Sepulchre

  "In a way," replied Kline.

  Halloran glanced over his shoulder and the psychic smiled.

  "Wait," Kline repeated.

  Halloran turned back and looked through the bars of the gate. There was no movement from the lodge, no one leaving there to come to the entrance. But then his eyes narrowed when he saw—when he thought he saw—a shadow shift within a shadow inside one of the lodge's upper windows. His sharpened focus detected no further movement.

  "Open up, Monk," Kline ordered his bodyguard.

  With a low grunt, the heavy set American pushed open the passenger door and hefted himself out. He ambled toward the gate and indolently raised a hand to push one side open, taking it all the way back, its base grating over the road's uneven surface until foliage poked through the struts. He did the same with the other half, then stood to one side like an unkempt guardsman while Halloran drove on through. He closed the gates once more when the Mercedes drew to a halt inside the grounds.

  Halloran had been irritated by a simple procedure that had been dramatized into a ritual. He could only assume that an electronic device in the gate's lock had been triggered by whoever was inside the lodge; yet when driving through, he hadn't noticed any such mechanism.

  "I take it there's someone inside"—he nodded toward the lodge house—"capable of stopping any uninvited visitors from coming through?"

  Kline merely grinned.

  Halloran was about to put the question again, more pointedly this time, when he heard the sound of a vehicle braking sharply on the road outside the grounds. He turned swiftly to see the other Shield car reverse back to the opening, then turn in.

  "Tell Monk to open the gate again," he said.

  "I'm afraid not." Kline was shaking his head. "You know the rules, Halloran." There was a hint of glee in his voice, as though the psychic were enjoying the game now that he was safely home.

  "Have it your way." Halloran left the Mercedes and walked back to the gate, Monk grudgingly opening it a fraction to allow him out. The two Shield operatives waited for him beside the Granada.

  "Nearly missed this place," one of them said as he drew near.

  Halloran nodded. "No bad thing. How about the Peugeot, Eddy?"

  "Clean away. No sign at all."

  Halloran wasn't surprised. "Response from Base?"

  "As we figured. The car was stolen from Heathrow's short-term parking lot sometime last night. As usual, the owner had left his exit ticket inside."

  "Should we inform the Blues?" asked the other man, who had been keeping a wary eye on the road.

  "That's for Snaith to decide, but I don't think our client would want the police involved at this stage. If things get serious, we might have to insist."

  Both operatives grinned, aware of how much it would take to render a situation "serious" as far as Halloran was concerned.

  "D'you want us to check the grounds?" inquired Eddy, gesturing toward the gate.

  Halloran shook his head. "Off limits for you two. Patrol the roads around here and keep an eye out for that Peugeot. You never know, they might chance their luck again later. I'll keep my radio transmitter with me at all times, so you can warn me if you spot anything suspicious. From what I've seen so far this place is high-risk, so stay sharp. Be back here by the main gate in three hours so the next team can take over."

  "Body cover's a bit thin, isn't it?" the second operative remarked, never once allowing his observation of the main road to stray, "particularly now we're sure the contract's positive."

  "We've no choice. It's how our target wants it. Maybe Snaith and Mather will convince him otherwise through the insurers, but till then, we do it as briefed. I'll be back here for changeover, so we'll compare notes then."

  He turned away, and the two operatives shrugged at each other. Halloran was never forthcoming with finer details, but they trusted his judgment implicitly; if he wanted the operation to proceed in this way, then they wouldn't argue. They climbed back into the Granada and reversed from the drive.

  Once he was inside, the gate closed behind Halloran with a solid thunk, leaving him with an absurd feeling that the estate had been sealed permanently. Monk glowered resentfully at him as he passed, and he knew there were going to be problems between them. That was unfortunate; if outsiders had to be involved in an operation, Halloran preferred them at least to be dependable. Ignoring the big man, he went to the Mercedes, gunning the engine as soon as he was inside. Monk's leisurely stride became more brisk when he realized he might be left behind.

