"It can't be," he whispered.
"But it is. The only part of Bel-Marduk that survived his mutilated body's entombment. His heart."
"Impossible."
"Naturally."
"Kline, let's stop this nonsense. Let me walk away with Cora—"
Kline screamed across at him, a furious cry that might have been anguish. The wire noose around Halloran's neck jerked tight, and he was dragged backward by Daoud, away from the altar, his legs giving way so that he fell to the wet floor, the
Arab crouching behind him, maintaining the pressure. Cora took a step toward them, then collapsed back against the stone.
"There's still more to be done, Halloran!" Kline screeched. "Especially now, in this era of awesome power, when we hold the very weapons of our own genocide. Don't you understand that he directed mankind toward this point, he set us on this road! A few more decades, that's all it will take. A microsecond in earth's lifespan. A few more years of disruption and dissent, of famine and disease, of wars and violence. A culmination of evils, when the balance between good and bad has been tilted irrevocably toward his, Bel-Marduk's, way! I showed you the lake, Halloran, allowed you to see its contents. A residue, like many others around the world, of our own corruption, a manifestation of our evils in living form. You saw them, you recognized your own culpability, your own vileness! We're not unalike, you and I, Halloran. You just have a little further to travel."
Kline was leaning over Monk's body, sucking in air, exhausted, drained by his own beliefs. "I could have made you one of mine, Halloran. A little encouragement, that's all it would have taken. But I can't trust you. I don't have time to." He calmed himself, or perhaps weariness did it for him. "She'll join us in our communion, Bel-Marduk's and mine. Cora will help us and be one of us." He levered himself up from the body. "Asil . . ."
The Arab stepped forward, and from beneath his robes he drew out a long blade, one edge thickened for weight so that it resembled a machete. The metal glowed in the candlelight.
He raised it over Monk's chest and the bodyguard's hands twitched frantically. His lips parted. A sobbing came from them.
Khayed brought down the blade with a short, sharp movement, minimum effort in the blow, for he needed only to pierce the breastbone so that the paralyzed man's ribs could be pulled apart, his heart exposed.
Monk shuddered. His hands and now his feet quivered as the finely honed blade was drawn down his stomach. The cutting stopped when muffled gunfire was heard from above.
47
ACROSS THE COURTYARD
"Hold 'em there, McGuire. Don't let anyone through the door."
McGuire looked at his leader apprehensively. "An' where the hell will you be?"
"Finding our man. He'll not escape."
"Are you fuckin' insane, man? There's nothing we can do now except mebbe get away ourselves."
"You'll do as I tell you, or it'll not only be me you'll answer to."
"An' what if he's not here?"
"Oh, the bastard's here all right, I can feel it in me piss."
"I'll give it five minutes, Danny, no more than that."
Shay decided it was pointless to argue. McGuire had always been the yellow one, enjoying the killing only if he was with a mob or guaranteed a safe getaway. Besides, five minutes should be enough; then he'd leave McGuire to his own fate. He turned away from the main doors, one side of which remained open, and quickly scanned the hall, taking no note of its grandness. It was a damned cold house, to be sure. And there was nothing good inside these old walls.
Shay ran across the stone floor, expecting someone to appear at any moment through one of the many doors that opened out onto the hall. He kept an eye on the stairs and landing too as he went, sure that anyone in the house would have heard the din outside.
Into a corridor he ran, revolver held before him like a pointer. He stopped and listened. Gunshots from the hall. McGuire was keeping whoever had driven up to the house at bay. Had they nabbed Flynn? he wondered. Things were going bad. He almost smiled. Things were fucking terrible.
A door was open at the end of the corridor, rain pouring in. What was this? The house couldn't be that narrow. He hurried to the doorway and looked outside, suddenly understanding the layout. A courtyard, filling up with rain by the looks of it. And what was that?
Light from another doorway opposite. Somebody there, like him, peering out.
