The Bloodline Cipher

by Stephen Cole

  One room showed promise. It was locked, and looked empty besides some shelves with food and drinks supplies. But he had to be sure the people he cared for weren’t in there.

  Quickly finding the right key on the ring he’d taken from the guard, Jonah crept inside. No one was here, but he did clock a discarded stretcher trolley in the corner. From the dirt and bloodstains, it had seen use recently. Perhaps he was on the right track – perhaps Tye had come this way?

  Jonah took a deep breath. He knew that the longer he wandered the tunnels, the more likely it was he would be caught. And the fear he felt suggested to him quietly on some level that perhaps he wasn’t as ready to chuck his life away on some mad, final gesture after all.

  ‘What else can I do?’ he muttered, not wanting to be seduced by reason.

  What the hell use is reason in a life like mine, he thought, sitting down on a box. It sagged under his weight – not as sturdy as he’d imagined. He peered inside – and found a crimson robe, like the one he’d seen the Scribe wear in Chamonix. If he wandered the corridors dressed in this, he might still get nowhere – but at least he wouldn’t stand out so much …

  Jonah sighed as he struggled into the vestment. ‘That’s one up to reason,’ he supposed.

  But as he rose, ready to resume the search, he heard movement in the passage outside – measured, confident footsteps clopping on the rock. He stole quietly over to the door and peered out through the grille.

  A jolt went through Jonah as he saw Coldhardt coming. The old man looked suave and assured in a sharp black suit and a pale blue shirt, open at the neck. He was carrying a stunning bouquet of exotic white orchids in his arms, the beautiful flowers strung on long slender stalks, like ice to the fire of the crimson-robed guards escorting him.

  I could kill him, thought Jonah suddenly. C heat Saitou and Street of their moment of glory. Break his neck for what he’s done to us.

  He remembered Sadie bursting in to kill Budd and Clyde without hesitation, right in front of him. The memory led to one of him seeing Tye in Geneva after the killings in LA. ‘I’m never gonna be cut out for this life,’ he’d reflected back then, ‘am I?’ All that was half a world away … and what felt like half a lifetime ago.

  No one ever knew what was round the next corner. You just had to keep going and find out.

  Letting himself back out of the cell, Jonah trailed after his former boss with his heart well into his mouth. Whatever lay ahead, he felt a reckoning for them both was soon on the cards – either in this world, or the next.

  Tye stood on the balcony in her disguising crimson cowl, her hands cuffed behind her back, the hood hanging down over her features. She was grateful for it – it was like wrapping herself up in a cocoon, a place where she could hide away from reality. But the cold prod of Sadie’s crossbow pistol in her back kept finding her.

  The low drone of chatter whispered around the arena like flies. Tye thought she recognised some of the faces here today, gathered in the sunshine spilling down from the window of blue sky above. It seemed such an unassuming day; Tye had been expecting the sky to fall in around them at any moment, or jagged bolts of lightning to strike them all down. Instead there was the salt-fresh tang of the sea in the air, the sun warming her robes, and the cold scent of lilies in their strewn piles of purple and gold. They might be tied in the shape of the Knot of Isis, but Tye knew the old significance of the shades from her upbringing. They were funeral flowers.

  Coldhardt will never admit he’s sorry, Tye thought nervously. He’ll never give them the satisfaction. So what would Saitou do to him? How swiftly would the beautiful arena become a coliseum, the crowd baying for blood, the big emperor turning down his thumb as they threw Coldhardt to the lions …?

  Then suddenly Bree ran out into the middle of the circle, standing beside the sinkhole of water in magnificent crimson robes of her own. She held up her hands and the chatter in the gallery died down, the features of the onlookers fell away into folds of fabric as cowls were adjusted.

  Bree quickly disappeared again into the mouth of one of the tunnels. Tye felt her stomach lurch as the Scribe rose from his chair, as Saitou donned his bronze face mask, as Heidel wrapped himself in dark blue and black silks and took his place in the Mage’s throne, ready to make his shock guest appearance when cued.

  This was it.

  Coldhardt was about to arrive at his own funeral.

  Jonah had lost track of Coldhardt and his escort in the labyrinth of tunnels, together with all sense of which paths he had already taken. His leg was so painful he could barely stay standing. His fear of discovery was growing more pronounced with every painful step.

