The Bloodline Cipher (28 page)

‘Just a taste,' he said.

Jonah had managed to worm his hand into his jeans pocket, and his fingers closed around the cigarette lighter he'd collected from the Filipino guard on the
Aswang
. He manoeuvred it out again, and held the head of the lighter against the swaddling straps. He felt for the flints, trying to move his thumb enough to strike a flame.

As escape attempts went, he reflected, this one was stupidly unsafe. He knew he might be horribly injured in the process, or even die. But after what he'd been through, and the promise of what lay ahead, life wasn't something he was fussed about clinging to that tightly.

What about Tye? What will she do if you're gone?

But it was because of her – and Motti and Con – that he had to take the chance. Sooner rather than later.

The flints scraped under his thumb tip, but didn't catch. He tried again. This time, he felt the heat of a flame. Almost immediately it became unbearable, burning his fingers. He gasped, tried to wriggle them away, down to the underside of the lighter, but in the enclosed space, the flame was forced down by the
fabric, singeing the back of Jonah's hand and his hip. He wanted to scream out in pain – but knew any noise would bring the guards running and end things there and then.

He saw smoke start to curl from the stretcher fabric, and a point of smouldering brown grow slowly wider. But he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his mouth clamped shut. His thigh was being flame-grilled. He gritted his teeth, breathed in shallow puffs. He smelled fabric burning.

It's the stretcher. It's not my jeans, no way. Please, God, this will work, oh Christ, oh Jesus –

A moan escaped his lips as the pain grew sharper, fiercer. Tears leaked from his screwed-up eyes. It was like the bones in his hip and thighs had trapped the scorching heat inside them.

Then full flames crackled up from the stretcher material, orange and smoky. Jonah tried to stifle his moaning scream, bucking with his body, frantically trying to bring up his arm, praying he could tear through the burning fabric before the flames could spread any further. He swore and sobbed, eyes wide with terror, until the fabric ripped and he freed his lower arm. He flapped it about, trying to put out the flame, straining every muscle to tear free.

Finally the burning fabric ripped again, enough for him to wriggle most of his arm out. From there he feverishly hauled himself from out of the fiery shroud and tumbled off the trolley, falling to the rocky ground. Then he saw that his jeans
had
caught fire, and he rolled over and over, trying to extinguish the flames. He splashed into a puddle of stagnant
rainwater that had collected beneath the open window. The shock of the cold water felt even worse for a moment, but at least the flames were put out. He tugged off his smoking jeans, losing his Nikes in the process, and used them to beat at the flames on the stretcher until they were dead too. Then he slumped back to the shallow puddle and lay in it, the stench of burned flesh, hair and fabric hanging in the air with the thick smoke, like the big question –
what now?

It was tempting to lie just where he was, but Jonah realised the grille in the cell door had no glass, and that the smoke would soon seep out to alert a guard. He checked his leg. A large patch of skin was sticky red and blistered and incredibly painful. He thought of Patch, and he thought of the flames that followed the Guan Yin manuscript.

But this time the fire had actually brought good luck.
Maybe things are on the up
, Jonah thought without much enthusiasm.

Gingerly he pulled his jeans back on with blistered hands, ripping a hole in the charred denim so it didn't chafe his burns so badly, then pulled on his shoes and crossed to the grille in the door. The smoke was hanging in a thick pall – he only hoped that it was thick enough for what came next.

‘Help!' he yelled, jumping on the stretcher and pulling the fabric over him. ‘Fire! There's a fire!'

A startled Filipino man appeared at the grille, then bent to unlock the door. As he did so, Jonah rolled off, got behind the trolley and charged forward. The door was pushed open – and the guard took a high-velocity trolley to the chest, crying out as he flew backwards
and cracked his head against the bare rock wall behind him.

Jonah pushed the trolley aside and grabbed the guard, dragging him inside the cell. If this were a movie, he thought, the guard's outfit would make the perfect disguise. But even if Jonah hadn't been blond and pale-skinned, this guy was a foot shorter and skinnier all over. ‘Suppose they'll just have to take me as I am,' he muttered.

