The Bloodline Cipher

by Stephen Cole

  ‘Horrible,’ Jonah muttered.

  The Scribe inclined his head. ‘I merely demonstrate that our will works in perfect harmony with our physical form, to effect change in others. Do you wish to question this youth?’

  ‘He’s a hireling. I doubt he can tell me much.’ Coldhardt stared hard at the Scribe. ‘However, perhaps you could tell me why you saw fit to “effect” a forced entry into my premises. I arranged with you a time to meet here –’

  ‘Come, Coldhardt.’ The Scribe sounded amused. ‘Our cult has not endured so long by accepting terms dictated to us. We wished to be certain we were not walking into a trap.’ He glanced at the two-way mirror on the wall as if he could see beyond it. ‘Mechanical defences are never adequate. And we have no wish to be spied upon as we discuss … business.’ Now he fixed Jonah and Maya with his yellowish glare. ‘So if you are satisfied that the children are unharmed, perhaps you can dismiss them?’

  ‘There are two of you, with control over a homicidal criminal – and only one of me.’ Coldhardt smiled without warmth. ‘Forgive me if I prefer that Jonah and Maya remain.’

  ‘If our enterprise is to succeed, we must trust each other fully. Without trust, we cannot give you the knowledge you seek, Coldhardt.’ The Scribe took a step towards him. ‘The knowledge of the Bloodline Cipher.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Coldhardt’s voice was quiet and sharp as flint. ‘You claim to have cracked the code.’

  The Scribe touched his amulet, then reached into his crimson robes and pulled out an ancient-looking volume, slim and bound in blackened hide. ‘This is the master copy of the Guan Yin manuscript.’ He came forward and offered it to Coldhardt. ‘A treasure that has been in our possession for centuries.’

  Coldhardt took the volume with the reverence of a priest and opened it with the casual expertise of a connoisseur. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmured, turning it in his hands. ‘But I would prefer Maya to study it, if you don’t mind. I understand she is something of an expert on this volume.’

  The Scribe bowed his head. Maya rose and almost snatched the book from Coldhardt’s fingers. She opened it, scrutinised the inside back and front, and then sat beside Jonah on the couch. It was definitely a different volume to the one they’d been studying; that much was obvious from the condition of the pages, which seemed a slightly different shape and stained near black in places. The size of the characters seemed to vary more too.

  ‘How was the cipher encrypted? Jonah demanded.

  ‘Only the truth of the text matters.’ The Scribe reached out his hand for the book with long, yellowed fingernails like talons, and snatched it back. ‘Naturally, it speaks of the cipher of the blood – the complex chemistry passed on from son to son. The strength, the sinew, the will of all our ancestors lies encoded there.’

  ‘Is that a fact,’ Maya muttered.

  Coldhardt spared her the briefest glance. ‘Are you talking metaphorically or physically, Scribe?’

  ‘Around eighty per cent of the human genome – the genetic information we each inherit from our ancestors – is thought of as junk DNA, a relic of evolution serving no purpose.’ The Scribe smiled. ‘With the cipher, we can unlock that purpose.’

  Jonah snorted. ‘Fourteenth-century genetics?’

  ‘Science merely discovered late that which the old arts have always held – that the life is in the blood.’ The Scribe’s eyes seemed to shine darkly. ‘Through our knowledge and skills we can manipulate the many bindings of the human body to protect and prolong the spark of the mind and the will of the flesh. We can halt the spread of time’s corruption –’

  But suddenly Sorin jumped up from the floor like someone snapping awake from a nightmare. Before Jonah could even react he was up on his feet. He shoved the Scribe into the mirror with a yell of anger, made for the door –

  But the man-at-arms flashed out an arm and grabbed Sorin by the throat, stopping him mid-stride. The Scribe barked something in a language Jonah didn’t understand.

  Coldhardt rose from the chair, his voice ringing out, ‘No –’

  But already the man-at-arms had jabbed a finger against Sorin’s chest like a stiletto, then stabbed his thumb up behind Sorin’s right ear. Sorin’s eyes closed and his athletic body started twitching. Spittle frothed at his mouth. Jonah stared, sickened and appalled, as blood began to pump from Sorin’s ear, flooding down the side of his face and neck.

  ‘You’re killing him!’ Maya shouted.

  ‘It is done,’ the Scribe informed her.

