Halloran explored and found many locked doors.
Tapestries adorned hallways. Fine portraits hung in main rooms and on stairways, meaningless to anyone other than direct descendants of the subjects themselves. Curved gilt-wood furniture displayed itself in arrangements that precluded comfortable use. Ornaments and sculptures were set around the house like museum pieces, there for admiration but perhaps not out of love—or so it seemed to Halloran. The house was a showcase only, full of history, but oddly devoid of spirit, Kline's attempt (presumably) at presenting an aesthetic side to his nature revealing nothing more than an indifference to such things (or at the most, pretensions toward them). The giveaway was the separateness of each item, the lack of relationship to those nearby, every piece of furniture, every sculpture or painting an isolated entity in itself, set pieces among other set pieces. Fine for a museum, but not for a home.
Yet spread among them, as if at random, were curios from a vastly different and more ancient culture: an encased necklace with thinly beaten gold pendants shaped like beech or willow leaves; stone statuettes of a bearded man and a woman, their hands elapsed over their chests as though in prayer, their eyes peculiarly enlarged so that they appeared to be staring in adoration; a board game of some kind, its squares decorated with shell and what appeared to be bone, two sets of stone counters of different color laid alongside; a silver cup with a robed figure in relief. Perhaps these, thought Halloran, along with other similar items, were a clue to where Kline's real interests in art lay, for they provided a consistent thread, a continuity that was missing in the other, later antique pieces. It would seem that his client had a penchant for the older civilizations.
The room allocated to Halloran was at the front of the house, overlooking the lawns and lake. Furnishings were functional rather than pleasing to the eye: wardrobe, chest of drawers, bedside cabinet—utility fare with no heritage to boast of. The wide bed, with its multicolored, lumpy quilt, looked comfortable enough; bedposts at each corner rose inches above the head- and footboards, the wood itself of dark oak.
He had unpacked his suitcase before exploring the rest of the building and placed the black case he'd also brought with him on a shelf inside the wardrobe.
His inspection had taken him to every section of the house —save where the locked doors had hindered him—even out onto the various turrets from where he had surveyed the surrounding slopes with considerable unease. The frontage, with its lawns and placid lake, provided the only point of clear view; the rear and side aspects were defense uncertainties. And worse: there was no alarm system installed at Neath. It was difficult to understand why a man who was evidently in fear for his own safety hadn't had his home wired against intrusion, particularly when his penthouse in the Magma building was a place of high, albeit flawed, security. Well, at least conditions here could soon be rectified. Halloran had wandered on through the house, examining window and door locks, eventually becoming satisfied that entry would prove difficult for the uninvited.
Another surprise was that Neath had been built around a central courtyard with a disused fountain, its stone lichen-coated and decaying, the focal point.
Halloran walked along the second-floor corridor overlooking the courtyard and made his way downstairs, quickly finding a door that led outside. The house was quiet and he realized he hadn't seen Cora nor any of the others for over an hour. He stepped out into the courtyard; the flagstones, protected on all sides from any cooling breeze, shimmered with stored warmth. Brown water stains streaked the lifeless fountain, fungus crusting much of the deteriorated stonework; the structure appeared fossilized, as if it were the aged and decomposed remains of something that had once breathed, something that had once moved in slow and tortuous fashion, had perhaps grown from the soil beneath the flagstones. He walked out into the middle of the courtyard, circling the centerpiece, but his interest no longer on it. Instead he peered around at the upper windows.
He had felt eyes watching him, an instinctive sensing he had come to rely on as much as seeing or hearing. From which window? No way of telling, for now they were all empty, as if the watcher had stepped back from view.
Halloran lowered his gaze. There were one or two doors at ground level other than the one he had just used. No risk these, though, for there was no direct entry into the courtyard from outside the house.
He crossed to the other side of the enclosure and tried a door there. It opened into a kitchen area, a large, tiled room he had come upon earlier. Closing the door again, he moved on to the next, looking into windows as he passed. The house might well have been empty for all the activity he saw in there. The second door opened into another corridor—Neath, he'd discovered, was a labyrinth of such—which was closed at one end by yet another door.
This was a passageway he hadn't discovered on his exploration of the interior and, curious, he stepped inside. To his left was a staircase leading upward, yet he could not recall finding it when he had circuited the first floor. Probably a staircase to one of the rooms he'd been unable to enter. He decided to investigate that possibility after he'd tried the door at the other end.
He walked down the passage, noting that the door looked somewhat more formidable than any others inside the house. The lock was of sturdy black iron and there was no key inserted. He reached for the handle.
And turned quickly, when he heard a creak on the stairway behind.
One of Kline's Arabs was smiling at him. But just before the smile, Halloran had glimpsed something else in the robed man's expression.
There had been anger there. And apprehension.
15
A STROLLING MAN
He walked along the pavement blank-faced, his eyes meeting no others, a plainly dressed man, suit as inconspicuous as his features. His hair was thin on top, several long loose strands tapering behind, indicating the slipstream of his passage. One hand was tucked into his trouser pocket, while the other held a rolled newspaper.
