring at the same broken tablet that contained the symbols she had scrawled on her hand. She looked at them again, their hidden meaning taking on a darker hue after what she had just learned. She felt a sudden urge to remove the marks from her skin, as though this might cleanse her of whatever madness was infecting her.

Unclipping her seat belt, Liv placed the book on her seat then walked quickly towards the bathroom at the front of the plane, scratching her hand as she went, as if the symbols were somehow infected.

Dick squeezed his legs up and out of the vice-like grip of the armrests. His body creaked as it uncurled itself from the tortured prison of the cheap seat and he stood slowly, feeling the pop and crack of joints stretching back to their natural shape. As he reached his full height, his hair brushed against the ceiling. Up ahead the girl reached the top of the aisle and disappeared through the door into the tiny bathroom. He was already moving forward before the ‘Engaged’ light came on.

He had spent his time in the flight musing about two things. The first was what sort of book the girl was reading, the second was trying to figure out if there was a way of killing her on the plane without getting caught.

The message he had received at the airport had told him that the girl represented a
clear and present danger
and needed to be terminated with
extreme prejudice
. Dick loved all this military jargon: the operatic quality of the words and lack of equivocation in them. But ironically it meant that, in order to execute his task as quickly and as efficiently as possible, he would have to wait. So in the meantime he would satisfy himself with answering the first question that had been running through his mind.

He reached her empty seat and glanced down at the book. It was open at a page of photographs. She had underlined something on one and written in the margin. His eyes lingered on the curve of her handwriting. It was elegant and compact, just like her. He pulled his phone from his pocket, checking that the other passengers in the row were asleep then took a photo of the page. He also memorized the title of the book and was pleasantly surprised when he saw what it was. He stretched again for the benefit of anyone watching, then returned to his seat, arching his back to give the impression he was merely stretching his legs. Maybe when the time came he would take her somewhere quiet, so they could talk a while first. Somewhere –
i-so-la-ted
.

It was rare to find a pretty girl who liked language as much as he did.

Arkadian set off on foot for Davlat Hastenesi Hospital with fragments of his conversation with Gabriel repeating in his head:

He had heard about the deaths at the hospital via a wind-up radio tuned to the news and recalled the look on Kathryn’s face after he dropped off the book, only a few hours ago. She had blamed him for Gabriel’s arrest, he had seen it in her eyes and heard it in her silence. He thought she would soften once her son was released. But she didn’t trust the system to protect him. And she had been right. Which was why he was walking through streets filled with dust and dazed people like a penitent sinner. He wanted to be there at the hospital – he
needed
to be there. The only way to make sure no evidence was overlooked or contaminated or accidentally lost was to be part of the investigation.

By the time he arrived police barriers had been set up, blocking off a section of the street running alongside the hospital. A solitary policeman was on guard, trying to keep back the surprisingly large crowd of reporters and television crews who had already gathered. Clearly not even an earthquake was enough to dislodge their interest in the story that had dominated the news for the past few weeks. Hooking his ID card into his jacket pocket, Arkadian nodded a greeting to the cop, who recognized him and stepped aside to let him pass.

In the middle of the cordoned-off area a large square tent had been erected on the pavement. It glowed brightly from within, the lights powered by a small generator. One of the side flaps peeled aside as Arkadian approached and a paper-suited crime scene technician emerged. It was Bulut Gül, a senior member of the forensics team and also one of the guys Arkadian genuinely trusted within the department.

‘Thought you were on leave,’ Bulut said, nodding at the sling.

‘So did I. I thought you might need a helping hand here – and I still have one that works.’ He nodded at the tent. ‘Who’s in there?’

‘According to the guard rota, he’s called Nesim Senturk.’ Bulut stepped over and opened the flap wide enough for him to see inside. ‘He’s one of the emergency draft. His service ID is missing, so we’re not sure yet which district he came from. All the databases at the station have been knocked offline or otherwise fried by the quake. They’re working on getting them back up again, but it’s not exactly top priority; everyone with a pulse is out on the streets cleaning up the mess.’

Arkadian tilted his head to get a better look at the man’s face. It was the same guard who had signed him in earlier when he had come to visit Liv and Kathryn. Following the explosion at the Citadel the police presence in the streets of Ruin had been raised significantly to calm the public and reassure the hordes of tourists that they were safe. In order to do this they had pulled in officers from several neighbouring forces, filling the main station house with unfamiliar faces. The dead guard was one of these.