  "How much of the perimeter does the wall cover?" Halloran asked as the bodyguard lumbered in beside him.

  It was Cora who answered. "Most of the estate's northerly border. Wire fencing and thick hedgerows protect the other aspects."

  None of it was adequate, Halloran thought, but he said nothing. Before moving off, he looked past Monk toward the lodge once more, curious to catch a glimpse of whoever watched the gate from there. The windows could have been painted black, so darkly opaque were they.

  The car rolled into motion, crunching stones beneath its tires, gathering moderate speed as it traveled along the winding road through the estate's woodland. The lodge house shrank into the distance, then was cut from view by the trees, and it was only at that point that Halloran was able to concentrate on the road ahead without constantly glancing into the rearview mirror.

  He pressed a button and the window on his side slid down; the scent of trees wafted through as he inhaled deeply, relishing the air's sharpness, only then realizing how cloying the atmosphere inside the vehicle had become; fear, and excitement, left their own subtle odors, neither one particularly pleasant. The woodland itself was an untidy mix of oak, willow, beech, and spruce, no species more dominant than another. Here they canopied the roadway, creating a gloomy tunnel, the air inside cool, almost dank. Ferns stirred on either side, disturbed by the Mercedes' passage.

  A sudden stab of color ahead startled him. It was instantly gone, the angle of vision through the trees changed by the moving car. Then again, a flash of redness among the green shades. The route was curving gently, winding downward into a small valley, and soon the house was in sight, a wide area of grass and then a placid blue lake spread before it, wooded slopes framing its other sides. Those hills disturbed Halloran, for he realized it would be easy for intruders to slip unseen down through the trees to the very boundaries of the house itself.

  His attention was irresistibly drawn back to the building, which appeared to be a curious jumble of irregular shapes. Principally Tudor in period, the house had apparently been added onto during its history with no regard for symmetry. The two gables were of unequal height and pitch, and the twisted chimneys were scattered almost inconsequently over the various roofs. There were different levels of turrets, and a wing had been built onto the far side that stood higher than any other part of the building. Yet the overall image was not unpleasing, and much of that had to do with the rich coloring of its brickwork, for the walls fairly glowed in the sunlight, the aged stone mottled a warm red, that same redness even within the roof tiles; the gables were half-timbered and the many turrets fringed gray, serving to complement the ruddiness of the main walls.

  Although the building as a whole was compact, Neath was nevertheless hugely impressive, its position alone, between the small hills and lake, supplying its own special grandeur. Halloran began to reassess Kline's worth in terms of personal wealth.

  They were moving on level ground again, the expanse of water on their right, the entrance porch to the house looming up on their left; across the lake Halloran could see the muted hills of Surrey. He drew the car to a halt outside the stone entrance, and just behind a white Rover, the porch itself jutting from the building, wide and dented pavement inside leading up to the main door. Both sections of that door were already opening; two robed figures appeared together, dashing forward with heads bowed. They ran to the Mercedes' rear door, one of them eagerly pulling it open for Kline.

 
The two Arabs bowed even more deeply when Kline stepped out. "Marhaba, Mouallem," they welcomed.

  Halloran heard one of them mutter something further as he himself climbed from the Mercedes, and he saw Kline smile, the glitter of his dark eyes containing some kind of satisfaction but no warmth.

  "Youssef meeneeh," Kline said quietly.

  Halloran opened the other rear door for Cora, while Monk walked around to the back of the car. The bodyguard caught the keys tossed by Halloran against his chest and opened the trunk, reaching for the luggage inside. Cora seemed unsteady, and Halloran gripped her arm.

  "You okay?" he asked. He thought there was apprehension in her expression when she looked toward the house, but it may only have been nervousness, a delayed reaction perhaps to their experience earlier.

  "What? Oh yes. Yes, I'm fine." She stiffened, finding her strength, and he let go of her arm. "Thank you for what you did back there. You acted quickly."