Once he'd tied the guard's wrists with his leather belt and gagged him with his socks, Jonah hefted him on to the trolley and took his keys. So far, so good. He hadn't injured himself too badly, and was now at large in some weird open-air prison complex, trapped on an island someplace with no way off.

It's a start
, he thought. Cautiously he went off to find his friends.

Forgotten for now beneath the balcony of stone, Tye lay helpless, tired and sore on her stretcher trolley. The place was beginning to fill up, and there was a definite air of anticipation. Saitou was talking to Bree, who was wielding a clipboard, presumably ironing out any last-minute hitches while managing to flutter her eyelids. Yeah, Bree was definitely a bit sweet on Saitou, Tye decided.

The aging Scribe was smoking a fag, kicking his feet on the intricate main throne. Heidel was handing crimson cloaks to those who wished to view from the gallery as supposed members of Nomen Oblitum. Those who did not appreciate such frivolity, or who did not wish to mix with others, were invited to view
the spectacle from a TV suite elsewhere in the complex – Bree was televising the event as she recorded it for posterity. There would most probably be a special DVD of the day's events for guests to buy on their way out – or thrown in for free if they bid for one of Coldhardt's children at auction.

Bree walked over to Tye, and clicked her tongue, mock sympathetic. ‘You must be very uncomfortable, trussed up like that.'

Tye was getting good at not reacting. She stared straight ahead.

‘My dilemma is this, Tye. I can't have you watching Coldhardt on that trolley. You would be seen. All our careful planning would be wrecked. And yet if I let you stand unrestrained, you may attempt to disrupt the stage-management of our little event.' She sighed. ‘So what am I to do with you?'

Again, Tye made no response – but when Bree produced a knife and slashed along the length of her surgical shroud, she couldn't help but flinch. The movement caused her pain, she felt sluggish and stiff; as if her circulation had given up and the blood congealed in her veins. But Bree was motioning her to get off the trolley.

‘You will stand on the balcony with the others,' Bree explained, ‘disguised in an acolyte's cowl. And you will study Coldhardt's sincerity.'

‘I was studying Saitou earlier.' Tye put on a smirk. ‘Doesn't know you're alive, does he, Bree?'

Bree shook her head, apparently amused. ‘You think a gutter girl like you can manipulate
me
?'

She shrugged. ‘I think a gutter girl like me would
make Saitou hotter than a prissy bitch like you ever will.'

There was just the tiniest flicker of annoyance in Bree's eyes, but it was worth silver and gold to Tye. ‘You're tolerated, because you're worth cash to this enterprise,' Bree said coldly. ‘But don't feel too smug. Because we value our investments, you'll be the sole charge of one of my special security people. I can rely on her not to tolerate indiscipline … and so can you.'

Bree turned towards the mouth of one of the tunnels, and nodded. Tye felt her heart cannon as she saw the familiar figure striding towards her. Black, spiky hair, a porcelain-pale face darkened with bruises and make-up, staring brown eyes …

‘Sadie,' Tye breathed.

‘Would you believe she only killed one person while breaking out of police custody?' Bree lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And while she always knew she had to throw that fight with you in the flat, I believe it's left her feeling slightly resentful. You will be careful, Tye … won't you?'

Tye didn't answer. Sadie snapped her teeth at her, and gave a smile as tight as an executioner's noose.

‘There's not long to go now,' said Bree. ‘And then show time can begin.'

Jonah couldn't decide whether to celebrate or curse his luck, as he limped through the tunnels. He couldn't see any security cameras anywhere – but then, he hadn't seen any on the
Aswang
either. Whatever, it seemed inevitable he would get caught. And so far he hadn't found Motti and Con – or Tye.

One room showed promise. It was locked, and looked empty besides some shelves with food and drinks supplies. But he had to be sure the people he cared for weren't in there.

Quickly finding the right key on the ring he'd taken from the guard, Jonah crept inside. No one was here, but he did clock a discarded stretcher trolley in the corner. From the dirt and bloodstains, it had seen use recently. Perhaps he was on the right track – perhaps Tye had come this way?