  Suddenly Jonah jumped at the sound of strange music starting up, an atonal blast of pipes. He realised it was coming from a room further along the passage. The temple chic was made a little homelier here – a rich red carpet had been put down, and the tunnel walls were plastered white in thick, artisan sweeps.

  Disguising his limp, trying to act as if he had every right to be here, Jonah ventured inside the room. It was like entering the back of a small, dimly lit cinema. Rows of plush seats, most of them occupied by maybe fifteen suited and booted guests, faced a huge high-definition TV screen that was even bigger than the one back home (he caught himself with a grimace – the one back at Coldhardt’s base, you mean). The screen showed a front-on view of a rocky amphitheatre. A miniature pool sat in its centre, and three thrones stood towards the rear. Jonah didn’t know who the figure was in blues and blacks sitting on the biggest chair, but he felt a shiver as he saw the Scribe sitting to its left and Saitou, in his dark robes and bronze mask, on the right. Acolytes were looking down on the flower-strewn scene from a balcony stretching almost clear around the arena. The music was coming through the TV’s speakers, lifelike in its fidelity.

  A guard in red robes like Jonah’s stood near the front of the room beside a buffet table loaded with drinks and food, but his attention was fixed on the screen in rapt silence, as was everyone else’s – no one turned as Jonah stepped cautiously closer and leaned against one of the high-backed chairs for support. These people must be guests of Saitou’s, he realised. They could make good hostages, bargaining pieces to get back his friends …

  But before he could even begin to work out a plan he saw Coldhardt appear on-screen with his guards and flowers, striding into view from beneath the camera – it must be fixed above a main doorway. Jonah seemed alone in his startled reaction – his fellow audience members didn’t move or whisper, they just sat grimly in their chairs as if poised for some catastrophe.

  The music stopped. Jonah could only see the back of Coldhardt’s head and wondered what expression sat now on the craggy face. A look of triumph, of goals accomplished? Would there be even the faintest trace of remorse?

  Jonah watched, his nerves tightening, as the robed figure sat to the left of the big throne shucked off his hood. It was the Scribe, and now he rose slowly to greet Coldhardt. ‘You stand in the temple of Isis, the light of the goddesses,’ he began, the rocky arena sweeping his deep, halting tones up to the sky. ‘At her will, the planets of the air, the wholesome winds of the seas and the silences of hell are disposed. Do you praise Isis?’

  ‘I praise her,’ Coldhardt responded, still clutching his flowers.

  ‘Do you embrace the wisdom and purity of the goddess Guan Yin,’ boomed the Scribe, ‘do you feel her thousand arms around you?’

  ‘I feel them,’ Coldhardt returned, stooping to place the flowers at his feet. ‘And I offer her orchids, “the plant of the king’s fragrance”.’

  The Scribe nodded as if satisfied. ‘And do you welcome the healing touch of Hiiaka, kind friend and fierce warrior …’

  They’re winding him up, ready to blow him out the water, Jonah realised. He felt conflicted – a part of him couldn’t shake the old thinking that he should race to help Coldhardt and stand by him in there, the other part was saying ‘Watch him suffer. Watch him fall.’ Jonah thought of Pat
ch’s body lying sprawled on the charred deck, thought of how it had felt to imagine he finally belonged somewhere, how all that had been changed and taken. He felt his nose start to run and tears scalding the backs of his eyes. Can’t do this, he thought dismally, can’t do any of this.

  Too late he realised the guard at the table had turned to regard him. Before Jonah could react, the robed figure burst into life and charged towards him, arms outstretched, fingers clawing for his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The hands yanked at Jonah’s cowl, pulling away his disguise. Jonah grabbed hold of the bony wrists, twisted them aside.

  ‘Jonah, it’s me!’ protested a voice beneath the cowl.

  He stared, let go of her wrists. ‘Maya?’

  She pulled off her own hood and beamed, her fine red hair in disarray. ‘Nice disguise,’ she said, embracing him tightly. ‘We really do think alike, don’t we?’

  Jonah broke free of her grip, turning to the people in their seats and backing off, expecting a real fight on their hands. But still no one moved, just slumped there staring at the screen.

