The Spear

  Perhaps it was the memory of having done nothing so many years before, or perhaps it was just the thought of it being a false alarm and his looking foolish in the eyes of the young Israelis who employed him. He decided to investigate further before calling in help.

  He reached the gateless exit to the churchyard and stealthily crossed the road, welcoming the concealing shadows on that side. The jeweller, one hand on the wall as if to steady himself, moved along towards Steadman’s house. He reached the open door and hesitated.

  All the muscles in his ageing body had become tense, making his movements awkward and stiff. He felt a strange fear, as though someone – something – was waiting for him inside that house. Something that compelled him to enter.

  He tried to break the spell, tried to tell himself he was being a foolish old man. He should try to get away, now, while there was still time. But there was something in there he had to see. Something there waiting just for him.

  He pushed the door open further, his fingers trembling. His breathing had become heavier and he tried to suppress small whimpers escaping from his throat. Even then, he tried to turn and run, but his body – or was it his mind? – refused to obey. The door swung open and the hallway was a black, ominous tunnel.

  Smith stepped over the threshold and felt his way along the passage, his eyes becoming more accustomed to the darkness. He stopped when he thought he heard breathing. Breathing that wasn’t his own. But no other sounds came as he listened, although he felt that the beating of his own heart would surely drown out any other noise. He moved on and suddenly stumbled against the base of the stairway.

  His hands took his weight, holding on to the high stairs for support, one knee resting on a lower step, and he grunted with the sudden jarring. Then he felt its presence.

  His gaze travelled up the stairway, step by step, until it reached the bend. It was darker just there, a black hole in the general gloom, but there was someone – something – lurking in that pool of darkness. His whole body began to shake now, for he felt its evil; it seemed to emanate from that dark area, to flow down the stairs in a vaporous cloud, sweeping over him and chilling his mind.

  A movement. A shape began to descend the stairs.

  Smith moaned and tried to break away, but his limbs were locked rigid, paralysed by a fear that was even greater than the night of his family’s abduction in Berlin. His eyes widened as the dark shape emerged from the total blackness of the bend in the stairs, and his mouth opened to form a scream as the figure became more discernible. And yet, the image still wasn’t clear. It was just a black shape against the overall darkness of the hallway; but his mind saw more than his eyes. It came closer and stopped just before him. He tried to pull his hands away, for they were almost touching the shadow, but he found they would not obey him. The smell of decay pervaded the air, assailing his nostrils and almost causing him to vomit. He slowly looked up, searching the length of the figure towering over him and when he reached its head, a face came floating down at him as though the shape was bending.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’ Smith’s moan rose to a wail. ‘You! Oh God, it can’t be!’

  It was then he screamed.

  The scream hadn’t roused Steadman, for he’d been awake minutes before. He had lain there in the dark, unsure of what had dragged him from his deep slumber. He listened for any noises, and none came. He had become aware of the iciness of the room. It was a still coldness, penetrating the blankets of his bed, and not the normal chill of autumn. It was as though the temperature of the room had taken an abrupt downward plunge. He was aware of being very much alone.

  Steadman had taken Holly home to her flat earlier that evening, both of them shaken by the revelation that the Chieftain tank which had tried to crush them that day had been empty. They were halfway to Holly’s flat when the thought struck Steadman of how it could have been managed, and he had difficulty in keeping his sudden theory from the girl. There was no point in involving her, it would have meant telling her everything, better it remain a mystery to her.

  He ran the idea through his mind as he drove and it seemed to fit; at least, there were no other possible explanations. Gant dealt in sophisticated armaments, the advanced technology of his weapons renowned and respected. It would not have been impossible for him to rig up remote-controlled operating machinery inside the tank, a mechanical driver which would obey instructions from afar. But from where? The operator had to be able to see them to send the Chieftain on their track. He had to be in close visual proximity. Weight was added to his theory when he realized how: helicopters had been buzzing over the testing grounds all morning. They had been too busy trying to escape the tank to be aware of any helicopter hovering above them, but that must have been the answer! How else could their hiding places have been found so easily? The searching eyes had been above them! For a moment his theory floundered: whoever had been guiding the tank from the helicopter must have seen the quarry and would have taken avoiding action. But then he had been close to the quarry’s edge; maybe the controller had not been quick enough to change the Chieftain’s direction, maybe his eagerness to crush the detective had distracted his judgement. It had to be the answer! Steadman relaxed a little: he liked his mysteries to have some solution.

  He had kissed Holly goodbye in his car when they reached her home, neither invited inside nor wanting to be. They were both curious about each other, both disturbed by the strength of their feelings; but both had had enough for one day. It was time for them to be alone, to lick their wounds and digest the events of the day. An unease showed in her eyes as she promised to see him soon. Then she was gone.

  Steadman had driven to the agency, luckily catching Sexton and their young trainee, Steve, before they left for the night. He briefed them on two specific jobs they were to carry out during the following few days – current assignments would have to be slotted in somehow even if it meant spreading their load on to another agency. After warning them their investigations would require the utmost caution, he returned to his home in the backstreets of Knightsbridge.