Shay did not hesitate: he was through the door. Something was bubbling to his right, but he paid it no mind, realizing it was a fountain, the storm causing its basin to overflow.
He kept running as the other person spotted him, was backing away. The fool's attention must have been on the fountain before, not on the shadow bearing down on him through the storm. It had been Shay's luck that lightning had not struck during those few seconds.
He burst into the hallway and was able to reach out for the man who, too late, had attempted to flee. He pulled him around, clamping a hand over the man's mouth, then ramming the barrel of the gun beneath his captive's wire-rimmed spectacles so that they rose off his nose, the weapon hard against his closed eyelid.
48
BLOOD RITES
The Arab was murmuring an intonation that was breathless, his excitement conveyed through the wire that vibrated against Halloran's throat. Daoud watched the figures at the altar, fretful that he was unable to join them, but chanting the incantations learned from the cuneiform writings so that he was at least part of the ceremony.
A breeze swept down from the corridor above, bending the candle flames as it swirled around the underground chamber, ruffling the light so that shadows danced and weaved as though they also belonged to the rite.
At the stone slab that served as an altar, Felix Kline, aware that his strength was fading, his will weakening with it, urged Khayed to hurry. Tissue was breaking from him, falling onto the robe he wore, onto the open body lying below on the stone. He could feel fresh lesions forming, the flesh ulcerating and rupturing beneath his clothing, skin weeping pus, dribbling wetness. The pain was intense, as though every joint in his body was on fire, and his scalp was tightening around the skull, splitting apart as it shrank. This agony was like never before, and it was the significance of that which frightened Kline more than anything else. The torments of his sleep, the panic that had lingered afterward, the sense of deep foreboding—these were feelings he had not experienced since discovering the hidden tomb so many years before. Why now, O Lord? Have I failed you in some way? Are you failing me, Bel-Marduk? The questions were silent, his spoken invocations uninterrupted, for those ancient words were important to the ritual, their tonal values an inducing cadence for affinity between the psyche and the spiritual realms.
Khayed's hands were bloodied beyond the wrists as he pulled at the sliced sides of the body to expose Monk's innards. The bodyguard's eyelids fluttered as life dwindled, receding within him so that it could expand outward through another dimension. The Arab tugged at Monk's exposed sternum, bending the ribs upward, then pushed sweating organs down toward the gut, reaching for the heart and dragging it clear, stretching arteries and breaking veins until the feebly pulsing organ was revealed. All a familiar and well-practiced ritual.
Kline took the other heart, the old shriveled husk that represented—that was—the existence of his deity. With one hand he lifted this shell, while with the other he reached for Cora's wrist. She was too numbed to resist, incomprehension still misted in her eyes.
But when Kline plunged both their hands into the gaping wound, the dried, withered thing held between them, she whimpered. When he settled the remnant organ against the fresh, bleeding one, using their hands as a vise, she screamed.
Cora felt her whole self being drawn down into the huge open wound, blood spurting along her arm, her hand disappearing into the quagmire. And it was the ancient petrified heart that sucked her in.
Kline was lost in a delirium of sensations, a euphoric rebirth without trauma, a vigor beginning to puls
ate through him. All this ceased for him when the girl pulled her hand free, bringing with it the parasite heart.
Cora held the relic in her bloody grasp and stared loathingly at it for but a moment. Turning away, she cast it from her, a violent and sudden movement that neither Kline nor Khayed could prevent.
The brittle shell scudded across the stone floor and came to rest in a puddle of blackened water.
Now it was Kline who screamed, a piercing cry that echoed around the walls of the chamber.
And it was Halloran who took his chance.
With Daoud's attention on the dark, blood-soaked mound lying in the water only a few yards away, his grip loosened on the wooden handles of the garrote. Halloran, half-kneeling below the Arab, swiftly brought the point of his elbow up into the other man's groin. Daoud hissed, releasing one of the handles to clutch at himself, the wire cutting across Halloran's throat. The operative grabbed the Arab's ankle and pulled, sending his opponent crashing onto his back.
