Bestselling Conspiracy Thriller Trilogy: Sanctus, The Key, The Tower. Simon Toyne

found him curled up on a bed next to the corpse of his younger brother. He told the police his father had given him some pills to ‘let him see God’, but he’d been angry with him because he’d shouted at his brother, so had thrown them away. A succession of foster families failed to touch this beautiful, troubled boy. He was withdrawn, violently distrustful of strangers and clearly on the path to self-destruction. Then the church stepped in, sent him to one of their rehabilitation seminaries in America, and took him on as a lost son.

      Then there was Cornelius Webster. Thirty-four. Grew up in an orphanage and went straight into the British Army as soon as he was old enough. Invalided out after watching his platoon burn alive in front of him when their armoured vehicle was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. The scars on his face, like drops of pale wax that made his beard grow in patches, were the badges of this tragedy. The day he left the army he’d swapped the institutionalized life of a soldier for the institutionalized life of a monk. The Citadel was his family now, as it was to all of them.

      The Abbot also matched their various skills to the mission he was about to give them: Cornelius with his age and authority; Johann with his distracting looks and perfect English, bait to catch a female fish; Rodriguez with his US passport and knowledge of the streets. Each had violence in their past and a sharp and zealous desire to prove themselves to God. He waited until they’d finished eating before speaking again.

      ‘Please forgive the unorthodox nature of this meeting,’ he said, the fire now framing him in a hazy red glow. ‘But when I explain the reason, you will understand the need for such caution and secrecy.’

      He tapped a finger against his pursed lips.

      ‘This section of the mountain once housed a garrison of warrior monks, the Carmina, the red knights of the Citadel, the illustrious forebears of the guild you serve. They rode forth to root out false religions, crush false gods, destroy heretical churches, and purge misguided worshippers of their sins in the purifying fires of the Inquisition. These crusades were known as the Tabula Rasa – the Clean Slate – for no trace of heresy was ever left in their wake.’

      He lowered his voice and leaned forward against the table, making it creak like the timbers of an ancient ship.

      ‘The Carmina were not bound by the ordinary laws of man.’ He regarded each of them individually. ‘Nor by the laws of whatever land they found themselves in; for those were but the laws of kings and emperors, and the Carmina answered only to God. I bring you here now to resume their sacred mantle. We may no longer find ourselves besieged by armies, but we still have enemies. And we still have need of soldiers.’

      He slid an envelope across the table to Cornelius.

      ‘Here are details of what you must do and instructions as to how you can leave the mountain. I have chosen you because you each have within you the character and past experience to do God’s work. Be guided by Him and not by earthly laws. Like your predecessors you must be single-minded in the performance of your duty. The threat is real. You must eliminate it.’

      He pointed to the far side of the room where three identical canvas bags were propped against the wall.

      ‘Inside those you will find currency, identification documents and civilian clothing. You will be met outside the walls of the old town two hours after midnight by two men who will provide transport, weapons and whatever else you need. Just as your forebears used mercenaries to assist them in their missions, you must use these men to help you in yours. But never forget that what you are doing for the love of God, they are doing for the love of money. So use them – but do not trust them.’

      He paused.

      ‘It is not lightly that I send you on this mission. Should you fall in your duty, as some of you might, then know you will be embraced by God as a blessed warrior, as those who fell before you. Those who do return will be welcomed back, not as members of the guild of guards you currently serve, but as the highest of our kind – a green cloak, a Sanctus. You may be aware,’ he added, ‘that there are already two vacancies. But I would expand our number to accommodate all of you who prove so worthy. And in rising to the highest level of our brotherhood you would, of course, be blessed with the sacred knowledge of that which I now ask you to protect.’

      He rose from his seat and removed his Crux from his rope belt. ‘You have a few hours in which to change and prepare for your return to the world. I will bless you now in the tradition of the order we revive here tonight.’

      He raised the Tau above his head and began uttering the ancient blessing of war, in words as ancient as the mountain they now prayed in, and behind him the fire crackled and hissed, and threw his huge shadow across the ceiling of the cave.

      Some hours later, a light tremor shook the ground by the old city wall, an echo of the storm flickering its way over the mountain peaks to the north. At the end of an alley between two multi-storey car parks, a heavy steel shutter rumbled upwards to reveal a gap just wide enough for a man to pass through. Three shadows peeled themselves away from the darkness, pieces of night dispersed by the wind. They headed down the alley towards a parked van with its rear doors unlocked.

      The first fat spots of rain pinged down on the thin steel roof of the van and cracked against the bone-coloured flagstones as the three figures slipped inside. The doors clanged shut and the engine growled into life. The headlights flicked on, sweeping the dusty road as rain erupted across it like a contagion.

      The van moved off, heading for the inner ring-road and the great eastern boulevard that would take them all the way to the airport. The rain intensified as they circled the old town, black tears weeping for all that had happened and all that might, running down the sides of the Citadel, down to the chalky earth where a moat once flowed and a man once swam, down narrow cobbled streets where red knights had ridden, to wash away the flowers and cards marking the spot where the monk had so recently fallen.

      45

      The Lockheed Tri-Star yawed and rolled as it slipped through the storm clouds guarding the descent into Gaziantep Airport. Lightning flared in the dimmed interior and the engines moaned as they struggled to grab hold of the slippery air. Liv clutched her guidebook as if it was a bible and looked around at the forty-or-so other passengers. None of them were sleeping either. Some appeared to be praying.

      God damn you, Sam, she thought as the plane lurched again. Eight years without a word and now you put me through this.

      She looked out of her rain-lashed window in time to see another bolt of lightning actually strike the wing. The engines roared in pain. She hoped to God the two incidents weren’t connected and glanced yet again at the ashtray in her armrest, wondering what the penalty was for smoking on a commercial airliner. She was seriously considering it, whatever it was.

      She peered once more into the turbulent night, hoping for some respite. As if by divine instruction, the clouds parted to reveal a dark, jagged landscape that twitched restlessly with the near constant flashes of lightning. In the distance she could make out the glow of a large town held in the natural cup of the mountain range like a shallow pool of gold. The rain running off the window made it shimmer like it wasn’t quite solid. In its centre was a spot of darkness with four straight lines of light radiating out from it. It was Ruin, and the darkness at its centre, the Citadel. From her lofty vantage point it looked like a black gemstone set in the centre of a bright cross. Liv fixed on it, remembering everything she’d read about the place and all the blood that had been shed for the sake of the secret it contained.

      Then the Lockheed banked unsteadily away, continuing its descent into Gaziantep Airport, and the Citadel slipped back into the night.

      Kathryn Mann stood watching the flood of people pour through into the arrivals hall. Following the revelations in the stolen police file she’d figured the girl would come to Ruin as soon as possible to take possession of her brother’s body. She’d felt the same way twelve years ago when her husband had been killed. She still remembered the urgent need to be with him, even though she knew he was dead.

      Given the time of the phone interview recorded in