The Tower A Novel (Sanctus)

93





Gaziantep International Airport was crammed with people, noise and heat. Shepherd stepped into it feeling he’d landed on a

different planet.

He’d checked his phone in the transfer lounge in Istanbul but the cop he had left a message for still hadn’t called him back. On

the short hop to Gaziantep he had slept again, though it had felt like the blink of an eye.

He stood in line now, sweat trickling inside his shirt and jacket from more than just the rising heat. He pulled his phone from

his pocket and switched it back on, looking across the heads of the people in front of him at an armed guard standing behind the

passport booth, the unfamiliar uniform underlining how far he was outside his jurisdiction. The doors that had so far opened at

the flash of his badge would remain firmly shut here. But the ache he felt inside, the one that was pulling him towards Melisa was

so strong it was almost painful. He knew she was here and that this was exactly where he needed to be.

The phone caught a signal and vibrated in his hand. The countdown clock was still running on the screen, the number much smaller

than it had been before, and he had one voice message from a blocked number. He called voicemail and lifted the phone to his ear,

his heart beating so loud he wondered if he would be able to hear anything.

The message was short – a man’s voice, heavily accented but speaking English.

‘Hello my name is Davud Arkadian. I am an inspector with the Ruin police. Your number has been passed to me along with your

various enquiries. I have some information for you but it would be better if we talk. Please call me when you get this message.’

He reeled off a phone number and Shepherd fumbled in his jacket for a pen to scrawl the number on his hand then copied it into the

phone adding the international code for Turkey. The call would be bounced back to the States before coming here again and probably

cost him about a hundred bucks a minute. He would worry about that if he was still around to get the bill.

The line moved forward. The ringing tone filled his ear, mingling with the loud beating of his heart. He recognized the Inspector

’s name from the newspapers they’d found in Kinderman’s house. He’d been shot in the course of investigating the death of the

monk and had been involved with the missing Americans he had name-dropped to lend some weight to his request for information about

Melisa. It was possible he was about to be tripped up by his own subterfuge and have to listen to a detailed report about someone

he had little interest in.

‘Alo?’

‘Hi. Is that Inspector Arkadian?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Agent Shepherd – from the FBI.’

‘Oh yes, thanks for calling back. Apologies for the lateness of the hour.’

Shepherd glanced out at the brightening day. ‘I’m not in the States. I just landed in Turkey.’ There was a pause on the line.

‘You said you had some information,’ Shepherd prompted.

‘Yes.’

‘About whom?’

‘About Melisa Erroll mainly.’

Shepherd felt the blood drain from his face and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He glanced up and saw the guard

frowning in his direction. There was a sign by his head with a picture of a cellphone with a line through it and something in

Turkish that undoubtedly said ‘No phones.’

‘Listen,’ Shepherd said, suddenly paranoid that his only lifeline to everything was about to be confiscated. ‘Can I call you

back in a few minutes?’

‘Where are you exactly?’

‘I’m at Gaziantep Airport, I’m just going through passport control.’

‘Write this down.’

Arkadian was already reeling off directions and Shepherd scrawled them on his hand beneath the phone number. His eyes flicked

between the message and the guard.

‘Give these directions to a taxi driver and give my name when you reach the first roadblock,’ Arkadian said. ‘I’ll see you in

about forty minutes.’





94





The fire took two days to burn its way through the entire collected works of mankind, and another five before the smoke cleared

and it cooled down sufficiently for anyone to venture safely into the part of the mountain where the library had been.

Thomas was the first to step through the remains of the airlock. Both doors were gone entirely and the metal frames that had held

them were twisted beyond recognition. He stood in what had once been the entrance, awed at the blackened nothingness the library

had become. The black cloaks followed him, one of them breaking down when he saw the devastation.

‘See what you can salvage,’ Thomas said, ‘and I will do the same.’

The control room was protected by a steel door that was still warm to the touch when Thomas tried to open it. It had buckled in

its frame, jamming it tightly in place, giving him hope that something beyond it may have survived. He found a length of metal on

the floor, part of a table, and jammed it into a gap in the side of the ruined door. He leaned back, heaving on the bar until the

door shifted with a shriek of tortured metal. He shone his torch through the gap and hope fell away into the darkness beyond.

