The Power of Five Oblivion (70 page)

Was this what it meant to be one of the Five?

He wanted to rest but he knew he must keep going. He wanted to see Matteo again. Somehow when he was with Matt and the others, he understood things a little more … or at least accepted them. The thought of it gave him new strength. He could do this. There was a passage that the shape-changers and the Roman police didn’t know about. It led from the Vatican Museums into St Peter’s Basilica. Inside the church he would find a doorway that would take him to Antarctica. Matt had said it was there. So it must be.

The sun had only just risen but to Pedro it seemed very hot and the light was hurting his eyes. He was aware of walls soaring above him, of tall windows and archways. In the far distance, he thought he could hear organ music but he might have been imagining it. There were several doors leading into what might be offices or state rooms but they weren’t going to be any use to him.

But he had a problem. How was he meant to find a secret passage when even the name told him it was supposed to be secret? For a moment he was confused, as if the poison had seeped into his brain and made him forget what he was looking for. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since he had emptied his stomach. He thought he might faint.

The cleaner, pushing his trolley and sweeping his brush over the cobbled surface of the
Cortile Borgia
, saw the boy staggering towards him. His first thought that he was a refugee who had somehow broken into the Vatican. The whole city was swarming with them, many of them dying on their feet. This boy looked worse than any of them. His skin was white and drawn tight over his bones. There was a dreadful tinge of yellow in his eyes. He was clearly racked with pain.

The cleaner’s name was Leonardo Emilio Tasso but everyone just called him Tasso. He was sixty years old and he knew that he was very lucky to be employed at the Vatican. How else would he be able to support himself and his family in these terrible times? As he hurried over to the boy, his first thought was to summon the Swiss Guard and to have him ejected. That was the right thing to do. But at the same time he wondered if he shouldn’t call a doctor first. The boy would die if he was simply put out on the street, and Tasso, who had two grandsons of his own, would be responsible.

“Where have you come from?” he demanded as he caught hold of Pedro. “What are you doing here?”

Pedro didn’t understand anything he said. All he knew was that he had failed. He had been discovered before he could find the passageway. “Please, help me,” he said in English.

The choice of language took Tasso by surprise. He had been expecting Croatian, Polish or Russian. English was not often the language of the refugees. “Who are you?” he asked. He spoke a little English himself.

“My name is Pedro. I have to go into the Basilica.”

“You cannot go into the church. It is not allowed.”

“There’s a door. I have to find the door. A door with a star. Do you know it?”

Tasso had spent almost all his adult life in the Vatican. He knew the gardens, the buildings, the priests … and he knew the stories. The door with the star was something that people sometimes talked about – but always in whispers. It was in the church, behind the altar. It was half the size of a normal door and it looked completely different from the rest of the building. It led nowhere. Behind the door, there was a short corridor and then a brick wall. And, just as the boy had said, there was a five-pointed star above it. The symbol was very strange. It had nothing to do with Christianity – so why was it there?

There were those in the Vatican who wanted to destroy the door, to break down the wall around it and then to brick the whole thing in. But for some reason that had never happened. People said that there was something special about it, that the Vatican authorities knew something that they would never share. In any event, it was still there now. Tasso knew exactly where it was. He had passed it a hundred times.

And this strange, foreign boy was asking to be taken there.

Leonardo Emilio Tassio had a choice to make. He could call the Swiss Guard. In which case, Pedro would be dragged out and deposited on the other side of the Vatican walls. That would be the end of the matter. He would go on with his cleaning and after a while he would forget that this meeting had ever taken place. Or he could do as Pedro asked. He knew perfectly well that there was a flight of steps in the corner of the
Cortile Borgia
that led down to a dark, narrow tunnel, which ran underground for about a hundred metres before it emerged in the sanctury of St Peter’s Basilica. Senior members of the Pope’s office occasionally used it as a short cut. He himself sometimes went down there to smoke a secret cigarette.

“Please…” Pedro muttered.

The cleaner did not realize that he had arrived at the single most important moment of his entire life. All he knew was that he should do something to help this dying boy.

He let his broom fall to the ground.