Jonah took a deep breath. He knew that the longer he wandered the tunnels, the more likely it was he would be caught. And the fear he felt suggested to him quietly on some level that perhaps he wasn't as ready to chuck his life away on some mad, final gesture after all.

‘What else can I do?' he muttered, not wanting to be seduced by reason.

What the hell use is reason in a life like mine
, he thought, sitting down on a box. It sagged under his weight – not as sturdy as he'd imagined. He peered inside – and found a crimson robe, like the one he'd seen the Scribe wear in Chamonix. If he wandered the corridors dressed in this, he might still get nowhere – but at least he wouldn't stand out so much …

Jonah sighed as he struggled into the vestment. ‘That's one up to reason,' he supposed.

But as he rose, ready to resume the search, he heard movement in the passage outside – measured, confident footsteps clopping on the rock. He stole quietly over to the door and peered out through the grille.

A jolt went through Jonah as he saw Coldhardt
coming. The old man looked suave and assured in a sharp black suit and a pale blue shirt, open at the neck. He was carrying a stunning bouquet of exotic white orchids in his arms, the beautiful flowers strung on long slender stalks, like ice to the fire of the crimson-robed guards escorting him.

I could kill him
, thought Jonah suddenly. C
heat Saitou and Street of their moment of glory. Break his neck for what he's done to us
.

He remembered Sadie bursting in to kill Budd and Clyde without hesitation, right in front of him. The memory led to one of him seeing Tye in Geneva after the killings in LA. ‘
I'm never gonna be cut out for this life
,' he'd reflected back then, ‘
am I?
' All that was half a world away … and what felt like half a lifetime ago.

No one ever knew what was round the next corner. You just had to keep going and find out.

Letting himself back out of the cell, Jonah trailed after his former boss with his heart well into his mouth. Whatever lay ahead, he felt a reckoning for them both was soon on the cards – either in this world, or the next.

Tye stood on the balcony in her disguising crimson cowl, her hands cuffed behind her back, the hood hanging down over her features. She was grateful for it – it was like wrapping herself up in a cocoon, a place where she could hide away from reality. But the cold prod of Sadie's crossbow pistol in her back kept finding her.

The low drone of chatter whispered around the
arena like flies. Tye thought she recognised some of the faces here today, gathered in the sunshine spilling down from the window of blue sky above. It seemed such an unassuming day; Tye had been expecting the sky to fall in around them at any moment, or jagged bolts of lightning to strike them all down. Instead there was the salt-fresh tang of the sea in the air, the sun warming her robes, and the cold scent of lilies in their strewn piles of purple and gold. They might be tied in the shape of the Knot of Isis, but Tye knew the old significance of the shades from her upbringing. They were funeral flowers.

Coldhardt will never admit he's sorry
, Tye thought nervously.
He'll never give them the satisfaction
. So what would Saitou do to him? How swiftly would the beautiful arena become a coliseum, the crowd baying for blood, the big emperor turning down his thumb as they threw Coldhardt to the lions …?

Then suddenly Bree ran out into the middle of the circle, standing beside the sinkhole of water in magnificent crimson robes of her own. She held up her hands and the chatter in the gallery died down, the features of the onlookers fell away into folds of fabric as cowls were adjusted.

Bree quickly disappeared again into the mouth of one of the tunnels. Tye felt her stomach lurch as the Scribe rose from his chair, as Saitou donned his bronze face mask, as Heidel wrapped himself in dark blue and black silks and took his place in the Mage's throne, ready to make his shock guest appearance when cued.

This was it.

Coldhardt was about to arrive at his own funeral.

Jonah had lost track of Coldhardt and his escort in the labyrinth of tunnels, together with all sense of which paths he had already taken. His leg was so painful he could barely stay standing. His fear of discovery was growing more pronounced with every painful step.

Suddenly Jonah jumped at the sound of strange music starting up, an atonal blast of pipes. He realised it was coming from a room further along the passage. The temple chic was made a little homelier here – a rich red carpet had been put down, and the tunnel walls were plastered white in thick, artisan sweeps.