by Simon Toyne
Dragan nodded and his lips curled in another ghastly smile. ‘In that case, take me to the Prelate’s quarters and spread the word throughout the mountain that, by the grace of God, a Sanctus has returned.’
And with that he walked past everyone into the darkness of the mountain, dragging Athanasius’s dreams of reform with him.
III
Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of the prophecy and blessed are those who hear and who keep what is written in it; for the time is near.
Revelation 1:3
47
Badiyat al-Sham, Al Anbar Province, Western Iraq
There was nothing on earth like being in the desert at night.
The same thin air that offered so little protection from the hellish daytime sun let in the absolute cold of space when darkness fell to steal the heat away again. And then there were the stars: billions of them, filling the sky with pinpoints of light and casting a microscopic glow over everything. The Bedouin used the stars to travel at night, their desert eyes accustomed to levels of light that city dwellers could never perceive. The Ghost used this skill now to pick his way over the stony ground and gravel paths, following the line of the dragon’s back into the place the Bedouin called the land of thirst and terror.
The Syrian Desert was over half a million square kilometres of nothing. It spread across the land like a crusted sore, spilling out of Syria into northern Iraq, Jordan and Saudi Arabia. There were no settlements in the heart of it and no proper roads. During the Iraq War the insurgents had fallen back here, using the prehistoric brutality of the desert environment as their main defence against the technological might of the modern war machine. And it had worked; machinery broke down, dust storms grounded all air support, even hi-tech thermal-imaging systems could be rendered blind by the simple strategy of lying under a blanket on a warm rock. It was impossible to fight people when they had the land and nature on their side.
The insurgents had used the desert as their main base of operations, resupplying themselves with men and equipment that flowed over the leaky and unpatrolable border with Syria. It was only when the invaders had taken all the towns that they moved back to the cities to harry the new government with the more traditional terrorist tactics of roadside bombs and the ever-present threat of kidnap. So the desert was empty again — and yet, as the Ghost rode on through the night, he began to sense that he was not alone.
He saw the first signs of something out of place a few hours before dawn when the cold had chilled the air to crystal clarity and the moon began to rise. It was a dark shape, away in the distance, stretching across the otherwise flat horizon. Dismounting, he approached it on foot, keeping low to the ground so that any watching eyes with thermal-imaging scopes would not be able to see his hot outline against the cold sky.
As he drew closer he saw that the dark shape was actually a shadow, cast by the rising moon and a large mound of rocks and dirt that had been piled high next to a hole in the ground. He dropped lower and crawled towards it, stopping every now and then to listen to the empty silence broken only by the intermittent whisper of night breezes flowing around the jagged edges of the pile of rocks and earth.
The hole next to it was only a metre or so deep, far too shallow to account for the size of the pile that cast such a long shadow. In the middle of the hole a rock the size of a car had been partly excavated, then abandoned, as if whoever had been working there had suddenly lost interest. He moved to the spill pile and carefully picked his way up the side until he was high enough to have an elevated view of the surrounding terrain.
There were several other holes dotted around, each about the same size and depth as the first, each with a large rock semi-uncovered at the bottom. It was as if some huge beast had been digging around for something it had lost. One of the holes was significantly wider and deeper than the rest. He slid down and made his way over to investigate.
The hole was about one storey deep, with a ramp of earth spiralling to the bottom, wide enough for a horse to walk down. At the bottom of the pit was a ragged patch of blackness marking the entrance to a cave. It was one of the quirks of the Syrian Desert that large parts of it were honeycombed with extensive, subterranean cave systems, carved millions of years ago by water flowing through the sedimentary rock. You could hide whole battalions of men and equipment in the caves if you knew where they were. It was one of the reasons the Ghost had evaded capture for so long. If whoever had dug these holes was still around, this was where they would be, sleeping in the cave, away from the biting cold of the desert night.
He watched for a while, but saw no movement other than the creeping line of moonlight as the world slowly turned. There was no telltale tang of woodsmoke in the air to suggest people were there. Whoever had dug these holes, and for whatever purpose, they had gone. The Ghost skirted the edge of the crater then made his way down the ramp, his night-adjusted eyes probing the velvet blackness of the cave as he approached. Once inside, he listened to the deadened sounds, then took a penlight from his pocket and turned it on.
The tiny bulb lit up with all the force of a nuclear explosion and he had to shield his eyes against the light. The cave was empty — no sign of habitation, no sign of anything. It would have taken considerable resources and time to dig down to the cave and, as there was no obvious archaeological or mineral value to the site, there had to be another reason. The fact that the caves were empty suggested they had either been dug out so that something could be put in them, or something had already been here and now it was gone. He took a long last look then flicked off the torch and headed out.
The night seemed darker now and he blinked to restore his night vision as he rose from the crater and studied the ground. He could detect faint footprints in the dirt, skirting the rim and converging on an area where deeper, rutted tracks led away and across the desert towards the eastern horizon, where dawn was already beginning to lighten the sky. He squinted towards it, and checked the stars. Something was wrong. At this time of year the sun rose directly into Gemini, but the patch of light was to the right of it. It was not the dawn but something else, something large enough to pollute the pure darkness of the desert.