The fire had got in here too. Even though the door had kept the flames out the air must have still become superheated and ignited

everything flammable in the room. Without oxygen it hadn’t burned for long but it had been enough to destroy everything. The

control systems and circuitry had all melted and fallen down through the racks, collecting on the floor in bizarre puddles of

solidified plastic and wire. He grabbed the sides of the door leaving finger marks in the soot and wrenched it open, wide enough

to step through. Practically his whole life’s work had been contained in this room. It had been the most technologically advanced

and sophisticated library preservation system ever devised but in the end all of it had been undone by a madman with something so

simple as a fallen candle.

He took a breath laced with smoke and headed to the far end of the room where another steel door the size of a briefcase was set

into the stone. He wiped the soot from the dial protruding from the centre so he could read the numbers then carefully dialled in

the code to open the safe.

One of Thomas’s initiatives had been to create a digital copy of every single item in the Great Library. It had taken nearly five

years to accomplish. The entire collection – millions of books and hundreds of millions of pages – had fitted onto just eight

removable storage disks and they were kept in this safe. The door he was unlocking was fifteen centimetres thick and the rest of

the safe was set into solid rock, which should have helped keep the insides cool. Even so, the fire had been so fierce that the

drives might still be damaged. But as long as they were still intact he could repair them and effectively rescue the contents of

the library from the flames.

He dialled in the final number, twisted the handle and heaved open the door. He stared at the glowing interior, untouched by flame

or smoke and looking totally incongruous amongst the devastation. But it was empty. In truth he had half expected it. There was

only one other person who knew the codes to this safe.

Malachi had been thorough if nothing else.





95





It took Shepherd five attempts and an offer to pay double the fare before he finally found a taxi driver willing to take him to

Ruin.

‘I only go as far as roadblock,’ the driver said, ‘then you walk.’ Shepherd took it, thinking it had to be better than walking

from the airport, which seemed his only other option.

He sat in the back of the cab on worn fabric seats, breathing in the chemical scent of vanilla air-freshener and watching the

unfamiliar countryside and olive trees flit past his window. Ahead of him the Taurus Mountains rose up in a jagged horizon. He

tried not to think of what might lie ahead or what he might be about to learn. There could be no turning back now.

The road curved up into foothills, cutting out the sun so it seemed as though they were entering a valley of shadows. They rounded

a bend and saw a long line of red brake lights ahead, lighting up the gloom and stretching away to a distant barrier manned by

armed soldiers wearing battle fatigues and surgical face masks. The taxi pulled to a stop at the end of the line. There were at

least twenty other cars in front of them, a few other taxis but mainly family cars laden with luggage, exactly like the ones

Shepherd had seen heading into Charleston.

‘Crazy people,’ the driver shook his head. ‘Who comes here?’

‘They’re just heading home,’ Shepherd said.

The driver shook his head and kissed his teeth.

There was some kind of discussion going on at the barrier with the soldiers who kept shaking their heads, their eyes hidden behind

sunglasses, their fingers pointing along the lines of their guns, ready to drop to the trigger if things got out of hand.

‘I’ll walk from here,’ Shepherd handed the driver some notes and got out without waiting for change.

The air outside smelt of cypress sap and wet stone, a huge improvement on the chemical tang of the taxi. Shepherd walked along the

edge of the road, his eyes fixed on the barrier ahead. One of the soldiers sensed him coming and turned the black discs of his

shaded eyes towards him, twisting his body at the same time so the HK33 slung across his chest was pointing in his direction.

Shepherd smiled and raised his hands over his head, one of them holding his badge.

‘I’m an American police officer,’ he said, arriving at the barrier and stopping short of it. The soldier said nothing. ‘I’m

looking for an Inspector Arkadian. You speak English?’

‘No, he doesn’t.’ A bear of a man in his early fifties squeezed past the soldiers and peered at Shepherd’s badge through a

pair of half-moon, tortoiseshell glasses perched above surgical mask. He held a hand up in greeting and showed Shepherd his own ID

badge identifying himself as Inspector Arkadian. ‘You’re a little far from home, Special Agent.’ He looked up and fixed

Shepherd with sharp eyes. ‘Normally we have a little more warning about international cooperation efforts.’