Despite the pain, Daoud kicked out at Halloran, toppling him as he tried to rise.
They came up together, but tears blurred the Arab's vision. Halloran's stiffened fingers jabbed at the front of Daoud's neck, striking for the thyroid cartilage. If his balance had allowed a greater force to the blow, the Arab would have been killed instantly; as it was, Daoud crouched over his knees, choking and gasping. Halloran half-rose, turning as he did so, ready to launch himself at the Arab's companions.
Cora had sunk down against the altar, blood from the open body above spilling over the edge to stain the shoulders of her white robe. Kline was stumbling around the stone slab, one hand against it for support, the other stretched out, fingers spread, as though reaching for the relic lying in the wetness of the floor some distance away. Khayed's gaze was fixed on his choking lover. Rage burned when it shifted to Halloran. Khayed lifted the long and broad chopping knife.
But others had entered the chamber.
Janusz Palusinski, whom Kline had ordered to investigate the earlier sound of gunfire, had returned. A man in a rain-drenched parka gripped the Pole's collar from behind; in his free hand was a revolver pointing at Palusinski's head.
Danny Shay was dismayed by what confronted him in the gloomy, candle-lit room. Dismayed, then fiercely angry. There were robed figures below him, one wielding a long, bloodstained knife, another in black wearing a hideous mask of some kind. There was a girl resting against a stone slab, her legs exposed, blood soaking her clothing. And the stone resembled an altar, and on that altar—oh dear God in Heaven! —there was a mutilated body, blood pumping from it like red springwater. There were moving shadows, dark alcoves that might have hidden others involved in this atrocity. Shay thumbed back the hammer of the .38.
And then his eyes came to rest on the man he had been seeking.
"Halloran!" he yelled.
The operative looked up toward the top of the stairway, as did the others in the chamber. Khayed became still, while Kline leaned heavily against the stone, a wildness in his eyes. Cora barely reacted, for the moment too disoriented to care.
The man with the gun shoved Palusinski away from him, and the Pole staggered down a few steps before cowering against the wall, folding himself up so that he was small, a poor attempt to make himself invisible. The weapon came around to point at Halloran.
"You've given the Organization a lot of grief, man," Shay said.
Halloran straightened slightly, his body remaining tensed. The man above him had spoken with a thick, southern-Irish accent, and a hint of the truth began to dawn in Halloran's mind.
"You killed three good men, Halloran. Valuable men to the cause, they were. Shot 'em before they had a chance. You should have known we'd find you, you must have realized the IRA would never stand for that!"
Halloran was stunned. So it was he who had been the target all along. This bastard had tortured Dieter Stuhr to find him . . .
The man on the stairway felt uneasy with the strange smile that had appeared on Halloran's face.
Shay spoke to cover his own inexplicable fear. "There'll be three Provos, good an' true, smiling in Heaven this night," he said, raising the .38 so that it was aimed directly at Halloran.
"There's no such place for killers," the man below said, and his voice was mild, the lilt of Irish there as if he'd not been gone too long from the old country.
"That you'll be knowing yourself," Shay replied. "God only knows what Divil's worship you're involved in here. Ask His forgiveness, if you've a mind to, an' do it now."
Thunder rumbled as his finger curled against the trigger of the revolver.
"Liam!" Cora screamed, and just for an instant the gunman was distracted.
That was all the time that Halloran needed to make a grab for the collapsed Arab.
The gun roared deafeningly in the confines of the underground room, but Halloran had already hoisted up Daoud to use as a shield. The Arab shuddered as the bullet struck his forehead and lodged inside. The operative fought to control the twitching body, his hands beneath the dead man's shoulders, holding him upright. The second bullet entered Daoud's stomach, and the third went through his side. Halloran felt this last one nick his hip as it emerged and, although most of its force was spent, the shock was enough to make him drop his cover.