And there was only one thing bright enough to do that at this distance. It had to be a settlement.
48
New Jersey, USA
It was three in the morning when Liv cleared immigration at Newark Liberty International Airport. She had somehow managed to stay awake through the twelve-hour flight using a combination of coffee and fear of what might happen if she slept. As a result, she was wired and scratchy and almost hallucinating with fatigue as she emerged into the headache-inducing brightness of the large and mostly deserted concourse.
A cleaner was pushing a large polishing machine across the hard floor in a slow, depressed waltz, while catatonic passengers looked on from the only coffee shop that was open, sipping wakefulness from paper cups. A few suited chauffeurs formed a welcoming committee, holding up cards with different names in a variety of handwriting. It gave Liv a feeling of deja vu. When she had landed in Turkey over a week ago she had seen her own name amongst these greetings — the first time she had met Gabriel. She scanned the row of quizzical faces now, knowing the impossibility of his being there, but seeking him out all the same. Though she hardly knew him, she missed him.
She headed towards the exits, her lack of luggage allowing her to steal a march on other passengers. The night made dark mirrors of the glass doors and she hardly recognized herself as she approached them. She could see the dark circles under her eyes and the clothes hanging off her already skinny frame. It was as if she had left this airport as one person and returned as another. She took another step towards her strange self and the automatic doors slid open, removing her from sight and revealing the night beyond.
Dick had also beaten the crowd. He too travelled with hand luggage because he wanted to stay fluid. Some people who’d been inside surrounded themselves with tons of stuff once they
got out. To Dick that seemed like building a new kind of prison. He preferred being able to walk out of anywhere at a moment’s notice without worrying about who or what he was leaving behind — that was true freedom. He never gave much thought to other people’s feelings, he wouldn’t have been able to do his job if he did.
He drifted across the concourse, keeping a useful distance between himself and Liv. He kept tabs on her with his peripheral vision while checking his phone, looking like a flight-crumpled businessman chained to his BlackBerry. As she passed through the door, he picked up his pace. The time difference had landed them in Newark at the perfect time. Three in the morning was statistically the quietest time of the day, and less people meant more opportunity.
It was colder outside than he had anticipated, which was also in his favour. The cold drove people away and kept them indoors.
Ser-en-dip-ity
He scoped the area, checking for dark spots and possible witnesses. A few cab drivers were sitting in their cars with heaters on and engines running. The nearest one gave him a hopeful look then returned to his paper when Dick ignored him. He could see the blonde hair of the girl shining in the dark, made brighter by the sickly wash of the overhead sodium lights. She was moving away, heading towards the bus stop. If she got on a bus it might be a problem. He would have to get on it too to ensure he didn’t lose her and she would most likely remember him from the flight. He didn’t want to spook her, not yet at least.
He drifted past the line of parked cabs, still scrutinizing his phone though actually checking security. Since 9/11 all airport terminal buildings had become lousy with cameras. You couldn’t scratch your nose without some security guard somewhere getting five different angles on it. Fortunately the girl had moved away from the entrance where most of the cameras were focused. It was as though she was offering herself up for sacrifice. He had hoped he might get her alone — talk to her — but the opportunist in him far outweighed the playful. His best opportunity was now. The taxi drivers all focused on the entrance, waiting for a fare, the cameras pointing elsewhere, no one else around. She stopped by the bus shelter and looked up the empty road. No bus. No one else waiting.
Dick made his decision.
He cut through a couple of parked cabs and headed across the road towards her, hoping to get it done before other passengers started to appear from the building. During the flight he had spent a long time watching the back of her head as she read her book, his eyes tracing the slender line of her neck, his hands opening and closing in his lap as he imagined them tightening round it. He had imagined the sound it would make as it broke: Snap — like a breadstick, or the stem of a wine glass.
He reached the central reservation and she looked up. She was so small compared to him that he figured he could stand in front of her and mask her whole body with his. No one would hear him ask her when the bus was coming, no one would see him snap her head back when she opened her mouth to answer. He was about to take the last few steps when she turned away and did something totally unexpected.
She waved.
Dick glanced down the street to where she was looking. A set of headlights was speeding towards them. Cars were not usually allowed in the bus lanes, but as it drew closer Dick saw why this one was. It was a police cruiser.
He raised his phone to his ear and walked right past her, heading towards the short-stay car park whilst fumbling for nonexistent keys in his pocket. Just another businessman returning from a badly scheduled trip.
49
Liv slid into the cruiser and slammed the door on the cold night.
‘Jesus, Liv, you look like shit!’
She looked up into the doughy, moon-like face of Sergeant Ski Williams and smiled. It was the only thing she’d heard in days that she could truly believe.
‘Sorry about the unholy hour,’ she said, buckling herself in as he eased the cruiser away from the kerb. ‘I didn’t think about the time difference when I called.’
