Sepulchre

  A silence.

  Then a low chuckle.

  "One of us might be," said Kline. "But listen on, there's more to tell."

  The staring eyes of the stone effigies around the shaded figure seemed threatening. Halloran tried to close them from his mind.

  "Bel-Marduk was destroyed for preaching the 'perverted message.' His limbs were torn from him, his tongue cut out, so that his immortal soul would be trapped inside a body that could only lie in the dirt. The priests rendered him as a snake, and they called him Serpent."

  The dark figure leaned forward. "Does it sound familiar to you, Halloran? Didn't your Catholic priests teach you of Lucifer, the Fallen Angel, who was cursed to crawl in the dust as a snake for his corruption of the innocents, for revealing the secrets of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil to the unworthy? Don't you see where those stories of the Bible come from? I told you last night that the traditional site of the Garden of Eden was the land between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates in Sumeria from where, according to tablets found in Mesopotamia, the Jewish race originated. It was from Ur of the Chaldees that Abraham led his tribe into Syria, then through Canaan into Egypt. They took with them stories that later became the myths of their Bible. The Great Flood, the baby Moses found among bulrushes—borrowed history! The Hebrew account of the Creation and the first chapters of Genesis—they were based on old Sumerian legends. Legends because the old kings had ordered all records of their early history to be destroyed, their way of ensuring Bel-Marduk's corruption would not be passed on to other generations. But they didn't understand how evil can be inherited, not learned from the written word."

  There were figures at the top of the stairs, but Kline appeared not to notice.

  "We Jews even adopted the Cabala as our own, claiming it was passed on from Noah to Abraham, from Abraham to Moses, who initiated seventy elders into the mysteries during their years of wandering in the wilderness. Bel-Marduk's teachings were never discontinued, nor was his revenge on mankind! Even the other man-god, Jesus Christ, who chose the Jews as his people, couldn't stem the flow! He came to undo the Serpent's work, the only way of redeeming earth's people. And look what happened, Halloran. He was executed, just like his predecessor, Bel-Marduk! Makes you wonder why he bothered, doesn't it? Look around you today, Halloran, and you'll see the conflict still goes on. You're part of it, I'm part of it."

  Kline leaned forward once more. "The question is," he said craftily, "on which side of the struggle are you?"

  Halloran could give no answer.

  Kline pushed himself back into the chair. "Bring her down!" he called out.

  There was movement from above and Halloran raised his eyes to see Cora, flanked by Palusinski and the other Arab, descending the stairway. She wore her bathrobe, its belt tied loosely at the front, and her step was unsteady. When she reached the bottom and looked around, the soft bewilderment in her eyes was obvious. He wondered if the drug had been forced upon her.

  "Liam . . ." she began to say on seeing him.

  "Concerned for your lover, Cora dear?" came Kline's voice from the shadows. Now there was fear as she looked toward the source.

  "What are you going to do with her, Kline?" Halloran demanded.

  "Nothing at all. Cora won't be harmed. I haven't groomed her for that. But I need a new ally, you see, someone who'll watch for me. I always knew a replacement would be necessary one day; I just didn't realize how imminent that day was."

  "You can't make her take his place."

  "Oh, I can. She's filth, Halloran, degenerate. You must understand that by now. She's become—no, she's almost become—what I've always wanted her to be. The final depravity is about to happen."

  "You made her like this?"

  "Of course. Cora was a sweet little thing when she first came to my attention, much too good for the likes of you and me. An English Rose, you might say. It was an interesting exercise turning her into something else."

  "With drugs?"

  "At the beginning. She never even realized. A few drops of something mixed with her food or her drink, enough only to soften her inhibitions. A gradual process, an extremely slow journey into degradation. Eventually the drugs were hardly necessary—I'd helped Cora develop certain 'tastes.' There was more to be achieved before she became mine completely, but now time is too precious, the process has to be hastened if she's to fulfill her role."

