The Bloodline Cipher (15 page)

‘Yeah, right,' she muttered, pulling out the radio. ‘Motti, it's Tye.'

‘You mean it ain't the Queen of England?' he shot back.

‘Be quiet.' Tye watched Sadie warily, convinced she was about to get right up again. ‘We just ran into
Lady Bowfinger, waiting to take us out the second we went into that penthouse.'

‘Shit.'

‘No shit.' Patch coughed and wiped a string of bloody saliva from his chin. ‘It's all been kicked out of me.'

‘Tie her up, Patch,' Tye hissed urgently, and crossed to the window. ‘Looks clear inside the penthouse. Guess they wouldn't want one of their own catching a stray harpoon.'

‘Harpoon?' That was Con's voice. ‘You're serious?'

‘You don't want to know how serious.' Tye wiped cold sweat from her eyes. ‘Just get inside that penthouse while you can. We'll watch from the window and warn you if we see any more company coming.'

‘Perhaps you should simply shoot them first, no?' said Con softly. ‘This is the second time they have tried to kill us. If not for blind luck this time …'

Con broke contact, and Tye sighed heavily. She glanced back at Patch, squinting through his swollen eye as he tied Sadie's hands behind her back with a leather belt.

‘We're thieves, not killers,' said Patch firmly. ‘Let's call the cops, tell 'em there's been a break-in. Should keep her tied up for a while.'

‘I only hope your knots will,' Tye muttered, watching edgily from the window for any movement in the street below.

Jonah became aware of the world sliding back into solidity. His mouth was parched, and his whole body felt sick and hollow. He clenched his fists and fought
against the feeling of nausea, tried to focus on his heartbeat, to drive it faster and faster, fast enough to drum out the poison and beat his other senses back into life.

As he rubbed his aching neck, his finger touched on the swollen mark where the dart had punctured the flesh; it stung fiercely, making him gasp, driving his eyes open. With the pain came sudden clarity, and he found he was sprawled on the sofa in the apartment's living room. The blinds had been drawn, and it was very cold. Maya was kneeling on the carpet beside him, awake and wary.

Jonah stirred groggily, grabbed hold of her. ‘You OK? What happened to Sorin? Where did –'

Then he turned to his right and saw what she was looking at. Sorin was standing rigidly against the far wall in front of the two-way mirror, flanked by weird figures – one masked and wearing dark robes, the other an old man in a smock of flowing crimson silk. The ruby-glass medallion at his throat seemed to glow as it reflected the richness of the fabric.

‘Welcome back, Jonah.'

Jonah turned quickly to his left at the sound of Coldhardt's voice; he had taken the same chair in which Maya had faced her questioning. ‘How are you feeling now?'

‘Like death,' Jonah muttered. ‘What's going on, where'd you spring from?'

‘I came here when my surveillance devices abruptly ceased operation,' Coldhardt explained, ‘and found you had visitors.'

‘They weren't exactly invited in.' Jonah turned back
to the figures, gritting his teeth. ‘Sorin drugged me, I thought I dreamed these guys.'

‘You were poisoned by a dart containing curare,' announced the elderly man in crimson, his voice deep and honeyed. ‘Your neuromuscular junctions were swiftly affected. If left untreated, you would have died of asphyxiation.'

‘It seems you and Maya owe your lives to the early arrival of my guests.' Coldhardt smiled. ‘Allow me to introduce the Scribe and his man-at-arms – representatives of Nomen Oblitum.'

Jonah felt a jolt of apprehension, as the two robed figures touched their hands to their glass amulets in an almost defensive gesture. Each amulet resembled an ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life – but the arms were longer and curved down, and a stylised knot marked the point where the oval ‘head' met the stem of the body.

‘The Knot of Isis,' said Maya quietly, nodding to the amulets. ‘The symbol of Nomen Oblitum.'

‘Isis?' Jonah whispered.

‘Yes, Isis,' said the Scribe. ‘A most worthy patron. Egyptian goddess of love and destiny, who grew in significance to become a cosmic goddess over all the ancient world. In her ancient shrine in Sa el-Hagar, it was written,
I am all that hath been, and is, and shall be; and my veil no mortal has hitherto raised
.' The old man in the crimson robes stepped forward. ‘We of the cult see through that veil. Our lives are dedicated to the assimilation of the ancient arts, just as Isis herself assimilated Semitic and Arabian gods, her power and influence growing over thousands of years …'

Now Jonah could see the Scribe's face more clearly. The features were vaguely Middle Eastern, lips pulled back in the rictus smile of an overeager salesman. But his eyes seemed sallow and dull, like he'd spent a lifetime studying things too close, too keenly; if the man really was a scribe, someone who spent his life writing out documents, perhaps that might explain it.

‘The knot represents eternal life and resurrection,' the Scribe went on. ‘Fitting for so long-lived an organisation as ours, do you not think?'

‘Very fitting,' muttered Maya.

‘If you saved us, then thank you.' Jonah was in no mood for a history lesson. ‘But what's happened to Sorin? He's not moving.'

‘The youth is held immobile,' the Scribe agreed. ‘Just as we held and expelled the poison within you, so we can manipulate the meridians of the body.'

The Scribe nodded to his man-at-arms. The masked figure placed his fingers against the skin of Sorin's neck and flexed them into strange, gnarled designs. One moment Sorin held the same glazed and empty look in his eyes, the next he was screaming hoarsely and wildly as if wracked by the most incredible pain. And yet for all the anguish there in his face, his body barely moved – as if it were solid wax and fixed to the floor. Then the man-at-arms touched Sorin's wrist; the screams choked off and Sorin fell to the floor, shivering and panting for breath.

The Scribe himself now bent easily to press two fingers against the base of Sorin's neck. Sorin fell still again, his breathing growing more regular as if he were asleep.

‘An interesting demonstration,' said Coldhardt finally.

‘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 …'