  "We'll discuss it inside. You look as though you could do with a stiff drink."

  Kline was watching them across the roof of the car. "Cora needs no excuse for that, Halloran. I bet even you could use one after that nasty little business." He was smiling gleefully, his earlier panic obviously forgotten.

  "Let's move inside as quickly as possible," said Halloran, scanning the road they had just traveled as well as the surrounding area.

  "No need to worry," Kline assured him. "Not here, not inside the estate."

  "I wouldn't be too sure of that," Halloran replied.

  "Oh, but I am. Completely. Nothing can touch me here."

  "Then humor me. Let's go in."

  The Arabs and Monk followed behind with the luggage, although Halloran retrieved a black bag himself. They crossed the uneven pavement inside the porch and entered the house. Halloran found himself inside a large hall, a coolness rapidly descending upon him as if it had pounced; directly opposite the main door was a screen of linen-fold paneling, above that a minstrels' gallery, stout oak beams set in the walls and rising to the high, bowed ceiling. A broad stairway led to the floor above, from where diamond-paned windows provided inadequate light.

  "Refreshments in the drawing room, Asil," Kline snapped, stone floor and walls creating a hollowness to his words. "Not for me, though. I've got things to do. Cora, you'll take care of our guest, show him around the place."

  "We need to talk," Halloran said quickly to Kline.

  "Later. We'll talk all you want later." He skipped up the stairway to their right, soft shoes almost silent against the wood. He turned back to them at the bend of the stairway and leaned over the balustrade.

  "Can you feel Neath's welcome, Halloran?" he asked. "The house senses you, can you feel that? And it's confused. It doesn't know if you're friend or foe. But you don't really know that yourself yet, do you?" He sniggered. "Time will tell, Halloran. You'll be found out soon enough."

  Kline continued his ascent, leaving Halloran to stare after him.

  13

  CONVERSATION WITH CORA

  From this level Neath resembles a small monastery, thought Halloran. Except that there was nothing godly about the place. The day had become overcast, clouds hanging low and dark over the Surrey hills, so that now the redness of Neath's stonework had become subdued, the floridity deepening to a tone that was like . . . the notion disturbed him . . . like dull, dried blood. The house looked silent, as though it could never contain voices, footsteps, life itself. It might resemble a monastery, but it was hard to imagine invocations inside those walls.

  He and Cora were on one of the slopes overlooking Kline's home, Halloran's brief reconnoiter of the estate confirming his doubts about its security. The two thousand acres were enclosed well enough to keep stray ramblers out, but there was no way any interloper of serious intent could be deterred. Kline's confidence in his own safety within the bounds of the estate was surprising, to say the least.

  Immediately below them was what once must have been a splendid topiary garden. Now its bushes and hedges had become disarrayed, their sculptured shapes no longer maintained; where once there had been carved animals, cones, and spheres, there were protrusions and distortions, the vegetation neither natural nor engineered, but tortured and bizarre. At present these green deformities served only to provide random screening for anyone approaching the house.

  "Can we sit for a while?"

  Halloran turned to Cora again; the fragile anxiety behind her gaze puzzled him. She had changed into jacket and jeans for their tour of the grounds, the transformation from city lady into country girl both easy and pleasing. Even so, that slight darkness beneath her eyes seemed more pronounced, tainting some of her freshness.

  "We've covered quite a distance in a short space of time," he said. "I'm a little breathless myself."

  "It's not that. It's . . . just peaceful up here."

  He caught the hesitation and wondered at it. He also caught her glance toward the house as she'd spoken. She sank to her knees and he followed suit, lounging back on one elbow while his search roved the grounds below. The lake had become leaden and gray, no breeze stirring its surface, no sunlight dappling its currents.

  "Tell me about him, Cora."

  She looked startled. "About Felix?"

  He nodded. "Is he as mysterious as he pretends? Is he as crass as he pretends? I'll accept that he can do these wonderful things for Magma—why else would they insure his life for so much?—but what is his power exactly, where does it come from?"