“Come with me,” he said.

ANTARCTICA

Scott followed the stairs down to the courtyard with the great doors locked on one side, the mountain behind. It was strangely quiet, the snow falling more heavily and blanketing any sound. There were no guards in sight; they were no longer needed. The pathetic rabble that called itself the World Army had gone, scurrying for ships that they thought would take them to safety, unaware that nowhere in the world would ever be safe again. And Matt Freeman had been taken. Even now he was providing entertainment for the massed ranks of the Old Ones. Only the man on the scaffold was still here. He had frozen solid. The snow was settling on his shoulders and head.

Scott was wearing only a shirt, trousers and jacket. The cold cut into him almost gleefully and in seconds his fingers, his ears and his cheekbones were both numb and hurting at the same time. He realized that if he stayed out very long the weather would kill him – but he didn’t care. It was likely that quite soon he would be dead anyway.

He walked towards the cave set in the mountainside, opposite the gatehouse and the two towers. He saw the five-pointed star carved into the rock. There was the silver chain drawn across the mouth with the two pale white hands clasped together, keeping it locked. All he had to do was separate them and the way ahead would be clear. He would take ten steps and he would find himself in London. He wondered what Jamie would say. Would his brother even be glad to see him after everything that had happened? How much did he know?

There was also the question of the chain itself. The electricity or whatever deadly force ran through it. If there had been a guard or a servant around, Scott could have ordered them to pull the chain apart for him. But something inside him rebelled against the idea. Why should anyone else die because of him? Much better to do it himself.

He stepped forward, anxious to get it over with. He was very cold. His breath was coming out white and he could actually feel his lips freezing. It was time to get it over with.

But then something hot sliced across his shoulders. He yelled and spun round, just in time to see a glint of silver whip through the air, coming at him again. Instinctively, he jerked back. He had been wounded. He could feel blood trickling down his back. But the second blow had missed.

Jonas Mortlake stood opposite him.

Unlike Scott, Jonas was dressed for the weather with a padded anorak, gloves, hood, heavy boots with thick soles. He was holding a sword, one of the weapons that Scott had seen being manufactured only two days before. Somehow it looked incongruous in his hands … the antique weapon contrasting with the modern clothes. At least, it would have done if it hadn’t been so deadly.

“Are you going somewhere, Scott?” he demanded. “You’re not leaving us, are you?”

He swung again. Scott fell backwards and the blade passed just above his head. Jonas smiled at him, his eyes wide and bright behind his wire-framed spectacles, his artificially whitened teeth displayed in a brilliant smile. Scott knew that everything had changed. The Old Ones had Matt. They no longer needed him. And Jonas had been given permission to kill or cripple him. A payment for his services.

But Scott still had his power.

He opened his mouth to say the command that would root Jonas to the spot or send him running into the Antarctic waste. But before he could find the words, Jonas kicked him, the toecap of his boot driving into the side of his head. He had aimed very carefully and Scott was thrown back onto the snow. White light exploded behind his eyes. He was barely conscious, aware only of the dreadful pain sapping all his strength.

“Were you about to say something?” Jonas crooned. “Or maybe you were about to think it.” He lashed out a second time, hitting Scott in exactly the same place. Scott’s head jerked back. He tasted blood.

Jonas laughed and walked forward. “I think that puts us on equal terms,” he said. “But I’m just going to make absolutely sure.” This time he used the hilt of the sword, slamming it down like a club. Scott howled. He wondered if his skull had been fractured.

“The Old Ones don’t care about you any more. They’ve told me to finish this right here, right now.” Jonas drew back his hood so that there was nothing between the two of them, so that Scott could see how much hatred there was in his face. “I wish I could spend more time with you, Scott. I’d love to pay you back for what you did to me. But we don’t want you getting your head together, do we? Better get it over with…”

Scott tried to collect his thoughts, to draw on his power and direct it against his tormentor. But it was hopeless. He was in too much pain. The whole world was spinning around him.