‘I apologize for the suddenness of my appearance.’ Shepherd lowered his hands and slipped his badge back in his jacket, his mind

flipping through various options of what to say next. The road sat at the bottom of steep walls of drilled rock so the only way to

go any further was past the roadblock. But he had no authority here and the soldiers didn’t seem to want to let anyone through.

‘Can we talk somewhere in private?’ he said, gambling on this at least getting him the right side of the barriers.

Arkadian considered for a moment then said something in Turkish and the soldier in front of Shepherd stepped aside to allow him to

pass. He stepped through the barrier and heard the clamour of voices double in volume behind him as the other drivers saw what had

happened.

‘These people,’ Arkadian said, nodding back at the queue, ‘more of them arrive each day. They were all born here. They don’t

care that the city is still under quarantine, they just want to go home. Especially now that this countdown has appeared on the

news.’

‘It’s the same all over,’ Shepherd said. ‘Everyone getting ready for the end of the world.’

‘Not quite everyone,’ Arkadian said, reaching a car and unlocking it. ‘For some people the world has already ended.’

He didn’t elaborate and Shepherd didn’t pursue it: but as they drove away from the roadblock and down an empty road he could

feel the sadness coming off the Inspector like something tangible. He selfishly hoped it had nothing to do with the news he was

about to hear.





96





The cab pulled up outside the battered building on the outskirts of Gaziantep and Eli stared out at the noisy, busy street. He was

in some kind of merchant district with warehouse shops spilling onto the streets and men milling about and haggling energetically

and loudly over everything. He showed the driver the piece of paper he had written the address on, convinced they couldn’t

possibly be in the right place.

‘Is here,’ the driver said, pointing at a faded blue door set into the wall. ‘Is church.’

Eli paid the man and got out, feeling edgy. They’d had to split up at the airport, Carrie following the FBI agent, him heading

off to fetch supplies from a local contact Archangel had set them up with. He never liked being away from her, particularly

somewhere like this where there were so many triggers for bad memories: the dry heat; the loud conversations in an alien language

and eastern-sounding music blaring from somewhere; the shabby buildings lining dusty streets; the missile minarets of a mosque

sticking up above the rooftops. He didn’t like it – not at all – the whole place screamed ‘hostile’.

He moved over to the door, scoping the street as he went, automatically looking for sniper positions and ambush points. There were

too many to count and the men who had been bartering for goods started to turn their attention to him. Behind him the cab began to

move away and he felt a strong urge to run after it, get back in and get the hell out of here. But then Carrie would be

disappointed with him and he couldn’t bear to see that sad look in her eyes or know that it was his weakness that had put it

there.

He walked over to the door, sweat starting to prickle his scalp, and looked for a name or a sign, anything that might prove he was

in the right place. A stack of different doorbells lined the sides of the frame with the names of businesses or individuals he

didn’t recognize pinned to each one. The address and instructions Archangel had given him said he was coming to a church, but

there was no sign of one here. Panic started to bubble low down in his chest as he realized that, with the taxi now gone, he could

be stranded here. He should have made the driver stay until he’d checked it out. Stupid! Carrie would be furious if he came back

with nothing. Then he saw it, etched on the plastic case of one of the doorbell buttons, so small anyone would miss it unless they

were looking specifically for it – a small cross.

He pressed the button and waited, feeling the eyes of the street upon him. He listened out for sounds of movement beyond the thick

door but all he heard was the music of the street sounding strange and unsettling to his ear. He was convinced the volume of the

conversations had dropped and that they were now talking about him. He pressed the button again, wondering if the cable that ran

out of it and burrowed into the wooden frame like a fat worm was even connected to anything. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Alone.

Sweat beading in his cropped hairline started to run down the sides of his face. He was on the point of turning round and walking

away when a loud crack sounded inside the door making him jump. A gap opened and a round, moonlike face appeared in it. The man

was dressed in the traditional long white tunic with a keffiyeh wrapped around his neck. He barely looked at Eli, his restless,

bloodshot eyes sizing up the street before opening the door wide enough to let him pass.