  He made coffee, then settled down to reread the file on Edward Gant. Five cigarettes and three cups of coffee later he lay the document down by his feet, rubbing his eyes in weariness, his mind buzzing with unformed thoughts. There was still a smell about the whole business he didn’t like. Why should British Intelligence, with all their resources, use him to get at Gant? Pope’s explanation that he was a link with all the parties concerned didn’t quite ring true. He was even more certain he was being set up as the sacrificial goat, the bait to draw out the tiger. Mossad’s use of him seemed more genuine, but just as ruthless. Their resources in England were limited and he was in a good position to find their missing agent. But was that all there was to it? They had admitted they wanted to nail Gant, but then why not just eliminate him? They’d done so with their enemies in the past, so why balk at it this time? There was much more to it than either intelligence organization was letting on and that was why he was taking out extra insurance. Sexton’s task was to find out more about Gant, hearsay matters that might not be entered in official documents; young Steve’s task was to keep an eye on the hotel near Belsize Park, to follow the movements of Goldblatt and Hannah. Steadman had decided not to tell the two men any more than they would need to know, but he warned them there would be danger involved. Steve’s eyes had lit up at the idea and Sexton had accepted it with a weary grin. If it had something to do with Mrs Wyeth’s death, then they were only too pleased to put in as many extra hours as it would take to help find the murderer or murderers. And that was what it was all about, wasn’t it?

  He had nodded and both men had resisted asking further questions. Before Steadman left the office, Sexton had promised to begin his investiagtion of the arms dealer the following morning when he had sorted out their current jobs, and Steve was already on the phone to Goldblatt’s hotel, booking a room for an indefinite period beginning the following day. It would work out expensive for the agency,
but Steadman was determined to recoup any losses from both Mossad and British Intelligence, whatever the outcome. He prayed he would still be around to forward the bills himself.

  He had prepared a simple meal for himself, then phoned Holly, dialling the number she had given him earlier. He had been disappointed when there was no reply. She hadn’t relaxed even after their lovemaking that afternoon, and who could blame her after what she’d been through? He replaced the receiver with a shrug. Perhaps she was in a dead sleep. Or visiting friends. What did he really know about her anyway? He had climbed the stairs, thrown off his clothes, and slumped wearily into bed. But first he had made sure all the doors were locked.

  He lay there listening, his breath held. The coldness of the room made him shudder. What had made him wake so abruptly? Light from the street filtered through the open curtains, but was no match for the room’s darker shadows and gave little comfort. No sounds came to his ears, yet the tension inside him mounted. His impulse was to leap from the bed and draw out the revolver he kept in the top of his wardrobe, but something held his body in check. Somehow he knew there was someone downstairs. The atmosphere seemed heavy with menace and he trusted his instincts too much to ignore the feeling. Then he sensed that the stairs leading to the bedroom were being mounted. The approach was slow, deliberate, its only physical warning a breathing sound, a sound which grew louder and more urgent as it drew nearer. The smell drifted under the door then. It was vile, choking, the smell of defecation and . . . he struggled to remember where he had experienced it before. It came to him. Years ago, when one of Israel’s border towns had been heavily mortared by their enemy, he had helped clear the rubble and search for bodies. A family had hidden in the cellar of their house, a cellar specially dug for such emergencies, and the building had collapsed around them, burying them alive. It had taken days to find them, and when they had, the flesh had decomposed. This was the same smell, only far stronger, more putrid: the stink of long-rotted flesh.

  Steadman forced himself to sit upright, using every ounce of willpower he had. He felt his strength was being inexplicably drained away, drawn from his body, leaving him lifeless. He had to reach the gun. He moved as though deep beneath the ocean, pressure all around him, his breathing harsh and quickened. He staggered and fell to the side of the bed, forcing himself up again, moving towards the wardrobe, his naked body bent, walking like an arthritic old man. His eyes never left the door to the bedroom even though he was moving towards the wardrobe. He was afraid to look away. He thanked God it was locked. But then he had locked the front door downstairs.

  A sudden bump stopped him. The sound had come from outside. Everything had become still.

  He thought he heard a moan, then words, but he couldn’t understand them. The scream snapped him into action.

  It was as though a spell had been broken; the heaviness was gone, the fear overcome for the moment. Steadman jerked open the wardrobe door, reached up for the metal case containing his .38, pulled open the lid and snatched the gun out. He was thankful his old habit of always keeping it loaded was still with him. He leaped towards the bedroom door and fumbled with the key, the screams from downstairs still ringing in his ears.

  The sounds stopped as he pulled open the door.

  He jumped into the bend of the stairs, sure of his footing even in the dark, the gun held before him, the hammer ready to cock. He saw a dark shape lying at the bottom of the stairs and for a moment he thought he saw another shape moving away from it along the hallway, towards the open door. It could have been a trick of light, though, or imagination, for it seemed to have no form and was gone in an instant.

  Steadman descended the stairs, moving cautiously, his senses alive and jumping. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of a man lying at the foot of the stairs, his eyes white and staring. He leaped over the figure and ran to the open front door, quickly looking into the street beyond, oblivious of his own nakedness. The street was empty, although it would have been easy for someone to disappear into the churchyard opposite.

