case, not the identity of the Sacrament – although …’ He scrutinized the seeds once more.
‘Although what?’ Liv prompted.
‘Although I rather suspect they may well turn out to be the same thing.’
58
Two floors down, a freckled hand tapped out the user name and password that would grant access to the police database. The screen flashed and a mail account launched, telling him he had seven new messages. Six were departmental memos no one would ever read, the seventh was from someone called GARGOYLE. There was nothing in the subject line. The man glanced nervously over the top of his monitor then clicked it open. It contained just one word. Green.
He deep deleted the message, removing all trace of it from the network, then opened up a command module. A black box appeared on the screen asking for another user name and password. He entered them both, worming his way deeper into the network and scanning the recently updated files.
GARGOYLE was a relatively simple piece of software he had written himself, which made the job of monitoring the status of any case he wasn’t supposed to be looking at much, much easier. Rather than go through the tedious process of hacking into the central database and manually checking for new updates, he could simply attach the program to the architecture of any file, and whenever it was updated GARGOYLE automatically let him know via email.
He found the file on the dead monk, opened it, and started scrolling through. On page twenty-three he spotted a small block of text the program had highlighted in lime green. It detailed the taking into custody of one Liv Adamsen following her uncorroborated report of an attempted abduction at the airport. She was upstairs in an interview room on the fourth floor. That was Robbery and Homicide. He frowned, not quite sure what all that had to do with the dead monk.
Still …
Not his problem.
Both parties had requested that any new additions to the case file be reported to them directly. Who was he to play gatekeeper?
He plugged a flash drive into the USB port on the front of his computer, copied and pasted the details then closed the case file and carefully retraced his steps through the maze of the database, re-locking all his invisible doors as he retreated.
When he was back at the default desktop he opened an innocuous spreadsheet for the benefit of anyone curious enough to glance at his screen, grabbed his coat and phone and headed for the door. He never sent anything from his own terminal, even encrypted. It was too risky and he was too careful. Besides, there was an Internet café around the corner where the baristas were hot and the coffee was better.
59
Liv spent the next few minutes looking for words in the jumble of letters and writing them down in a list. She got words like SALT, LAST, TASK, MASK – nothing earth-shattering, nothing like ‘GRAIL’ or ‘CROSS’ or any of the other things the Sacrament was rumoured to be; certainly nothing worth dying for.
She tried making a single word from the capitalized letters – MAT – and studied what was left – s a l a k. She looked up at Arkadian. ‘What language do they speak in the Citadel?’
He shrugged. ‘Greek, Latin, Aramaic, English, Hebrew – all the modern languages and lots of the dead ones. There’s supposed to be a massive library in there, full of ancient texts. If your brother had anything to do with that side of things, I suppose the message could be written in any language.’
‘Great.’
‘But I don’t think he’d do that. Why would he send you a message you wouldn’t understand?’
Liv let out a long breath and picked up the photograph of her brother’s body. Her eyes traced the neat lines encircling his shoulders, upper thighs and neck, the T-shaped cross burned deep into the flesh of his left shoulder.
‘Maybe there’s something in these scars,’ she said. ‘Like a map, maybe.’
‘I agree they’re significant, but I think these symbols are more important. He took pains to scratch them on to five tiny seeds, then swallowed them, along with your phone number, and jumped into our jurisdiction so that they would be found during a post-mortem.’
Liv turned her attention back to the newspaper, the picture of Samuel now surrounded by the letters he’d taken such trouble to hide.
‘I want to see him,’ she said.
‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ Arkadian said softly. ‘Your brother fell from a very great height. His injuries were extensive, and we’ve conducted a thorough post-mortem. It would be better for you to wait.’
‘Wait until what? Until he’s been tidied up?’
‘Miss Adamsen, I don’t think you realize what happens to a body during a post-mortem.’
Liv took a deep breath and fixed him with her bright green eyes. ‘After a thorough external examination the coroner makes a Y-shaped incision on the torso, cracks the sternum and removes the heart, the lungs and the liver for further examination. The top of the skull is then detached with a saw and the face is peeled forward to gain access to the brain, which is also removed for examination. Ever been to New Jersey, Inspector?’
Arkadian blinked. ‘No,’ he replied.
‘Last year in Newark we had one hundred and seven homicides – more than two a week. In the last four years I’ve written stories on every aspect of crime, and researched every element of police procedure, including autopsies. I have personally attended more post-mortems than most rookie cops. So I know it’s not going to be pretty, and I know it’s my brother, but I also know I haven’t flown all this way on a maxed-out credit card – which has since been stolen, by the way – just to look at a bunch of photographs. So please,’ she said, turning the photo round and sliding it back across the table, ‘take me to see my brother.’
Arkadian’s eyes flicked between Liv’s face and the image in the photograph. They had the same colouring, the same high cheekbones and widely set eyes. Samuel’s eyes were shut but he knew they were the same intense green.
The buzz of his phone cut through the silence.
‘’Scuse me,’ he said, standing up and walking to the far side of the room.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ an excitable voice babbled in his ear the moment he pressed the answer button. ‘Just when you think a case cannot get any stranger,’ Reis said, ‘the lab results come back!’
‘What you got?’
‘The monk’s cells; they’re –’
A high-pitched siren caused Arkadian to jerk the phone away from his head.
‘WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?’ he shouted, holding it as close as he could without bursting an eardrum.
‘FIRE ALARM!’ Reis shouted back through the banshee wail. ‘I THINK WE’RE BEING EVACUATED. NOT SURE IF IT’S A DRILL. I’LL CALL YOU WHEN IT’S OVER.’
Arkadian glanced at Liv. Locked eyes. Made a decision.
‘DON’T WORRY,’ he yelled into the phone, ‘I’LL COME TO YOU.’ He smiled and added, as much for Liv’s benefit as for Reis’s, ‘AND I’LL BE BRINGING A VISITOR.’
60
The deafening noise of the propellers increased as a couple of thousand horse power fed into the Double Wasp engine on the right wing, slewing it round until the rear cargo hatch came to rest in line with the warehouse door.
Kathryn watched men in red overalls scamper forward and jam wooden chocks beneath the oversized wheels of the C-123 light cargo plane which