Inside the building was dark and old and smelt of leather and dust. A staircase ran up the centre with doors leading off each

landing to the various businesses that had been advertised all the bell buttons by the main door.

Eli followed in silence, keeping close to the wheezing, waddling figure of his contact until they reached the very top of the

stairs and a plain door that was carefully unlocked with a set of keys kept on a leather thong around the fat man’s neck.

Eli had bowed his head and prayed in some weird churches in his time but this one was in a league all of its own. The room was

tiny, about the size of a small garage, with a bedroll in one corner and a solitary window crudely taped up with old newspapers to

form the sign of the cross. On the floor beneath it votive candles burned on a broad plank of wood set atop a wooden crate, their

flames wavering in the disturbed air.

The man closed the door and locked it before leaning towards him and whispering with sour, tobacco breath, ‘We must be careful,

for we are under siege here. The enemy is outside the door. We should pray before we get down to God’s business.’

He dropped to his knees facing the window, crossing himself before opening his arms wide and holding them up to the ragged, paper

-edged cross.

‘Lord our Father, bless us and protect us in all that we do in your holy name. And give us the strength to go into battle against

the forces of Satan that inhabit your holy lands and help us to defeat those who would seek to destroy you.’ He leaned forward as

if prostrating himself before the Lord, took hold of the edges of the wooden board and removed it, candles and all, to reveal a

neat line of weapons laid out on a blanket beneath.

Eli reached inside the crate and picked up a Ruger. It looked tiny in his hand but it wasn’t for him. He checked the action and

removed the clip. It only held six rounds but that wasn’t necessarily a problem. Carrie was the best shot he had ever seen. For

himself he took a Zigana K, a Turkish semi-automatic he had fired before, and a folding hunter’s knife.

‘Ammunition?’ he asked.

The man turned round in the small space and flipped the bedroll over to show a hatch cut into the floorboards. He lifted the panel

out to reveal boxes of ammunition as well as something else Eli had not expected.

‘I didn’t ask for a suicide vest,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the bundle of explosives and wires like it was a coiled snake.

The fat man glanced at him. ‘You are not the only soldier of God who needs a sword,’ he said, handing him boxes of shells for

the guns he had chosen. ‘And yours will not be the only battle fought here in the days to come.’





97





Arkadian turned off the road just short of a second roadblock. Beyond it the city of Ruin spread out like a ghost town. There were

no people visible, no cars moving down the streets. The only movement was a military truck, crawling along the long wide boulevard

that arrowed its way to the centre of the city where the Citadel rose like a spire.

‘This is sort of a no-man’s-land,’ Arkadian explained, ‘far enough away from populated areas for the air to be deemed safe by

the health authority. We use it as a command centre for policing the quarantine. You’re safe here but I still have to ask you to

put on one of these.’ He leaned into the back of the car and fished a fresh surgical mask from an open carton. Arkadian waited

for him to put it on before he opened the door and stepped out.

Shepherd was struck by the sound coming from the other side of the large building they were walking towards – the shrieks and

laughter of children playing, their voices tinkling and swooping like birds in the air. ‘This is one of the kindergartens,’

Arkadian explained. ‘All the children have been evacuated from the city now.’ He pushed through the entrance and went inside.

The lobby was choked with posters for mountain hikes and biking and handwritten postcards on pinboards offering guided tours of

the Old Town. Arkadian walked over to a door in the far wall that opened into an office with a few desks and computer terminals.

‘Welcome to the police department,’ he said, moving to a desk in the corner. ‘It doesn’t look much but it’s plugged in to all

the relevant databases, all the ones you require, at least.’ He pulled a second chair over and gestured for Shepherd to sit then

typed in his log-in name and password. Shepherd noticed he was favouring his left hand.

‘How’s your arm?’ he asked. ‘I read about what happened.’

‘You ever been shot, Agent Shepherd?’

‘No.’

‘It hurts more than you would imagine and it’s still not properly fixed. The mornings are worst and it aches whenever the

weather is about to change.’

The screen flickered and Shepherd caught his breath as a photograph of Melisa appeared.

