Prophecy. An ARKANE thriller. (Book 2) (7 page)

“How’s Di?” Morgan asked.
 

“She’s in the intensive care unit at Hadassah. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s well looked after.”
 

Morgan visibly relaxed at the positive news of her friend.
 

“You’ve done well for yourself, Lior.”
 

His name was soft in her mouth and it thrilled him for he hadn’t heard it spoken like that for many years now. He reached for her hand but she picked up the coffee cup and drank from it. He moved his hands away again and his tone changed.
 

“I’m not sure even the Inspector General can get you out of this one, Morgan. What are you doing here anyway? And what happened at Ezra?”

“Is the orderly dead?” she asked, ignoring his questions. “I need to speak with him. I need to know who he’s working for.”

“What do you mean? He’s just an orderly. He was new but he was helping Dinah. You were in shock, smoke inhalation affected your judgment.” He got up quickly, throwing back the chair. “Damn you, I need a way to sort this out. It could be manslaughter if he doesn’t survive.”
 

She looked up.
 

“So he is alive then? I need to speak with him. Please, Lior.”
 

He slammed his hand down on the table.
 

“You have no right to ask Morgan, you have no place here anymore. You left us behind, remember?”

The look of pain on her face silenced him. She had also lost someone back then. But times were always hard here and she had left to find pieces of a family she didn’t even know.
 

“There were reasons,” she said. “I didn’t know how to continue here any longer, after my father died and with Elian gone. There was nothing to stay for.”

Lior gave a harsh laugh.
 

“You had friends who loved you.”

“Loved?”

“Enough,” Lior brushed aside her question. “I need to know about Ezra. What happened?”

Morgan explained why Dinah had called her, what they had seen in Abraham’s room, the fire and its aftermath.

“I’m sure the orderly set the fire and that he attacked Di,” she explained. “There’s something else going on, something that caused those suicides and now someone is trying to cover it up. I think there’s a bigger plan here and we’re only seeing a small part of it.”

“And you think it could be this Thanatos organization, with a plan to resurrect religious extremism? It sounds a bit far fetched. Ezra counts for nothing in the world. It’s a tiny hospital with no global reach. What interest would this organization have in such a place?”

Morgan took a deep breath. Lior could almost see her thinking.
 

 
“It’s bigger than Ezra. You must have a team on the suicide at the Western Wall. This could help solve it.”

“You’re right,” Lior nodded. “That’s a PR disaster. How he got up there past the guards is one question. Then there are claims he was shot by the Muslim guards from the Dome of the Rock, and of course, the prophecy has been leaked.”

“What prophecy?” Morgan asked, her handcuffs chinking with her agitation.
 

“You didn’t hear the details? He was clutching the prophecy from Revelation, that a quarter of the world would die by sword, famine, plague. You know the one, you’re the expert in all that religious stuff.”

Morgan’s face had gone pale.
 

“What is it?” Lior asked, concerned about her.
 

“It can’t be … but it must be.”

“What? You need to share this information. I want to help you, Morgan, but you’re not helping yourself.”

“It is Thanatos; the pale horse proves it. I’m sorry, Lior, but I need you to call someone for me. You’re not going to like it but they’re going to get me out of here.”

Capela dos Ossos, Evora, Portugal. 11.38pm

The streets of Evora in southern Portugal were quiet as Natasha El-Behery stepped out of the midnight blue Mercedes Benz SLS AMG Coupé. She breathed in the cool air, thankful for the darkness after the heat of the summer day. Franco and Ivan pulled up behind her in their more functional sedan and she walked to their car, turquoise rings flashing as she smoothed back her copper curls. She looked towards the church of St Francis and then bent to the window.
 

“Stay behind in the shadows,” she said. “I’ll try to get the book the easy way but be ready on my word.” The men nodded. Natasha smiled, bestowing on them a flash of her favor. Like the winter sun, it was swift and brilliant, but quickly turned to a freeze.
 

Her heels clicked as she walked down the path towards the church, pencil slim skirt hugging her shapely legs. She knew the designer outfit was hardly suitable for a Franciscan church, but she found that her appearance made the men she sought underestimate her. She wore long sleeves in all weathers, covering scars she preferred to keep hidden from prying eyes that might question her sanity, but she knew that pain kept her on the edge of what could be achieved. Without pain, there was no victory, she thought. She touched the newest scar, one she had cut in front of Milan to demonstrate her dedication to finding the book he sought. He had watched her cut deeply and then had licked her flesh clean of blood, before taking her with slow thrusts that seemed to match the beat of her heart.
 

She had found a man worthy of her devotion in Milan Noble. She knew she was his equal but she had to prove that to him before he would believe it. She didn’t intend to let him treat her like the other women he so frequently bedded, so she had asked him for this special task. If she could bring him the Devil's Bible it would prove to him she could be his partner in the dark kingdom he ruled. He was obsessed with the book and the curses that were supposedly within. It was his black hope, a fixation that she would use to bind him to her.
 

Natasha walked under the high arches towards the crypt, the path lit by tiny lights. She had been told that it was always open, a monk on duty praying for the souls of those taken before him. As she approached, the light from inside the crypt shone a deep golden red, as if the fires of hell burned within its portals. Natasha looked up at an inscription over the door. It read ‘We bones, lying here, for yours we wait.’ She smiled. It was melodramatic but effective for the chapel had been built for contemplation on the transitory nature of life. We will be bones soon enough, she thought to herself, but Death didn't frighten her. Her father had brought her up amongst the ancient sites of Egypt to believe that she was better than this life. She had come to believe her inheritance was the legacy of the pyramids themselves, an everlasting life. She was brought up studying the bones of the past, but now she was in Europe to learn more about how that history could be turned into temporal power. So, for now, she would be Milan’s woman while she learned all she could from him.

