The Tower A Novel (Sanctus)

86





The phone buzzed.

The Novus Sancti rose from his chair and quickly walked out of the building, answering it as he passed through a door and into the

chill of the day.

‘Yes?’

‘Archangel is dead.’

Miss Boerman’s voice sounded tense and stretched thin. Behind her he could hear the clamour of people.

‘Where are you?’

‘At the police station. They gave me my phone call so I called you.’

The Sanctus nodded, his mind working through the ramifications of this news, moving the various pieces in play around in his head

like he was re-setting a chessboard. ‘Archangel has served the Lord well, and so have you. Say nothing and the Lord will provide

for you, both in spirit and of course in the more earthly matter of legal counsel.’

He hung up, uncomfortable about talking on an open line coming from inside a police station. He powered the phone down, prised the

back off, removed the SIM card then crushed it under his boot.

Back inside the building he settled behind his desk, his face lit by the glow of a computer screen. He tapped a code to unlock it

and an email program opened up. It was an online account operating behind a daisy chain of virtual networks, so anything sent to

or from it was totally untraceable. He re-read the message he had been composing, his lips moving slightly as if uttering a silent

prayer:

This is a warning.

Attached to this message is a countdown clock, discovered in the files of Dr Kinderman and Professor Douglas, two eminent

astronomers who have gone missing.

The world knows something is coming. The armies are refusing to fight, snow falls in deserts and we are all feeling the spirit of

God moving through us, sending us back to our homes so we might be ready for His arrival.

Judgement Day is upon us. You still have time but this countdown shows that time is measured in days not weeks. Show Him we still

have faith and be ready for what is coming.

Repent and return to God while you still have time.

A friend

Novus Sancti

He checked the addresses against a list he had spent months compiling. It contained direct contacts for every major news outlet

across the globe as well as the press offices of most major Western governments. He re-checked the various attachments: the

countdown application found on Douglas’s laptop; copies of the latest FBI and police reports regarding the events at Goddard and

Marshall so they would take the message seriously. When he was satisfied everything was in order he typed three words into the

subject line:

REVELATION OR DEVASTATION?

Then pressed Send and watched his message fly.





87





Liv came to with a start. The citrus smell was stronger now and mixed with something acrid and dry that burned the back of her

throat. Someone was standing over her, holding a bottle under her nose and she turned, raising her hand at the same time to bat it

away.

‘Hey, take it easy. You’re OK. It’s just smelling salts.’

She blinked and looked back into the gentle eyes of the Italian doctor.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘You passed out.’

Liv tried to get up but he laid a hand on her shoulder and firmly eased her back down. ‘You should stay here for a while, get

some rest. I’ve put you on a saline drip to get some fluids into you and there’s some Perfalgan in there too to get your

temperature down: you were up at forty degrees – not good. I also took the liberty of stealing a little blood.’ He pointed at a

small plaster in the crook of her arm.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Giorgio Giambanco – hell of a mouthful, no? You can call me George if you like. What’s yours?’

‘Liv – Adamsen,’ she added, defaulting to formality in the face of a medical professional.

‘OK, Miss Adamsen, talk me through your fainting episode, was it sudden or did it come on gradually?’

‘It was the heat I think. I started to feel feverish so I headed inside.’

He tilted her head up, checking the glands in her neck with his fingertips. ‘Any nausea?’

‘Yes, a little, and the ground felt like it was moving. I started getting tunnel vision. There was a smell too, like lemons.’

He frowned, checking her blood-pressure readings from a cuff. ‘When did you notice the smell?’

‘When I was still outside, though it was stronger inside the building. In fact I can still smell it.’

He was about to respond when one of the new people stepped into the room and placed a small tray on the countertop. It contained

two small vials filled with blood and a piece of paper with various results written on it by hand. The new doctor shot her a smile

that was hard to read then was gone. George ripped the Velcro of the pressure cuff from her arm. ‘Sounds like heat exhaustion,’

he said, turning to the blood results and picking up the piece of paper. ‘You need to rehydrate and take it easy. No more

demolition work in the midday sun for you.’ He studied the results and frowned. ‘You said you experienced nausea?’ He looked up

at her in a way that made her feel vaguely nervous.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you vomited at all?’

She shook her head.

‘And you said you smelt the lemons while you were still outside the building.’

‘Yes, I can still smell them.’

‘And does the smell also make you feel a little sick?’

‘A little.’ She felt panicky. ‘What is it? Am I having a brain haemorrhage or something? I read somewhere that people smell

things before having a stroke.’

‘No, no – it’s nothing like that. What you’re smelling is just some disinfectant we brought with us that they’re now using to

swab out the canteen. It’s got some lemon scent in it, not much – I can’t really smell it at all. But you smelled it way off

when you were still outside the building.’

Liv’s heart continued to race at the prospect of whatever was wrong with her.

‘There are many things that can cause hyperosmia,’ he said in a gentle way that wasn’t helping. ‘That's just a fancy word for

an enhanced sense of smell. And your blood tests confirm that the reason for yours is very common.’

Liv relaxed a fraction. At least whatever she had wasn’t exotic and therefore more likely to be treatable. ‘What do I have?’

He smiled and the skin crinkled around his eyes. ‘It’s not so much what you have as what you’re going to have. You’re

pregnant, Miss Adamsen. You’re going to have a baby.’