More screams filled the air, but these were from Khayed, who had witnessed the slaying of his lover. He ran toward the stairs, the long blade raised high, a continuous screech now rising from deep inside his throat.
Shay was obliged to turn to meet the attack, and he was hardly aware of the person who had led him to this ungodly place brushing past. Palusinski was too afraid for his own life to tackle the gunman; he made for the safety of the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Khayed was almost on the bottom step when Shay fired the gun at him. A hole appeared in the Arab's chest, its edges immediately spreading blood. He staggered backward, his arms waving as if for balance, then came forward once more, his face not contorted with pain but with outrage. He reached the second step and seemed to sense he would never get close to the one who had killed his beloved Youssef.
The huge knife was already leaving his hand as the next bullet tore away his throat.
Shay fell back against the stairs, the blade imbedded at an angle in his stomach, the heavy parka he wore no protection at all. His vision was already beginning to dim as he turned his head toward the man below, his target, the Irishman turned traitor whom he and his group had been sent to assassinate as an example to others of how the Organization always avenged itself. His hand wavered as he raised the Webley .38, for the weapon was suddenly very heavy, almost too heavy to lift.
Once again he aimed the gun at Halloran.
49
RETURN TO THE DEATH HUT
"We can't waste any more time with this one," Mather remarked.
"Find another point of entry?" his operative suggested, looking up from his kneeling position against the porch wall.
"No need," Mather replied, raising a hand to the other two Shield men running toward them. He went to meet them, keeping out of sight of the main doors inside the porch from where the gunman held them at bay. He tightened his coat collar around his neck against the drenching rain.
"In the mood for target practice, Georgie?" he asked when the two men reached him.
"Always, sir," came the answer, as all three moved in close to be heard over the storm. "What's the problem?"
"We're being refused admittance. You see the Mercedes parked in line with the porch? You'll have a clear view of the house doorway from the rear passenger seat, or at least you can see some of it in the darkness—our friend appears to have switched off some lights. The vehicle's ours, so use your spare key if it's locked."
"How much damage?"
"Just hit the bugger."
Mather limped away, followed by the second operative, who crouched low and used the Mercedes as a screen to reach the opposite side of the porch. The man named Georgie doubled over also,
going to the car and trying the door handle. Halloran must have left it in one hell of a rush, he thought, when he discovered the doors were unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. Georgie switched on the system, then crawled over to the backseat and pressed the button to lower the passenger window. He raised the Browning, keeping it clear of the rain that spattered in, and waited.
He watched as the operative with Mather crawled on his belly on the porch, keeping to the shadow of one wall. The Planner reached inside with his cane to tap the floor, hoping to attract the attention of their quarry.
It worked. Georgie squeezed the Browning's trigger as flame flashed from the doorway ahead. All he heard was the bark of his own weapon, but he assumed Phil, inside the porch, had fired at the same time, aiming slightly left of the gun flash. They waited a few seconds; then, as lightning seared and thunder shook the sky, he saw Mather rush inside, Phil rising to accompany him to the doorway. He bundled out of the car, taking up position on the opposite side of the porch to his other colleague, their weapons pointing inward at the entrance.
Mather pushed the door back farther and flicked the Armalite away from the motionless gunman with his cane. Soft light from an open door across the spacious hall and from the landing above lit the area, and Mather breathed a sigh of relief when he ascertained that no one else guarded the main doors. Rushing forward like that so soon after the enemy was hit had been a calculated risk, but it had saved some time.
Mather pointed at the slumped figure with his cane. "Check him, then send one of the others after me while you search upstairs." He was already limping across the hall making for the lit doorway as he gave the orders.
He entered a corridor at the end of which was a door swaying with the draft that blew in from outside, rain puddling the floor beneath it. He hurried forward, glancing into other open doorways as he passed.