  The wire was cruel against his throat as Halloran tensed. "You can't make her into something like that."

  "Like my Keeper? Why not? Who would know, who would care? She'll merely leave the employ of the Magma Corporation to become my private assistant. These kinds of relationships develop all the time in business, surely you know that?"

  "This is insane."

  "That's a stupid assertion you keep making, Halloran. You don't believe anything I've told you."

  Despite his anger, Halloran smiled.

  "You confuse me," Kline said, weariness heavy in his voice. "For a while I thought you could be of use to me, like the others. I searched the world for men such as Palusinski and Monk, Khayed and Daoud, seeking out wickedness wherever it might lurk. They're indebted to me, these men, because I gave them a channel for their evil—and such a fine evil it is. There are more, many more, as these four, and I use them on my journeys. You could have joined us because you're not unlike them. Yet I can't know you, and that makes me wary. You saved me from assassination—my dreams and my senses have told me the threat is near—but still I can't bring myself to trust you. You're an enigma, and while that may have its fascination for me, I see no reason to have an unknown quantity so close, particularly at a time when things are not as they should be. No, you'll have to be disposed of."

  The wire bit deeper as the Arab behind Halloran giggled.

  "Aren't you forgetting something?" the operative managed to say despite the constriction of his throat. The wire loosened once more, and he swallowed hard.

  "Tell me." It came as a sneer.

  "My organization knows where I am, who I'm working for. I can't just disappear."

  "Tut, tut," Kline said flatly. "What a fool I am for overlooking that." The mocking ceased just as abruptly. "Don't you see? You put up a valiant fight against intruders, but they murdered you before my own bodyguards drove them off. How's that? Convincing? Who can prove otherwise? And incidentally, Monk was one of them, a traitor in our midst. He went with them after we fought them off. In fact, he was the swine who murdered you."

  Halloran ignored the laughter. "Cora—"

  "She won't be saying anything against me after tonight!" Kline snapped. His hands thumped the side of the chair. "Time to press on. All this talk is wearying. Help me, Asil."

  The Arab brushed past Cora and Palusinski and hurried to where his master sat among the effigies.

  "Let Halloran stand, Youssef, but watch him, keep him harnessed."

  The wire brought Halloran to his feet, and he had to concentrate to keep himself steady, for his head was still groggy. Cora took a step toward him, and Palusinski grabbed her to hold her back. She looked dumbly at the Pole's hand as though wondering what it was doing on her arm.

  Kline, assisted by Khayed, was rising from the shadows. He came forward, movement slow, an old man's shuffle, his servant close by his side. Part of the darkness came with him, for he was wearing a black robe whose hem swept along the floor. He left the statues.

  He came into the light.

  "Jesus, Mary . . ." Halloran breathed.

  43

  THE OPEN GATES

  Rain lashed the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep the glass clear. Charles Mather peered over the steering wheel, his whole body tensed, the aching in his leg bad.

  He was close, he was sure of that. The entrance to Neath had to be nearby. Unfortunately, the rain made it impossible to see too far ahead. Damned incredible night, he mused irritably. The storm was as fierce now as when it had first begun nearly an hour ago, with no sign of abating. The clouds were bl
ack and ragged with inner strife, the thunder they threw out rattling his very bones.

  Lightning lit the way, whitewashing the landscape. The earth threatened to split under the explosive crack that accompanied the light.

  It would have been safer—and more sensible—to have pulled over by the roadside and wait out the storm, but Mather would not consider doing that. He was too concerned for Liam Halloran. Something had been wrong with this assignment all along, and the revelation by Magma's chairman earlier that evening had furthered Mather's disquiet. Snaith himself had given the go-ahead to bring out their operative, although he had not personally felt Halloran was at risk. No, the Controller was more unhappy with the Magma Corporation's unreliable conduct, for deceit could easily jeopardize an operation of this sort. "Negative factor" was the term used by Achilles' Shield when carefully laid plans could be put at risk by deliberate misinformation. Under such circumstances, a commission could be resigned at once, and every Shield contract contained a get-out clause covering this particular area. As Magma had been quite prepared to withhold certain vital information, they could not be regarded as a trustworthy client.