‘Melisa Ana Erroll,’ Arkadian said, catching Shepherd’s reaction. ‘What is your interest in her, exactly?’

‘I’d like to talk to her – in relation to an on-going investigation.’

Arkadian turned in his seat and stared straight at him. ‘Shall we be honest with each other?’ Shepherd shook his head like he

wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘I’ll start shall I?’ Arkadian offered. ‘When I got your message I called a few people and ended

up speaking to your partner.’

‘Franklin?’

‘You have another partner?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not sure Franklin would call himself my partner.’

‘Well, whoever he is he told me everything, or at least enough so that I know why you’re looking for this woman.’ Arkadian

removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is never easy and there is never any way to say it except straight.

Melisa Erroll fell victim to the blight four months ago when the spread was still in its early stages. She was taken into the

Citadel for treatment and apparently died three days later.’

Shepherd couldn’t breathe. Part of him didn’t believe it. He felt the ache inside, stronger now than ever, the red threads still

pulsing and twisting.

He looked at the screen in case the photograph wasn’t her. But it was.

He was suddenly aware of everything: his breathing, the way his clothes touched his skin, how his whole body felt awkward in this

seat, in this room. He was aware that Arkadian was still talking, and studying him with his knowing eyes, but he couldn’t hear

what he was saying. He tried to concentrate until some of his words swam into focus. ‘Do you need a minute?’ He shook his head.

‘According to the records her father contracted it first and she looked after him until he was taken into the mountain. Then she

fell ill herself.’

Shepherd took a breath and felt his voice vibrating in his head. ‘Is she – is her body buried somewhere?’

Arkadian shook his head. ‘All victims of the blight are cremated inside the Citadel.’

Shepherd put his hand to his chest where he still felt the ache. ‘She can’t be dead,’ he said. ‘I can feel her.’

Arkadian looked at him for a moment, his eyes curious. Then he rose from his chair. ‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘there’s someone

you should meet.’

Shepherd drifted after him like a ghost, down a long corridor with open doors to dormitory-style bedrooms on either side.

‘Wait here,’ Arkadian said, pointing through one of them to a room filled with triple-decker bunks. Shepherd went in and sat

awkwardly on the edge of a bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, unable to sit upright in bunks that were built for kids. The

sound of children playing rose in volume as Arkadian went outside then faded to silence again as the door shut behind him. The

beds were still ruffled from sleep, a different stuffed toy standing guard by each pillow. The one he was sitting on had a rabbit

on it. Next to the bed three small suitcases were lined up against the wall, each containing the whole world of an evacuated

child.

The door opened again to let the swooping shrieks of happy children flood back into the building. Shepherd looked up to discover a

young girl standing in the doorway, her small hands clasped in front of her, her head tilted forward so her dark, wavy hair fell

over her face, giving her something to hide behind. Two dark eyes peered out from behind it.

Her mother’s eyes.

Shepherd stared at her, not noticing Arkadian standing behind her until she pressed herself back against his leg. ‘Hevva, this is

Mr Shepherd.’

‘Joseph,’ he said, smiling at her to try and put her at ease. ‘Do you speak English?’

She nodded, a move so tiny he wouldn’t have seen it at all but for the movement of her hair. ‘Are you real?’ she asked.

Shepherd’s smile broadened at the strange question. ‘As real as you.’ He frowned in mock seriousness. ‘Unless you’re not

real, are you real?’

Another tiny nod, this time with the flicker of a smile.

‘I knew your mother,’ Shepherd said.

‘I know,’ the girl said, her voice sounding older than her years. She took a step forward, those familiar eyes watching him all

the way. She still seemed a little wary of him and he didn’t want her to be. She was a living reminder of the woman he had loved

and he just wanted to look at her.

She stopped in front of him, held out her clenched hands and opened them. Inside was a locket, held on a chain around her neck.

She slipped it over her head, waves of hair tumbling over her face as the chain pulled free of it. He took it and looked at her,

not sure what she meant by giving it to him. Then she reached out and – with tiny, nimble fingers – she opened it.

Tears flowed down Shepherd’s cheeks when he saw what was inside. It was a tiny photo of Melisa, bordered in black, and opposite

it – a picture of him.