  ‘They’ll sleep for some time,’ said Maya briskly. ‘I’d just taken care of them when you showed up. I thought you were a real guard till I saw your trainers.’

  ‘What did you use?’ asked Jonah.

  ‘A kind of knock-out gas – odourless, invisible – a cocktail of halothane and fentanyl, most likely. Motti had a small canister with him.’

  ‘He must have taken it from that booby-trap on board the Aswang,’ Jonah muttered. ‘So he escaped? Is Con with him?’

  ‘I set them both free,’ Maya assured him. ‘Now they’re looking out for Coldhardt.’

  Jonah stared at her, suddenly suspicious. ‘How the hell did you get in here, anyway?’

  Maya gestured to the big screen – Saitou and the Scribe were skirting the circular pool in different directions to converge on Coldhardt. ‘That sinkhole is connected to a nearby cave. A tough swim, but an excellent means of access when you’re not expected.’ She shrugged. ‘I found Motti and Con quite quickly, but I didn’t see you and Tye.’

  ‘Tye was taken away, and Patch has – well, Patch is …’ He glowered. ‘Hang on, when you say Motti and Con are looking out for Coldhardt, d’you mean they’re trying to find him or trying to protect the old bastard?’ The words fell out of Jonah’s mouth in a gabble. ‘After what he did to –’

  Maya put a hand over his mouth. ‘Just two things you need to know, Jonah,’ she said, quietly and urgently. ‘First of all, Patch is in a bad way but he’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.’

  Jonah stared. Time seemed to stand still in the air about him. ‘Not dead?’

  ‘You saved him. You and Con.’

  ‘We what –?’

  As his mouth started to flap open she closed it with her palm. ‘And the second thing you need to know?’ She looked at him, something hard and glinting in her eyes. ‘This is such a long way from being over. Now, move.’

  Tye stared down at Coldhardt as the litany of goddesses and demi-goddesses to whom he had to swear service finally ended. She wanted to look away; it was like waiting for a car crash you knew was going to happen. But whenever she looked down, the jab of Sadie’s bolt in her back forced her eyes back to the drama unfolding in the arena.

  ‘Now, Coldhardt,’ the Scribe announced, ‘in the presence of our brethren, in the gaze of scholar and novice alike, let it be known you have made a great gift to our Mage.’

  ‘I have fulfilled that which was asked of me,’ said Coldhardt simply. Tye searched his face for any flicker of emotion. Nothing.

  ‘Your gift has been well received.’ The Scribe paused impressively and smiled. ‘And now the Mage shall receive you …’

  An absolute hush seemed to descend on the arena; the audience holding their breaths, the birds wheeling away into the deep sky, even the sea seeming to calm in anticipation.

  What was that the Scribe had just said, she thought dumbly, her own heart thumping in her throat? The silences of hell are disposed.

  Saitou, still safely disguised in mask and costume, remained seated in his chair as Heidel rose from the throne and stepped slowly forward, walking round the periphery of the sinkhole towards Coldhardt, head bowed beneath the blue hood to conceal his face, his dark silks brushing the floor.

  ‘Kneel,’ the Scribe commanded. ‘Avert your eyes.’

  Coldhardt did as he was bid, sinking to his knees slowly and carefully.

  Heidel let the silks hiding him fall away. Then he cleared his throat.

  As Coldhardt looked up, Heidel kicked him in the jaw and knocked him sprawling on to his back. There was a breathless pause as the sight sank in, then someone started drily to applaud. Tye stared around, disgusted, as the lone clap was taken up and suddenly everyone in the gallery was joining in, clapping, jeering, laughing. Coldhardt stared round in confusion, a trickle of blood leaking from the side of his mouth. His two guard escorts pulled automatic weapons from beneath their robes and trained them at his head.

  Saitou held up his arm for silence, and reluctantly the crowd piped down. Tye watched Coldhardt down there, looking suddenly pathetic, and wanted so much not to care. She’d always believed the whole world lied to you, and yet she’d been so desperate to be proved wrong. Coldhardt had become her world, but he’d turned his back on her and the others. So screw him. He’d made this bed of nails for himself, now he could just lie on it, get what was coming. And yet despite it all, still she wanted to run to him, to fend off the jackals and vultures, to help him escape.