  With a final graphic convulsion, Sorin’s body slumped lifeless to the ground as the man-at-arms released his grip.

  ‘None may attempt violence against our order,’ said the Scribe, his macabre grimace still in place. ‘Whether pre-meditated, or in fear and agitation.’

  Maya looked disgusted. ‘That was just grandstanding, pure and simple. There was no call to –’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Coldhardt. ‘Scribe, his death was unnecessary.’

  ‘Do not seek to judge us, Coldhardt.’ Jonah saw the sneer in the Scribe’s glinting eyes. ‘Not if you wish to benefit from our instruction.’

  A heavy silence settled over the bloody scene. Jonah put a hand on Maya’s shoulder, both to try and calm her and to steady himself. It was like reliving the nightmare of when Budd and Clyde were slaughtered in front of him, that sudden, callous brutality as lives were ended in a handful of bloody seconds. Guts and head still spinning, he glanced back at Coldhardt with no idea what to do.

  ‘Violence will always breed violence.’ The Scribe stepped carefully over Sorin’s corpse. ‘But our ministrations – both physical and spiritual – can offer you that which you most darkly crave, Coldhardt. A long, long life …’

  Maya opened her mouth as if to make some retort, but Jonah squeezed her shoulder. No, he mouthed, fearing the outcome of another interruption. Coldhardt had sat back down in his chair, looking suddenly much older. Jonah resumed his position on the couch, and Maya did too.

  ‘We are not workers of miracles, of course.’ The Scribe inclined his head humbly. ‘We are technicians of the blood. Guardians of great secrets that take time to impart – perhaps years …’

  Jonah stared at Coldhardt. A long, long life, he thought. Is that why you’ve got involved with these people?

  ‘My old … associate – Anton Heidel.’ Coldhardt shifted in his seat a little. ‘He is the living proof of your technique – that’s what you’d have me believe, isn’t it? That you healed him, restored him … nurtured him for nigh on thirty years?’

  The Scribe nodded. ‘His body was very close to death. As a result, the work went slowly.’

  And this is why you’re getting proof that Heidel is who he claims to be, Jonah thought, wishing he were with Tye and the others right now, far from here.

  ‘Coldhardt, are – are you saying you might be away for years?’ In the quiet of the apartment, Jonah’s voice came out more fragile than he would’ve liked. ‘What happens to the rest of us?’

  Coldhardt made no response.

  Suddenly Maya pointed at Sorin’s body. ‘Did you know that Heidel employed him, Scribe?’

  ‘Our work with Heidel is successfully completed. He holds no further interest for us. We seek fresh challenges.’

  Maya wasn’t to be put off. ‘But doesn’t it worry you that he was trying to stop Coldhardt using your services? You must know Heidel hates him.’

  ‘How could we not?’ The Scribe nodded. ‘Heidel’s mind fixates upon you, Coldhardt, just as when first he came to us, a dying man. It is understandable, of course. Those who work together in dangerous fields often forge close bonds. And when such men are betrayed …’

  ‘Quite,’ said Coldhardt softly, sending a tingle down Jonah’s spine.

  ‘It was this lasting obsession that led us to consider you as a likely patron. We are few, and may only dedicate ourselves to few, for the work is all-consuming … which is why it comes at so high a price.’ The Scribe held out his hands like a priest off
ering benediction. ‘We need funds to endure. And you are a wealthy man, Coldhardt.’

  ‘I am aware of your terms. You drive quite a bargain.’ Coldhardt gazed into space for a few moments, then leaned forward in his chair. ‘Assuming I wish to pursue this path … what happens next?’

  The Scribe placed his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘The first step is to arrange a private consultation with the Mage. But before she can examine you, ritual decrees you must provide her with two things: a vial of your blood, and a gift of great wisdom … the gift to be specified by the Mage herself.’

  Maya’s face was sour as week-old milk as she sat there, shaking her head.

  ‘You may contact us as you have before, should you choose to proceed. This interview is now ended.’

  ‘And how am I to dispose of that?’ Coldhardt inquired, stabbing a finger at Sorin’s crumpled body.

  The Scribe turned to him. ‘Heidel would argue that disposal is your business.’

  Without further ceremony, the Scribe swept towards the door, his crimson robes swirling about him like flowing blood, his masked man-at-arms following in his wake.