  Mather had agreed with his Controller on that score, but it was Sir Victor Penlock's insinuation that bothered him more.

  Felix Kline was not an employee of the Magma Corporation. Far from it. He was Magma. Many years before, Mather had learned, he had taken over an existing mineral and energy research-and-development company, acquiring fifty-two percent of the stock through various other worldwide companies that had no connection with Magma. The secret of ownership had been kept because of "credibility" in the all-important city market—no financial adviser would recommend investment in a company whose major shareholder was a so-called "mystic." The world of high finance was not known for its sense of humor.

  If Shield had been made aware of Kline's true role within the organization, then a much more comprehensive plan of action would have been undertaken and a larger protection force, with even more stringent restrictions, employed. As it was, Magma had used a blindfold on the agency.

  But what concerned Mather most, though, was Sir Victor's suggestion that Kline might have been responsible for Quinn-Reece's death in some way. The deputy chairman had succumbed to heart failure, surely. But there had been others in conflict with the psychic in the past who had also died of sudden and, in two cases at least, inexplicable cardiac arrests. Three others, to be precise. One inside the corporation, a board member who had constantly opposed plans for development put forward (albeit surreptitiously) by Kline; another had been from a rival company, whose persistent investigations were slowly unraveling Kline's real worth to Magma; the third had been a communications magnate who had instigated a takeover bid for the corporation. This man had a known heart condition, but when he had been found dead from a massive coronary in his bed one morning, a look of sheer horror had been frozen into his features. It was concluded that a nightmare had aggravated his diseased heart to the point of killing him. But both Sir Victor and Mather had seen the horror-struck look also on Quinn-Reece's face.

  There had been other incidents through the years, and the chairman had confessed to Mather that he himself had begun to live in fear of Kline's strange powers. Although nothing could be proved, Sir Victor realized there had been too many mysterious "happenings" to be ignored.

  Why Quinn-Reece? Mather had demanded. What on earth could Kline have against his own deputy chairman?

  Sir Victor had explained that for some time Kline had suspected Quinn-Reece of leaking news of possible mineral sites for development to another company. Indeed, he and the chairman had discussed those suspicions on more than one occasion. However, this time Kline had accused his personal assistant, Cora Redmile. But the chairman was accustomed to the psychic's deviousness, and Quinn-Reece's subsequent death was too much of a coincidence to be taken lightly. Yet there was no proof, none at all. Only misgivings.

  That was enough for Mather. He already had doubts about the assignment, a gut feeling that things weren't quite right. The torture of Dieter Stuhr had added to his concern, for torture, unless perversion was involved, usually meant information was being sought of the victim. That information might well have been to do with Shield's security arrangements for Felix Kline. Somewhat drastic perhaps, but when huge sums of ransom money were involved kidnappers had few scruples. And then there was always the possibility that more than just abduction was in mind. Kline might well be a target for assassination—God only knew what enemies the man had.

  Mather had left the Magma building and had gone straight to the home of Gerald Snaith with the recommendation that the contract be declared null and void. That had been over two hours ago, but he felt he had been driving for much longer.

  Mather used the booster fan to clear vapor from the windshield, his own breath, because he was so close to the glass, contributing to the mist. For a few moments he was driving blind, and he slowed the car almost to a halt. He pushed another button and the driver's window slid down. Raindrops pounded at his face when he looked at the road ahead. There was a wall to his left, set back, undergrowth thick before it; on the opposite side of the road was forest. He ducked his head back inside and wiped a handkerchief across his face.

  A light behind, dazzling in the rearview mirror, was coming up slowly. A car's headlights.

  They blinked once, twice. He grunted with satisfaction when they blinked a third time.

  Mather touched his brakes twice in acknowledgment, then pulled over to the side of the road, bringing the car to a halt. He waited for one of the two men in the vehicle behind to come to him.