‘Where’s his gun?’

‘Haven’t found it yet.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Not sure. Don’t think he fell though. Petersen is upstairs checking it out. My guess is he was tied up here and then injected with something. Look there on the side of his neck – puncture wound. We’ll run a tox test when we get the bodies shipped over to the lab, but God knows when that’s going to happen. The city’s in chaos at the moment with all emergency services spoken for. There’s broken gas mains and all sorts. At least we’re nice and convenient for the hospital if we need to store them somewhere cold.’

‘Where are the other bodies?’

‘Two more on the fourth floor – both Citadel survivors, though I guess we shouldn’t be calling them that any more.’

Arkadian felt a coldness creep over him. ‘Same deal as here?’

‘One of them looks the same, the other one’s – a bit more messy.’

‘Which one’s which?’

Bulut looked up. ‘You knew the woman, didn’t you? I saw your name on the sign-in sheet. If it’s any consolation, she wasn’t the messy one.’

‘Any suspects?’

‘Only one. Gabriel Mann.’

Arkadian looked up in surprise. ‘Gabriel! Why?’

‘He’s a fugitive.’

‘Doesn’t make him a murderer.’

‘No, but he’s connected to one of the victims, and we found his fingerprints in her room. A room that he is not supposed to have been in.’

Arkadian remembered how Gabriel had cut him off the moment he told him Liv’s flight details had been searched. He could imagine him, sprinting to the hospital to protect his mother – getting here too late.

‘How do you know they’re Gabriel’s prints if the databases are all down?’

‘Petersen recognized them. If he says they belong to Gabriel Mann, that’s good enough for me – for now, at least.’

Henrik Petersen was Ruin police force’s top prints guy. He displayed an artistry with his brushes and graphite powder few could match. He could lift a print off almost anything and had a photographic memory. Less than two weeks ago he had applied his skills in the city morgue after the body of Liv Adamsen’s brother had been stolen. He had found Gabriel’s prints then. So if he said he’d found another print that matched then there was no doubt about it – Gabriel had been here.

‘Mind if I go and have a look?’

‘Be my guest.’ Bulut turned back to the glowing tent. ‘Plenty to keep me busy right here.’

As he made his way to the car park entrance, Arkadian glanced over at the press pack straining behind the police barriers. A news camera pointed his way and he turned his head away until he’d entered the quiet of the underground car park.

At the bottom of the ramp he stopped and pulled his phone from his pocket. Still no service. He needed to contact Gabriel. There was something rotten at the heart of the police department, something that went so deep that assassins could apparently be spirited into police cells and hospital rooms. It made him sick to think of it. He wanted to warn Gabriel that he had a murder warrant hanging over him now, but he had no way of contacting him. He had to hope that Gabriel would call him when the phones came back on. Until then, he would do what he had come to do: make sure the crime scene was processed properly, ensure that nothing was missed. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and walked over to the stairs that would take him up to the fourth floor and his own personal act of remembrance to the woman he had failed.

Gabriel stumbled through the broken city, tears streaking the stone dust that had ghosted his face, still clutching the book his mother had given him.

He could already feel the pain of her loss inside him, gnawing away at the part already worn thin by the death of his father. When John Mann had been killed, Gabriel had been consumed with anger. It had raged inside him, burning first for the murderers and then for himself. He felt guilty because he hadn’t been there, fantasizing about how he could have made a difference if he had. It had caused deep cracks to appear in him and his pain and rage had bled into them and coloured the life that followed. The courses he had been studying seemed suddenly worthless, so he quit and joined the army, hoping to channel his anger and learn different skills. He wanted to equip himself with the practical tools that would enable him to bring the fight to those who had killed his father and armour himself so that, if danger ever came calling again, he could protect his family from it.

And danger
had
come.

And this time he had been right there.

But still he had been powerless to stop it.

All his combat training had proved unequal to the simple task of defending and protecting those he loved. Because his enemy was vast and intangible: it didn’t stand up in front of him and level a weapon, it was everywhere, embedded in the faith of millions and the fabric of the very city he was stumbling through. It
was
the city.