Occasionally he would glance into a doorway as he went by, no more than a fleeting look, as though taking care not to bump into anyone on his way out. Not once did he have to slow his already leisurely pace though, his journey along the street unimpeded. On he strolled, perhaps a clerk returning home after the day's work and, judging by his appearance, someone who lived in one of the older houses that hadn't yet succumbed to developers' mania for wharfside properties.
After he had passed one particular doorway he casually tucked the newspaper under his left arm, his pace even, still unhurried.
He walked on, and some way behind him two men in a parked car looked briefly at each other, one of them giving a sharp nod. The driver started the engine and gently steered the vehicle away from the curbside. It came to rest again only a hundred yards or so farther down the street.
The two men settled back to watch and wait.
16
A DIFFERENT KLINE
Dinner was obviously of little interest to Kline later that evening. To Halloran he seemed drained, listless, his sallow skin tight over his cheekbones, hollowed beneath them. His dark eyes had lost much of their luster, and his usual banter was less sharp, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. His youthfulness had unaccountably vanished, or so it appeared to Halloran, the man before him looking at least ten years older than the one he had first been introduced to at Magma.
Maybe the incident earlier in the day had taken more out of Kline than Halloran had realized. He'd witnessed delayed reaction many times in the past, had even suffered it himself— the abrupt recognition of what might have been, the leadening of spirit, the swift evaporation of energy followed inevitably by a further apathy. True, his client was unpredictable, but Halloran was surprised at the abrupt change.
Only three had sat for dinner, Cora, Kline, and himself, the two Jordanians serving, Monk off somewhere keeping watch or, more probably, reading his comic books. Kline had barely touched his food, which was solid English fare and not the exotic dishes Halloran had half-expected the Ar
abs to prepare (Khayed and Daoud ran the kitchen as well as the rest of the estate for their employer, with Monk and the Polish bodyguard, Palusinski, sharing the task of maintenance, both inside and outside Neath itself, with apparently no outsiders at all allowed within the boundaries).
Opposite him at the long and rough oak table that could easily have seated two dozen, Cora tried dutifully to engage both Halloran and Kline in conversation. But more than once she averted her eyes when Halloran spoke directly to her. He found her demeanor perplexing, yet so were many other aspects of this operation.
"You still haven't explained why there's no alarm system inside the house," he said to Kline, putting thoughts of Cora aside for the moment. "It's hard enough to understand why there's no system around the grounds, let alone inside."
Kline sipped wine and his tone was dulled when he replied. "I have locks, I have bodyguards. Why should I need anything more?"
Again that different manner of speech, an older man's intonation, the words themselves more considered.
"I think adequate alarm protection will have to be a condition of contract."
Lethargy gave way to irritability. "The contract has already been agreed and signed. You have to take my word for it that I'm quite safe here. Nothing can reach me within these walls, nothing at all."
"That isn't very sensible."
"Then consider me stupid. But remember who calls the tune."
Halloran shook his head. "Shield does that when we offer our services. I want you to understand that this place is too vulnerable."
The other man's laugh was dry. "I'll make a deal with you, Halloran. If you still feel this way about Neath when the weekend is through, we'll discuss your proposals some more. Perhaps you'll be able to persuade me then."
Halloran rested back in his chair, suspecting that Kline was too arrogant to be swayed by reason alone. He looked over at Cora for support, but again she gazed down at her plate to toy with her food.
"I think we'll need more men patrolling the perimeter," he said finally.
"That's entirely up to you," Kline replied. "As long as none of them stray into the grounds. That might prove unpleasant for them."
"You didn't tell me there were dogs roaming the estate."
Both Cora and Kline seemed surprised.
"I saw one of them earlier today," Halloran continued. "Just how many are there running around loose out there?"
"Enough to see off any intruders," answered Kline, his smile distracted.
"I hope you're right. Let's talk about these people who tried to stop us today: you must have some idea who they were."
"That's already been discussed. Jealous rivals of Magma, or hoodlums who want me for my ransom value."
"You knew you were in danger, that's why Magma is paying for my company's services. It follows that you're aware of where that danger's coming from."
Kline wearily shook his head. "If only that were true. I sense the threat, that's all. I sense many things, Halloran, but sensing is not the same as knowing."
"You can be pretty specific when you're locating minerals."
"A different matter entirely. Inert substances are nothing compared to the complexities of the mind."
"Aren't thought patterns easy to pick up by someone like you?"
"But difficult to decipher. Take your own thought waves— what am I to deduce from them?" Kline leaned forward, for the first time that evening his interest aroused. A slight gleaming even came back to his eyes.
Halloran drained his wine. One of the Arabs immediately stepped forward and refilled his glass.
"I look at Cora," Kline said without taking his eyes off Halloran, "and I feel her emotions, I can sense her fear."
A small sound from the girl, perhaps a protest.
"Her fear?" questioned Halloran.
"Of me. And of you."
"She has nothing to fear from me."
"As you say."
"Why should she be afraid of you?"
"Because I'm . . . her employer."
"That's reason enough?"