  He slammed the door shut and flicked on the hall light all in one movement. Still keeping the gun poised before him, he quickly checked the lounge and then the kitchen, ignoring for the moment the still figure on the floor. Only when all the downstairs lights were on and he was sure no one was lurking in any of the rooms did he return to the collapsed body.

  The man’s eyes stared at the ceiling, the eyelids pulled back revealing their whites, the pupils dilating under the sudden glare. His lips were moving, but Steadman could hardly hear the words; they were soft and rambling. Spittle bubbled at the side of the man’s mouth. His body was stiff and the investigator could see he was in a catatonic state. He had the look of someone who had seen a creature from hell.

  9

  ‘The hierarchical organization and the initiation through symbolic rites, that is to say without bothering the brains but by working on the imagination through magic and the symbols of a cult – all this is the dangerous element that I have taken over. Don’t you see that our party must be of this character?’

  ‘An Order, that is what it had to be – an Order, the hierarchical Order of a secular priesthood.’

  Adolf Hitler

  Steadman brought his car to a halt outside the large wrought-iron gates and waited for the guard to step from his hut on the other side. The two Alsatians accompanying the guard looked menacingly towards him.

  ‘Mr Steadman?’ the guard called out and the investigator nodded.

  ‘Identification?’ There was neither belief nor disbelief in the guard’s voice; it was all a matter of routine.

  Steadman was forced to leave the car and walk over to the gate, pulling his licence from his wallet as he did so.

  The guard, dressed in green tunic-like overalls, took the licence from him and said, ‘Won’t keep you a moment, sir.’ He disappeared into the tiny hut, leaving the dogs glaring through the bars at the investigator. Steadman glared back but decided he couldn’t outstare them. He walked back to his car and leaned on the bonnet, hands in his pockets. He wondered if the Mossad agent had come out of shock yet.

  As he’d crouched over the trembling form the night before, he had been puzzled by the absolute terror on the man’s face. What had put that look there? And why had he broken into his house? Steadman had tried to shake the man into awareness, but the eyes never lost their glaze and the lips never stopped their burbling. He had tried to catch the words, but they were incoherent. He quickly searched the shaking body and found no weapons. His driving licence revealed the man to be Joseph Solomon Smith and it was then that Steadman remembered him; Smith’s features had altered so drastically in his horrified state that the investigator hadn’t been able to recognize him but the name had jolted his memory. Smith had come to the agency some time ago and had become one of their smaller clients. He was – what was it? – a jeweller. That’s right, he’d wanted the background of one of his staff checked, a job Sexton had handled. There had been a few minor assignments for him over the last couple of years, but Steadman had had no call to see the jeweller again after the initial visit. It was only his particular ability to remember names, places and events, that helped him place the man at all. The obvious connection soon hit him. Smith, despite his English-sounding surname, was Jewish. It didn’t take much to realize he was a hireling – or perhaps even an agent – of Mossad. Steadman shook his head in disgust. That was why the little jeweller had come to the agency in the first place, to keep an eye on him for The Institute. Sexton had been Smith’s contact. How much had the ex-policeman told the jeweller over the years? There wasn’t much to tell anyway, and Steadman was confident that his employee would have committed no serious indiscretions. But to use an old man like this, even for just a routine and periodic check! Look at him now. If the little Jew’s heart didn’t give way under the strain, then he would be fortunate.

  It was the sudden draught rather than any sound which had caused Steadman to throw himself against t
he wall and point the .38 towards the slowly opening front door. Whoever was entering had silently used a key and was now stealthily pushing the door to one side. It suddenly opened all the way, still quietly, but very swiftly. Two men stood on either side in crouched positions, their bodies partially hidden, and two revolvers were levelled at Steadman’s naked figure.

  ‘Don’t shoot, Steadman!’ a voice commanded, and the investigator’s finger froze on the trigger. ‘MI5,’ the voice came again, low but urgent. An open wallet was tossed down the hallway coming to a halt against the head of the prostrate jeweller. Without taking his eyes off the two men, Steadman reached forward for the wallet. He quickly checked the credentials framed inside the wallet and then stood up, waving for the two men to enter.

  They did, the second man closing the door quietly behind them.

  ‘What the hell’s been going on,’ the first asked, staring down at Smith.

  ‘Let me get something on,’ said Steadman, suddenly aware of his nakedness.

  ‘Leave the gun,’ the first man ordered as the detective turned to climb the stairs.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ Steadman said over his shoulder as he climbed.

  The two MI5 agents looked at each other and the second shrugged his shoulders.

  When Steadman returned, his heavy gun tucked into the deep pocket of his bathrobe, the two men were kneeling over the little Jew.

  ‘What’s been going on, Steadman?’ the first man asked again, rising. ‘What’s happened to him?’ There seemed to be some disgust in his tone as he pointed down at the figure lying on the floor.

  ‘You tell me,’ Steadman replied, irritated by the agent’s abrupt manner. ‘I heard a noise, then a scream. I came down to find him lying at the bottom of the stairs.’ Had he heard a noise at first? He was already casting aside the unreasoning fear he had felt while lying in his bed.