  ‘They’re going to stand out among the tourists dressed like that,’ Jonah murmured, still feeling numb inside. Don’t look at the body. The blood. Don’t even think of it.

  ‘A judge must wear his robes and regalia when practising, according to centuries-old tradition,’ said Coldhardt, staring into space. ‘Perhaps the officials of Nomen Oblitum are the same.’

  ‘Or perhaps they were trying to add some substance to their act by trying to look the part – the spooky sorcerer and his acolyte.’ Maya was looking at Coldhardt. ‘Do you believe that stuff they told you?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Coldhardt barely seemed to hear her, studying the backs of his hands. ‘They brought you back from near-death, as they claim to have done with Heidel.’

  ‘“Claim” may be right,’ said Maya. ‘This is the dart Sorin put in me.’ She produced it in her palm. ‘You can have it analysed, see for yourself if it was as deadly as they claim – or if they’re scamming.’

  Coldhardt spared her a brief glance. ‘I thought you were sympathetic to occult beliefs.’

  ‘Not blindly so. I mean, so they had a copy of the Guan Yin manuscript. So what? So did Blackland, and he wasn’t a sorcerer. There are at least three known to be in existence.’

  ‘That man-at-arms guy killed Sorin with his fingers,’ said Jonah slowly.

  ‘A systemised attack on the weak centres of the body, performed with high precision and skill,’ Maya agreed. ‘Impressive, but not necessarily supernatural. Martial arts such as Dim Mak would provide the basics for –’

  ‘Impressive?’ Jonah stared at her. ‘I wasn’t remarking on how clever they were. I was reminding you that they murdered someone right in front of us!’

  ‘The manner in which the execution was performed speaks for their skill.’ Coldhardt had moved on to studying his fingernails. ‘And the fact that they killed without hesitation in front of an audience speaks for their power.’

  ‘They know you can’t go to the police,’ Maya retorted. ‘They were trying to impress you and intimidate you both at once. They must feel you’re desperate to know the cipher’s secrets –’

  ‘What do you know of desperation?’ Coldhardt roared, standing up. Maya flinched and looked away. But Jonah kept watching a few seconds longer, and in that moment of naked anger he glimpsed something feral and inhuman in Coldhardt’s eyes.

  Heart bouncing off his ribs, he crossed quickly to the window. He wished he could turn his back on the body, on Coldhardt, everything; his own hypocrisy included. Because for all his supposed squeamishness, a piece of him was glad Sorin was dead now, glad that he would never get another chance to kill Jonah or his friends. And it sickened him.

  It gets easier, Tye had told him in the locker room.

  But do I want it to? he’d wondered.

  He watched a large, dark car pull away from the apartment block to dominate the narrow streets, its tinted windows hiding the sinister figures inside. It passed from sight but stayed in his memory, like a black fly crawling over his mind.

  If Coldhardt does go, there’ll be an end to it, he thought numbly.

  And then …?

  ‘I will have Motti compile a report on how the security devices here were breached,’ Coldhardt announced. ‘It mustn’t happen again.’ Jonah heard his deliberate step as he crossed to the door. ‘Prepare your things and join me in the car, both of you. It may not be safe to remain here. You will continue your work at the base.’

  Jonah swallowed, turned back to him. ‘What about Sorin’s body?’

  ‘As the Scribe said – I’m in the business of disposal.’

  Maya didn’t look up, perhaps stunned still by the force of his anger. A few moments later, the front door clicked shut as Coldhardt left the apartment.

  A slow chill passed through Jonah. He put out his hand as if reaching for the real world outside. The bulletproof glass felt cold against his palm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tye wondered how long it would be before the van she was hiding in was reported as missing – and how quickly it would be found. Parked opposite a high-class auction house on a busy street off Chancery Lane, she couldn’t imagine it would be long – then there was the matter of the black Saab Patch had broken into so she could park it round the corner and nick its place. She pictured herself apologising to the owner: Sorry, but we’re criminals trying to get video footage of a resurrected criminal mastermind and murderer for our shady employer back in Geneva – and your car was parked in the perfect spot for catching them as they go in and out. That would go down well. Oh, and by the way, you should’ve gone for the 9–5 estate over the saloon.

  She checked that Motti’s MacBook was still picking up the audio signal from inside the auction room. Heidel had reserved seating for himself and Bree, front of hall – making it easy for Con to place a listening device under his chair. Now his softest whisper would be transmitted both to Motti’s headphones and recorded for posterity, so Coldhardt could listen when they got back. Speak on, sucker.