Jonas straightened up, then brought the sword shooting down, the point aiming for Scott’s stomach. It was all Scott could do to roll over, saving himself by inches. The sword plunged into the snow beside him. He tried to grab hold of it but his vision was blurred and his hand missed. Jonas plucked it free, preparing himself for the next attack. He was in no hurry. Scott was unarmed. He had nowhere to go. His power had been neutralized. Jonas clasped the sword in both hands, enjoying the feel of it. The next time he wouldn’t miss.

“The Old Ones wanted Matt Freeman,” he said. “They were never interested in you. You’re nothing. A traitor. You don’t deserve to live. Goodbye, Scott.”

Jonas brought the point of the sword plunging down towards Scott’s chest.

It never reached him.

Halfway down, Jonas stopped, a look of surprise on his face. He lowered the sword as if he had already forgotten it. Then he pitched forward and lay still.

There was a knife jutting out between his shoulders.

“Scott!”

Scarlett ran forward with Lohan close behind. Scott had no idea how they had got here. It didn’t occur to him that they had followed exactly the same path that he had taken the night before and that it had brought them into the fortress, behind the walls. Lohan had a second blade and was looking around, waiting for a guard to come. But the snow had formed a curtain around them. They were invisible. Scarlett had seen to that.

“Scott!” she cried a second time. Everything was forgotten … the betrayal, Matt’s capture. All she cared about was the boy lying in the snow with terrible bruises around his head and blood seeping from the wound across his shoulders and along his right arm. She knelt beside him, trying to work out how badly hurt he was, if he could stand, if she could get him out of here.

“I’m sorry…” Scott muttered.

“Do you know where Matt is?” Lohan asked. “Have you seen him?”

“No. I don’t know.” Tears were trickling down the side of Scott’s face, freezing before they could reach his chin. He was suddenly seeing what a terrible mess he had made of everything, how hopelessly he had played his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Scott, it doesn’t matter. Not now.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Scott took a deep breath.

He wasn’t apologizing for what he had done but for what he was about to do.

“Stay still,” he commanded.

Both Scarlett and Lohan felt him enter their minds. They had no protection. They had been completely unprepared. As he had lain in the snow, Scott had recovered enough to regain his power and had used it against them: one of the Five turning against another. For a dreadful moment, Scarlett wondered what he was going to do. Surely he wasn’t going to betray them as he had Matt?

Slowly, he got to his feet. He was covered in snow. At least the extreme cold was masking some of the pain. “You have to forgive me, Scarlett,” he rasped. “I know you’d stop me and I can’t let you do that. Please tell Jamie, if I don’t see him, that I was thinking of him …”

Scarlett wanted to move. She wanted to stop him from doing what he was about to do … whatever it was. But her body wouldn’t obey her. She couldn’t even speak. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lohan struggling to break the spell. He was still holding the knife. Jonas Mortlake was on the ground in front of them, his eyes closed.

One step at a time, hunched over like an old man, Scott limped towards the cave. Scarlett noticed it for the first time. She saw the chain, the clasped hands, the five-pointed star and understood at once that this was one of the doors and that, somehow, it was the reason why all the other doors weren’t working any more. At the same time, she heard a faint buzzing sound coming from the chain and knew that whatever they did, none of them should touch it. But it was already too late because Scott was reaching out for it, and although she screamed at him to stop, no sound would come.

Scott grabbed the ivory hands.

FIFTY-FOUR

The door of the cell had been opened without making a sound. Despite everything, Richard must have dozed off because he only nodded awake when he felt a gust of warm air blowing in from outside.

“Could you please get up, Mr Cole,” a voice commanded. “There’s something I want you to see.”

Almost instinctively, Richard felt for the Inca knife, knowing that it was tucked into his belt, hidden from view. Nobody suspected that he had it. Perhaps this might be the moment to use it. He got to his feet. His legs and the back of his neck were stiff and he wondered how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? The metal plate had been pulled back, revealing a corridor on the other side. Two guards dressed in black leather jackets and carrying misshapen clubs stood on either side. They looked human – with hungry, beaten-up faces – but they could just as easily have been shape-changers. Neither of them showed any emotion beyond a dull, lingering hostility. Neither of them had spoken.