Natasha stalked into the crypt, her heels echoing in the silent space. It had a low vaulted ceiling painted in white with gold filigree and death’s head motifs. The columns and walls were decorated with long bones and skulls in patterns, swirling around those who prayed for salvation here. A monk knelt by the altar, head bent in prayer. Natasha walked up behind him and he turned his head as she approached.
 

“May I help you?” he enquired, his voice just above a whisper. She could see he was near the grave, wrinkles around his watery blue eyes cut deep into a face that knew pain and suffering.
 

“I’m looking for a book,” Natasha said. “I heard it was kept here.”
 

“We have many books in the church library. Was it something specific? The history of the crypt perhaps? We get many scholars here.”
 

He clearly knew she was not a scholar and Natasha stepped closer as he tried to rise off his old knees to face her.
 

“I want the Devil's Bible," she whispered, standing close to him. His eyes closed for a moment, as if to shut out the world. “I see you know the book. Where is it?”

The monk opened his eyes again and Natasha saw fear restrained in his soul.
 

“The ones who knew are buried here,” he said, “and their bones cry out to God to keep the location secret from those who would use its power.”
 

Natasha reached out with one perfectly manicured fingernail and scratched it down the monk's cheek.

“I don't believe you know nothing,” she said. “And I will have that book.”

She turned and beckoned to the shadows. Franco and Ivan stepped forward and the monk inhaled sharply, a primal sound of fear.
 

“My friends and I will help you remember if you don't show me where the book is,” Natasha said. “Why don't you just tell us now?”
 

The monk began to whisper a prayer. Natasha knew he wouldn't give them the book without some persuasion. Perhaps he didn’t even know where it was. No matter. He would be an example. Even if she had to get through all the monks to find the book Milan wanted, she would deliver on her promise. She looked around the crypt, eyes settling on two desiccated corpses that dangled from chains on the wall. One was a child, the other a man, but both were sacks of sagging flesh, hanging lifeless high near the ceiling. Saints perhaps, but now they would serve her dark purpose.
 

“Get that down,” she indicated one of the cadavers to Franco. The monk prayed louder. Ivan backhanded him into silence.
 

Franco pulled down the ancient corpse, throwing the body to the ground, unwinding the chains that had held it up. Natasha turned to the monk.
 

“This will be your fate unless you tell me where the book is hidden.”
 

He shook his head. Natasha nodded at Ivan and he punched the old man hard in the stomach, winding him. The monk went down, clutching his stomach, next to the corpse. Natasha pushed his head while he was still off balance and he fell face first onto the desiccated body, his hands sinking into dead flesh. She stepped on the back of his neck, pushing his face down into the human decay, her stiletto heel marking his skin.
 

“Breathe deeply,” she said, her voice echoing around the crypt. “For this is what you will become.”
 

The monk was panicking, trying desperately to get off the body. Natasha stepped back and Franco wound the chains around his wrists, pulling his arms behind his back and then began to hoist him.
 

“This is an ancient form of torture,” Natasha said. “We’ll keep lifting and your body weight will break your arms with excruciating pain and eventually you’ll suffocate. But not before I peel the flesh from your old bones."

Natasha removed a knife from her handbag and showed it to the monk, as she caressed the ivory handle. She held it out, the point towards his right eye as he tried vainly to pull away from her.
   

“This was given to me by my father. It’s a sacrificial knife from the tomb of an Egyptian Queen, the great Hatshepsut, used for thousands of years to inflict pain and death, and to perform sacrifice.”

The monk was choking with the dust from the dead body. He wheezed and coughed as Ivan began to wind the handle, pulling his hands up behind him and forcing his head downwards towards the knife as Natasha calmly held the blade towards his face.
 

“Where’s the Devil's Bible?” she demanded. “I will torture and kill more of your brothers if you don't reveal the location to me."
 

The monk rasped and wheezed his reply, finding resolve deep within.
 

“Better is the day of death than the day of birth.”

Natasha smiled. “Ecclesiastes, my favorite book. How appropriate.”

She nodded at Ivan who yanked the chain hard so the monk’s face was jabbed down onto the knife and it pierced the flesh under his eye. Blood poured from the wound and he moaned in pain.

“We can do this all night, you know. You have plenty of time to contemplate the scriptures and your own end.” She leaned in. “Where’s the book?”

The monk shook his head again. This time Natasha dragged the knife down his cheek, slowly, so blood welled up in its path. She looked into his eyes. “The dead know nothing, old man. They have no further reward, and even their name is forgotten.”
 

He wheezed again, as blood dribbled into his mouth.
 

“You know the scriptures and yet you do evil to seek evil. I will not send you further into this sin.”
 

“But you will, I will see to that. Can’t you see that I love my work? I enjoy carving bodies, sculpting them.” She bent and lifted the bottom of his robe. “I particularly enjoy cutting off the useless parts, the offensive parts.” He was struggling now, trying to get away from her, attempting to pray but she could see from his eyes that this was his weakness. As all men, she thought. So fragile in defense of their bodies, so weak.
 

“Where’s the book?” Natasha asked again as Ivan yanked up the chain and she stepped closer, pulling the monk’s robes up and holding the knife point to his groin. The fight went from his eyes, the wheezing worse now.
 

“What’s the use?” he said, “I’m protecting nothing but a lie told for generations. The book isn't here.”

“But I was told it was sent here by the Vatican,” Natasha replied with indignation.
 

“No doubt that confession was also given through torture,” the monk said, his eyes sharper now, as if the pain had concentrated his spirit. Natasha could see she needed to finish this. Her fingernails began to caress his old thighs. She licked her lips, anticipating the pain to come.