"Ask her."
"This is ridiculous, Felix," Cora said, her manner cold.
Kline leaned back in his chair, both hands stretched before him on the table. "You're quite right, of course. It's utterly ridiculous." He smiled at her, and there was something insidious in that smile.
For an instant, Halloran caught sight of the man's cruelty, a subtle and fleeting manifestation; it flitted across his face like some shadowy creature from its lair, revealing itself to the light momentarily, almost gleefully, before scurrying from sight again.
The moment was swiftly gone, but Halloran remained tense. He saw that Cora's hand was trembling around the stem of her wineglass.
Kline waved a hand toward the two manservants who stood facing one another on opposite sides of the room. "I can feel Asil and Youssef's devotion," he said, the smile less sly, weariness returning to weaken his expression. "I can sense Monk and Palusinski's loyalty. And of course I'm very aware of Sir Victor's avaricious need of me. But you, Halloran, from you there is nothing. No, a coldness that's worse than nothing. Yet perhaps that very quality—can it be called quality?—will protect my life when the moment comes. Your reaction today showed me your skill, and now I'm anxious to know your ruthlessness." He drew a thin finger along his lower lip as he pondered the Shield operative.
Halloran returned his gaze. "Let's hope it won't be necessary," he said.
A void seemed to open up in those somber eyes of Kline's. His breathing became shallow, and Halloran realized the man was somehow afraid.
"Unfortunately it will be," said Kline, his words no more than a murmur.
17
A DREAM OF ANOTHER TIME
Secure as Kline felt within his own grounds, Monk had the task of closing up the house completely each night when they stayed on the estate; Halloran, however, had little faith in the big man's diligence, and patrolled the house twice after dinner, on both occasions testing doors and windows. He arranged three-hour shifts with the bodyguard, taking the first until one in the morning himself.
Dinner had been cut short, Kline's evident fatigue finally overwhelming him. He had left the dining room without apology, the two manservants shuffling anxiously in his wake, leaving Cora and Halloran to themselves. Halloran had gently probed in an effort to discover more about her employer, about Neath itself, why certain rooms were inaccessible, who it was that guarded the gates by the lodge house, where the dogs were kept. But Cora had been unforthcoming, steering the conversation toward matters that had nothing to do with Kline or the estate. It was frustrating for Halloran, as well as puzzling, and he eventually excused himself so that he could phone Mather at home to report on the situation so far and to find out if there was any news on the would-be abductors. He learned that the Peugeot had been found abandoned by the police in a London suburb, and there were no clues as to who had stolen the vehicle. Naturally they had wondered at Shield's curiosity over the theft, but Dieter Stuhr, who had made the inquiry through a personal contact on the force, had promised that all would be revealed at some later date. That statement had, of course, aroused even more interest from the police, for they were all aware of the kind of activities Achilles' Shield was involved in. Mather had warned that total discretion might be difficult to maintain as far as the police were concerned.
At precisely one A.M., Halloran made his way up to the second floor and knocked on the door of Monk's room. The silence around him was occasionally disturbed by the creaking of aged timbers as they settled after the heat of the day. Corridors were poorly lit as though power was low. He waited and heard movement from inside the room, heavy but dulled footsteps—no shoes on those lumbering feet—approaching. The door opened only a few inches and a section of the bodyguard's face peered out, his eyelids drooping as if sleep was reluctant to lose its claim. The sour odor of sweat drifted out, and it was as unpleasant as Monk's stare.
"Your watch," Halloran informed him.
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"Uh?" came the reply.
"Time to earn your keep. Check exterior doors and all windows first, then settle down in the main hallway. Take a walk round every half hour, more often if you get bored."
The door opened wider and he saw that Monk was dressed in undershirt and loosened trousers, his belly pushing outward so that the hem of his undershirt was stretched to its limit, the flesh between it and open belt buckle matted almost black. The hair on his head was no longer tied back, hanging loose around his broad flat face, strands curling inward to touch his stubbled chin, while the hair on his arms, thick and dark, reached up to his sloping shoulders and splayed there like pubics.
The day of the Neanderthal wasn't quite over, mused Halloran.
Monk moodily turned away, revealing the shambles of his room in the wedge of light from the open door. Magazines and comic books littered the floor, a tray filled with dirty plates and a beer can rested by the bed—a surprisingly small bed considering the man's bulk. Halloran had no desire to see further.
"Monk," he said quietly, and the bodyguard looked back. He stood there as if rooted, his shoulders hunched so that his neck seemed sunken into his chest. He glowered at Halloran, who told him, "Any disturbance at all you come straight to me. Is that understood?"
"You're shittin' me," was the response.
Halloran shook his head. "You come and get me. Not Kline. You warn me first."
"That ain't the way."
"You find me first or I'll break your arms when the fuss is over."
The bodyguard turned back all the way, squaring himself .it Halloran. "I'm paid to watch out for Mr. Kline," he said, his piping voice as low as he could register.
"I'm being paid more to do the same. You want to discuss it, take it up with Kline in the morning. Tonight you do as I say."