  The only thing that stays the same is that everything must change, she’d thought, that perfect picnic day. But some things didn’t change easily.

  ‘Heidel?’ she heard Coldhardt whisper, the arena amplifying the slightest breath. ‘How did you … what does this …?’

  Saitou crossed to join the Scribe and Heidel, facing Coldhardt as he knelt among his scattered orchids. ‘I’m glad you’re on your knees,’ he announced. ‘My friends and I have waited a very long time for this moment.’

  ‘Karl?’ As the mask came off, for a few moments Coldhardt stared up in naked astonishment at his former associate. Then he seemed to recover himself, forcing a small, resigned smile to his face. ‘The man-at-arms in Chamonix. It was you … You killed the boy, Sorin.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Saitou let the mask slip to the floor with a clatter, and smiled like the cat who’d got the cream. ‘You are on my island. It belongs to me – not to some shadowy, crackpot cult.’

  ‘And so this is an impostor …’ Coldhardt stared at Heidel. ‘And yet I tested your belongings, your fingerprints …’

  ‘Genetic detritus from thirty years ago.’ Saitou could barely contain himself. ‘Your doctor was Heidel’s doctor too, remember? And such an old hoarder, kept a souvenir of all his patients … He was very cooperative in helping us create the illusion.’ He stabbed a finger up at someone on the balcony opposite Tye. ‘Weren’t you, Draith?’

  Tye saw Draith reluctantly pull back the folds of his gown to reveal his drawn, bony face, like a tortoise poking its head from its shell.

  ‘Et tu, doctor?’ Coldhardt stared up and around at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. Then he smiled – but it seemed to Tye the smile of a little man trying to be bigger, of a fool trying to save face. ‘So. All a trick. I really must hand it to you, Karl – it’s a brilliant, meticulously planned set-up.’

  ‘I’m glad you appreciate it,’ said Saitou. He gestured again to the balcony. ‘It’s taken a lot of people a good deal of time and investment to make it work.’

  ‘And how delightfully barbaric of you to invite them to join you for the kill.’ Some of the people on the balconies had removed their disguises, clearly revelling in seeing Coldhardt so cut down to size, and wanting him to see who had helped make it possible. ‘Well, well … All the old faces.’ Coldhardt held up a hand to his enemies in salutation, and this time his smile was wider, stronger. ‘I det
ect Bree Matthews’ organisational flair in this, do I not?’

  ‘Mine too.’ David Street swaggered out from the tunnel to Coldhardt’s right, Bree following on a couple of steps behind. ‘Payback’s been a long time coming, Coldhardt. You cheated us.’

  Coldhardt tried to rise. ‘I never cheated either of –’

  ‘Shut up.’ Saitou kicked him this time, the point of his boot cracking against Coldhardt’s ribs. ‘We’re speaking.’ Tye winced as Coldhardt fell hard again on to the rocky ground. She looked away but Sadie hissed warningly in her ear, pressed the point of her bolt hard up against Tye’s spine.

  Bree held back, observing as Street took his place between Saitou and Heidel. He looked sweaty and edgy, not quite all there. ‘You cheated us, Coldhardt. I’m not talking about Heidel’s money or contacts, none of that crap. You cheated us of family.’

  Coldhardt shook his head feebly. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without warning, Street pulled a handgun from his pocket, jammed it to the side of Heidel’s head and jerked on the trigger. Tye gasped as the bang thundered round the arena, as blood spattered into the sinkhole and Heidel’s body collapsed to the ground. She shut her eyes, willed herself not to be sick. The crowd wasn’t laughing now. A heavy silence had fallen over the amphitheatre.

  Street hadn’t even bothered to watch what he’d done, too busy glaring at Coldhardt. Tye focused on Coldhardt too. He was still kneeling on the floor, his face bloody but his eyes bright.

  ‘Was that how easy it was for you, thirty-two years ago?’ Street shouted, spraying spit in Coldhardt’s face. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead, move along? The man who pulled us out of the gutter, who had faith in us … A bloody genius who made us better than we ever could have been …’

  He ranted on, and whispers started up again around the gallery. Tye saw Bree swap looks with Saitou and the Scribe, caught the unease in her face. She got the impression that killing Heidel hadn’t been part of the plan. Street had gone off-script, he was ranting like a maniac.