  Her laugh was brittle. "Perhaps even he doesn't know the answer to that last question."

  "Why are you afraid of him?"

  Her look was sharp, angry. Nevertheless she replied. "Felix commands respect."

  "Fear and respect aren't the same thing. You don't have to tell me, but is he much more than an employer to you?"

  "As you say, I don't have to tell you."

  There was something moving from the trees on a slope at the far side of the house. Halloran watched without alerting the girl.

  She mistook his silence for something else. "I'm sorry," she said. "I understand you're only doing your job. I suppose it's important that you know as much as possible about Felix."

  The shape had slunk back into the trees. Too small, too low to the ground to be a deer. Too big and dark to be a fox. Why hadn't it been mentioned that there was a dog on the estate? Maybe it was a stray.

  "It isn't quite that important, Cora," he said. "I think the reason I ask is that I want to know more about you, not Kline."

  A subtle flaring of her pupils, the movement noticed by Halloran. His words had roused emotions in her. Those black spots within the brown quickly retreated. "I suppose that's part of your job too. You obviously think I could endanger Felix in some way."

  "It's possible, but it isn't why I'm interested."

  She gave a small shake of her head, her expression confused. "Then why . . .?"

  He shrugged. "It's bothering me too. Let's say I don't feel we're strangers."

  Cora stared at him. He wasn't smiling, but there was humor in his eyes. At first she thought he was mocking her, but then he did smile and its warmth was enveloping. That warmth spread through her, seeping into her body as if to purge the coldness there. Yet paradoxically she sensed a chilling danger in this man and she was afraid of how much he would discover about her, about Kline—about Neath itself— before this affair was through. She had sensed Kline's fascination with his newfound protector at their first meeting and it frightened her, for there might be unguarded moments they would all regret. There was a perceptiveness about Halloran, a knowingness, that was as intimidating as it was reassuring. There was the dichotomy of the man and perhaps that was part of his allure.

  "I . . . I think we should return to the house," was all she could think of to say.

  He caught her wrist as she began to rise, and the touching startled her. "I'm here to see that no harm comes to you," he said.

  "To Felix you mean," she replied, staying there on the gro
und when he took his hand away.

  "You're part of it. Your safety is just as important."

  "Not as far as Magma is concerned." She managed to smile.

  "You're part of it," he repeated, and Cora was unsure of his meaning. "You still haven't answered any of my questions," he persisted.

  "I'm not sure that I can. I'm not sure that I know."

  He watched her confusion and realized he had delved too soon. Cora could never accept him so quickly: an instinct told him she held secrets that bound her to Kline in some way.

  "All right," he said. "For now."

  He stood, then reached down to pull her to her feet.

  At first Cora thought he was angry, so forceful was his grip; but he held her to his chest for a moment longer than necessary, looking down into her face, a quiet intensity to his gaze.

  "Liam . . ." she said, but he had already released her and turned away. She watched him for a few moments before following, an unsteadiness to her movement that threatened to make her slip. She caught up with him, and Halloran noticed her awkwardness; this time he reached for her arm and held it gently, lending just enough support to help her walk more steadily. Cora's breathing was shallow, nervous, and she felt something had drained from her; not her strength, and not her resolution—Felix Kline had subjugated those a long time ago —but perhaps her fear of Halloran himself.

  "Who are you?" she could only whisper.

  "Nothing more than you can see," he replied.

  But she felt that was not quite true.

  14

  ROOMS AND CORRIDORS

  There were dark places in Neath, corners, niches, which sunlight could never touch, rooms gloomed in permanent dusk, corridors where dust motes seemed to clog the air, halls where footsteps echoed in emptiness. Yet there were also areas of dazzling light, the sun bursting through leaded windows with a force intensified by thick glass; these were cleansing places, where Neath's dank chill could be scoured from the body, although only briefly, as other rooms, other corridors were entered, brightness left behind like some sealed core.