He waved away her apology and kept his eyes fixed on the road.
She’d known Ski Williams for close to ten years now. His real name was William Godlewski, but like many Polish cops he’d shortened and switched it around to avoid having to deal with his unpronounceable surname. He was one of the first cops she’d ever met on a proper assignment. He’d been a rookie too; maybe that’s why they’d hit it off — two newbies trying to find their feet in a grown-up world. It amazed her that after all this time he still hadn’t made it past sergeant. He was far and away one of the best cops she knew, but he was lousy when it came to the books. He had failed the detective’s exam three times in a row. He was also terrible at kissing ass. Just couldn’t do it. He was smart enough to know that it helped you get on, but if he thought a captain was an asshole he’d say so. There was something utterly uncompromising about him that was both infuriating and noble. It was why she’d called him from Turkey over anyone else to ask if he wouldn’t mind picking her up. He was old school, like the Untouchables, and there was no one she trusted more.
‘So, you going to talk to me or what? You’ve been all over the news for days now. When I saw you standing on the sidewalk there I didn’t know whether to offer you a ride or ask for an autograph.’
Liv pulled her baseball cap lower to shield her face and hunkered down in her seat. It hadn’t occurred to her that everything in Ruin would be news here. Foreign stories rarely got any airtime unless they were about a war where Americans were dying.
‘What you heard?’
‘Sounds like you got some kind of mediaeval curse hanging over you or something. Anyone you speak to gets offed. We’ve got two homicides that may or may not be linked to you and your little adventures overseas. I should get my head examined, letting you in the car. So what happened? Did you find out what they got in that mountain?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Honestly, I can’t remember.’
She thought of the dream that frightened her so much she had chosen to stay awake for the twelve-hour flight rather than risk facing it. Her boss had been one of the two homicides Ski had referred to: killed merely because he had spoken to her. Maybe she was cursed.
‘Listen, Ski. Just take me home and I’ll tell you everything. Perhaps talking it through might jog something loose. Besides, I could use a shower and a change of clothes.’
‘Take you home…’ Ski said it flat and left it hanging.
Liv saw the troubled expression on his face. She’d seen that look before. His unbending streak of honesty meant he had the worst poker face of anyone she had ever met. It was the look he got when he had to tell someone some really bad news.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Ski shook his head. ‘Probably easier if I show you.’
50
Dick had intimidated his way to the front of the taxi queue and given the driver a story about how a buddy of his had been arrested. The driver’s English was pretty sketchy, but he’d understood enough and they were now following the police cruiser at a safe distance. Dick glanced up from time to time to make sure it was still there, in between composing an email detailing everything that had happened so far. He knew from the girl’s file that she worked as a crime reporter so he assumed her ride must be an acquaintance. It didn’t appear to be a heavy-duty protection detail, it was much too casual for that. Maybe he was her boyfriend, in which case it was bad news for him. Dick had a schedule to keep and anyone who got in the way would become collateral damage. Whoever it was, he hoped he was taking her somewhere quiet, maybe somewhere with a basement — that would be best.
He finished the email and read it through, checking he hadn’t missed any details. Then he attached the photograph he’d taken of the book the girl had been reading. It might not be important, but that wasn’t for him to say. Finally satisfied, he hit send and watched until it had gone.
Up ahead, the police cruiser curved off the expressway on to McCarter Highway. There wasn’t much traffic at
this time of night and it was easy to keep tabs on them. He told the driver to ease back a bit. After a mile or so the taillights flared and the car turned off. The driver started to speed up, but Dick told him not to. He could see they were heading east into the Ironbound district and he remembered something from the girl’s file that told him exactly where she was going.
‘Welcome home,’ he said, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear. ‘Welcome home.’
51
Badiyat al-Sham
True dawn had started to show by the time the Ghost drew close enough to the cluster of lights to see what it was. He had worked his way into position using the contours of the land and the remains of the night to hide his approach. He was now lying on the upslope of a shallow berm and staring straight at the settlement through field glasses.
At first glance what he saw did not strike him as particularly remarkable. It appeared to be another of the thousands of oil drilling compounds that had spread like a contagion over large parts of the country since the end of the war. There was a thin drill tower in the centre, a collection of silver-sided buildings to house the workers, and a large transport hangar for vehicles and supplies. On the far side of the compound a flat, concreted area with a large painted ‘H’ showed where helicopters could land, though none were parked there at the moment.
Everything seemed normal — and yet there was something not right about it.
For a start, it wasn’t on an existing oilfield. There were no other drilling operations for at least a hundred kilometres in any direction and the whole place was too clean. Exploratory drilling gear got moved around from site to site and usually bore the scars of oil grime and years of standing out in various godforsaken places being blasted by extremes of weather. The equipment here all shone with newness, as if everything had been shipped straight from the factory, taken out of its packaging and dropped into the desert like a theme-park version of a drill site. It was clearly operational, the drill was turning but there was no oil in either of the holding lagoons.
