The Key by Simon Toyne Read Free Book Online Page B

two.’
    Another murmur rippled through the crowd.
    ‘Then we should await their return,’ Brother Axel called out. The noise became a rumble of approval amid a general nodding of heads.
    ‘I fear that is unlikely,’ Athanasius replied, addressing the congregation rather than his challenger. ‘The last remaining Sancti suffered the same affliction as the others and their condition is grave. We cannot rely on them returning or having the strength to lead if they do. We must look to new leadership. The elections are set.’
    A new disturbance broke out and everyone turned towards it. A figure had entered the door at the back of the cave and was now moving steadily towards the altar, his approach accompanied by the hum of voices and a strange, dry hissing sound. It was Brother Gardener, his name earned from many years of service in the pastures and orchards that flourished at the heart of the mountain.
    The dry whispering grew louder with each step and so did the murmur of voices until Brother Gardener reached the altar and grimly stepped aside to reveal the source of the noise. It was the branch of a tree, broken off at the thickest part, its leaves and blossom brown and withered.
    ‘I found it in the orchard under one of the oldest trees,’ Brother Gardener said, his voice low and troubled. ‘It’s rotted right through.’
    He looked up at Athanasius. ‘And there’re others, lots of others; mostly the older ones but some of the younger ones too. I’ve never seen anything like it. Something’s happening. Something terrible. I think the garden is dying.’

8
    Vatican City, Rome
    Clementi emerged from the lift into the softly lit vault and headed to the same boardroom where the Group had last met. Everyone had been best of friends then. All the trickier elements of the plan had been carried out and the recovery team had been deployed in the field ready to find and deliver the great treasure Clementi had promised – but that was before the explosion in Ruin.
    Clementi turned to Schneider. ‘Make sure no one else comes down here until our meeting is concluded,’ he said, then heaved against the heavy door and passed into the boardroom.
    They were all present, as Schneider had warned him, the Holy Trinity of conspirators – one American, one British and one Chinese.
    In a world obsessed with money and power their faces were instantly recognizable. At one time or another each had graced the cover of
Fortune
magazine as revered owners of some of the biggest companies in the world, modern-day empires whose assets and influence crossed international borders and set the political agenda in their own and other countries. In previous ages they would have been emperors or kings and worshipped as gods, such was the extent of their power. They had also collectively lent the Church six billion dollars, through private accounts managed personally by Clementi, to underwrite their joint venture and prevent the Church from collapsing beneath its colossal debt. But they had not been persuaded to do this out of a sense of duty or a love of God, it was purely for the potentially huge financial gains Clementi’s proposition had promised, and, as in all such ventures, there came a time when dividends were expected – and that time was now.
    ‘Gentlemen,’ Clementi said, settling into a seat across the table from them, ‘what an unexpected honour.’
    No one replied. Clementi felt the skin tighten on his scalp, like a nervous candidate at a job interview. Reminding himself that
he
had invited them into his scheme, not the other way round, he tried to calm himself by reaching for a cigarette and lighting up. Xiang, the Chinese industrialist, was already smoking, the smoke from his cigarette making all three of them appear like they were smouldering. Despite their differences in age and nationality, each man carried the same dense gravity of absolute power and authority. At eighty-three, Xiang was the oldest; his suit, hair and skin