  Listlessly, she flipped open her mobile and re-read Jonah’s last text. Sorin out of picture. Not sure who that’s a point to. All OK here. Watch yourself. Coldhardt didn’t like them stating too much over the phone – paranoid as always that they could be intercepted by others – but she wished Jonah wasn’t quite so good at being cryptic sometimes.

  ‘What d’you think Jonah’s on about, then?’ Patch had leaned forward from the back seat to read over her shoulder.

  ‘How am I meant to know?’ Tye closed the phone. ‘Let’s just be glad we don’t have to worry about Sorin showing up here.’

  ‘That’s two down,’ said Patch happily. ‘Heidel’s gonna be in for a surprise, innee?’

  Tye glanced back to where Patch sat beside a black, stylish Henk suitcase. They’d stuffed it full of Heidel’s personal belongings, stolen from his hotel room, everything from his fake passport to his black silk boxers. It turned out that the RFID tag that had lured them there had been removed from the Guan Yin manuscript after all; it was stuck inside a book of nursery rhymes. So they’d nicked that, too, along with a battered old leather briefcase which remained tantalisingly locked. Patch hadn’t turned his talents to it yet; partly for fear of booby-traps, partly because he was busy pointing a camcorder discreetly through a gap in the van window. The viewfinder framed the brochure-wielding visitors as they swept up and down the steps of the proud old building.

  ‘Con will radio us when Heidel and Bree head for the exit,’ Tye reminded him; in her long dark wig and cool shades, sitting incognito in the back row, Con was barely recognisable. ‘And Motti’s watching the rear entrance with his listening gear in case they leave that way. You can relax.’

  ‘Guess so,’ Patch grunted, but didn’t put down the camcorder.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘Jus
t using the zoom.’ He sighed. ‘Getting close-ups of the best bums on the birds going by.’

  ‘You’ll go blind.’

  ‘I was halfway there anyway, and now this!’ He pointed to the swollen shiner Sadie had given him. ‘I should get a T-shirt done – I went to London and all I got was this lousy black eye.’

  ‘You need an ice pack on that,’ said Tye.

  ‘A lip transplant would be good, an’ all.’ He licked his fat lip and winced. ‘I’m never gonna score, looking like this. A geezer like Sorin, bet he’s always pulling. I bet girls chuck their pants at him.’

  ‘Patch!’ Tye grimaced. ‘Anyway, you heard Jonah. Sorin’s out the picture. One less big-shot male to compete with.’

  ‘Thought this would be a good line of work to get laid in,’ Patch went on morosely. ‘You know, the glamour, the action, the intrigue …’

  ‘The taping bums in a van …’

  ‘All of that.’ He looked at her. ‘But I never meet no one, do I? No one who takes me seriously. I mean, Con’s never gonna fall for me, is she? No one will. I’m just a dumb kid.’ He put down the camcorder. ‘A dumb kid with one eye.’

  Tye reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘It won’t be this way for ever. One day we’ll leave Coldhardt … and then we’ll start proper lives.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he muttered.

  ‘But we will,’ she told him. ‘We’ll have to. This isn’t proper living, it’s just … just a fantasy world. I mean, it’s amazing, frightening, special – like nothing I ever dreamed could happen …’ She stared out of the windscreen. ‘But it can’t last for ever. Think of the chances we take …’

  He licked his lip again. ‘I’m feeling them.’

  ‘Exactly. Stay too long, our luck’s going to run out.’ She half smiled. ‘Anyway, you must have enough cash put away by now to get that fancy new eye you’re always on about.’

  ‘It’s an Intracortical Visual Prothesis, ta very much,’ Patch corrected her grandly. ‘They put these electrodes into your brain, linked to this little computer camera-eye, right? And you can see!’ He beamed happily. ‘You can really see things through it, for proper. Anyway, they’re still testing it out. But I’ve been saving my cash and maybe I could fund them a bit, be their backer … We’d be able to help loads of people who can’t see right. Starting with me, of course. Then I can find Mum and tell her – it’s OK. She don’t have to feel guilty ’bout what she did, I can see fine. Just fine. Maybe then she’ll see me again.’ He touched his eye patch. ‘Say goodbye to this. No more Patch … Just plain Patrick Kendall.’