  "Didn't expect you, sir," the operative said loudly enough to be heard over the storm. He crouched at the open window, collar up against the rain. "Gave us a surprise, seeing your license plate."

  "I've been trying to reach you on the radio," Mather complained.

  "The storm's fouled up communications. Never known one like this before. We've kept in touch with the other patrol by stopping each time we meet en route. What's up, Mr. Mather, what brings you here?"

  "We're pulling out."

  "Shit, you're joking."

  "I'm afraid not. Anything occurred tonight that you're not happy about?"

  "Only this bloody weather. Visibility's down to twenty yards."

  "Where's the entrance to the estate?"

  "Gates are up ahead, on the left. You're nearly there."

  "Follow me down, I'll brief you off the road."

  The operative shrugged, then ran back to the Granada. Mather set his car in motion, going slowly, looking for the gates. An open area swept back from the roadway, and he turned into it, driving right up to the tall gates. There should be . . . yes, there it was. A dark, bulky shape that had to be the lodge house. No lights on. Well, you'll have to get out of bed, chum, if that's where you are.

  Mather flashed his headlights, beeping the horn at the same time.

  Lightning blazed the sky, thunder rent the air, and the lodge house appeared as a bright, flickering image. Mather's eyes narrowed. Had there been something moving in front of it?

  The patrol car came to a halt beside his, and Mather reached for his cane before stepping out. Both men joined him at the gates.

  "Is there anyone inside?" he asked, pointing at the building with his cane.

  'There's supposed to be someone there all the time to operate the gates," one of the men replied. "Never seen the bugger, though."

  Mather reached and pushed at an iron strut. That half of the gates swung open a few inches.

  The three men exchanged glances.

  "Something's wrong," Mather said.

  "Could be an oversight."

  The Planner shook his head. "I'm going in. I want you to find the other patrol and follow."

  "We're not allowed in—"

  "Forget about that. You just come after me as fast as you can. Phil, you'll come with me."

  "Right, sir."

  "Why not wait for the other p
atrol?" the second man asked, suddenly anxious.

  Mather had no adequate answer, only a sense of urgency pressing him. "Just get on with it!" he barked. "Open them up, Phil."

  He limped back to his car as the operative swung the gates wide. The other man climbed into the Granada and reversed into the road.

  Mather settled uncomfortably into the driver's seat, his clothes soaked. He dreaded to think of the agony his leg would give him tomorrow. He took the car through the entrance, pausing just long enough for his operative to jump in beside him.

  "Christ, what's that over by the house?"

  Mather looked toward where the other man was pointing. Blurred shapes were moving slowly in the rain.

  "Dogs," the operative said. "Must be the guard dogs. Funny, it's the first time I've laid eyes on them."

  "Can you see how many?"

  "Difficult in this rain. I can only make out a couple. Oh shit, there's others lying on the ground."

  Mather wasted no more time. He pushed down hard on the accelerator and the car sped down the drive. Soon it entered a tunnel of trees.

  44

  A SACRIFICE

  Halloran was stunned by the change in Felix Kline.

  This was an old and bent man emerging from the shadows, one whose skin was cracked and scaly, ruffles of tissue hanging loose, pieces flaking away as he shuffled forward. Oil glistened over fissures in his flesh, dulling the rawness beneath. His hair trailed flatly over his skull and forehead, whitish seams crosshatching under the blackness, and his hands were mostly vivid pink, their outer layer all but entirely shed. Kline's breathing was husky with the effort of moving.

  He came to an unsteady halt before Halloran, and even his grin seemed corroded.

  "Scary, huh?" Kline said, none of his mocking arrogance lost. "It isn't irreversible, though. It isn't too late, Halloran. Maybe it's worse than ever before, but at least now I understand why."

  The hideous face was close, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. With Daoud behind him, Halloran could not pull away. Kline had the same smell of decay as the old man in the lodge house.