Sepulchre

'And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shall thou eat all the days of thy life.' Genesis 3:14

THE SUMERIANS

Three thousand years before the birth of Christ, the first real moves towards civilisation emerged from southern Mesopotamia, around the lower reaches of the Euphrates andTigris rivers. Because the land was between two rivers—Sumer—the people there were called Sumerians.

Their ethnic origins have never been explained.

This race of people made three important contributions towards our advancement—four if you count the establishment of firmly governed communities.

The first two were these: The measurement of time in hours, days and months; and astrology, the study of the stars' influences, which eventually led to the science of astronomy.

But the third was most important of all, for the Sumerian high priests discovered a way of making man immortal. Not by eternally binding his spirit to its earthly shell, but by preserving his knowledge. These high priests devised the written word, and nothing invented since has had a greater effect on mankind's progression.

Yet little is known of these people themselves.

By 2400 BC they had been swallowed up by surrounding, less enlightened tribes, who absorbed the Sumerian culture and spread it to other lands, other nations.

So although their achievements survived, the Sumerians' early history did not. For the kings, the princes, and the high priests destroyed or hid all such records.

Possibly they had good reason.

1 MORNING DUES

The man was smiling. Halloran was smiling and he shouldn't have been.

He should have been scared—bowel-loosening scared. But he didn't appear to be. He seemed . . . he seemed almost amused. Too calm for a sane man. As if the two Armalites and the Webley .38 aimed at his chest were of no concern at all.

Well, that wisp of a smile on his unshaven face would spirit itself away soon enough. This 'eejit's'

reckoning was coming, sure, and it was a terrible unholy one.

McGuillig waved his revolver towards the van parked in the shadows of trees just off the roadside.

'Your man's in there.' The harshness of his tone made it clear he held scant patience with Halloran's manner.

'And your money's here,' Halloran replied, nudging the bulky leather case on the ground with his foot.

McGuillig watched him coolly. When he'd spoken on the phone to the operative, he'd detected a trace of Irish in Halloran's voice, the merest, occasional lilt. But no, he was pure Brit now, no doubt at all.

'Then we'll get to it,' McGuillig said.

As he spoke, rays from the early morning sun broke through, shifting some of the greyness from the hillsides. The trees nearby dripped dampness, and the long grass stooped with fresh-fallen rain. But the air was already sharp and clear, unlike, as McGuiliig would have it, the unclean air of the North. Free air.

Uncontaminated by Brits and Prods. A mile away, across the border, the land was cancered. The Irishman regarded the weapon he held as the surgeon's scalpel.

Just as McGuillig, brigade commander of D Company, Second Battalion of the Provisional IRA, watched him, so Halloran returned his gaze, neither man moving.

Then Halloran said: 'Let's see our client first.' A pause before McGuillig nodded to one of his companions, a youth who had killed twice in the name of Free Ireland and who was not yet nineteen. He balanced the butt of the Armalite against his hip, barrel threatening the very sky, and strolled to the van.

He had to press hard on the handle before the backdoor would open.

'Give him a hand,' McGuillig said to the otherprovo on his left. 'Don't worry about these two: they'll not be moving.' He thumbed back the Webley's hammer, its click a warning in the still air.

All the same, this second companion, older and more easily frightened than his leader, kept his rifle pointed at the two Englishmen as he walked over to the van.

'We had to dose up your man,' McGuillig told Halloran. 'To keep him quietened, y'understand. He'll be right as rain by tomorrow.' Halloran said nothing.

The backdoor was open fully now and a slumped figure could be seen inside. The olderprovo reluctantly hung his rifle over one shoulder and reached inside the van along with the youth. They drew the figure towards themselves, lifting it out.

'Bring him over, lads, lay him on the ground behind me,' their commander ordered. To Halloran: 'I'm thinking I'd like to see that money.' Halloran nodded. 'I'd like my client examined.' McGuillig's tone was accommodating. 'That's reasonable. Come ahead.' With a casual flick of his hand, Halloran beckoned the heavyset man who was leaning against their rented car twenty yards away. The man unfolded his arms and approached. Not once did Halloran take his eyes off the IRA leader.

The heavy-set man strode past Halloran, then McGuillig. He knelt beside the prone figure, the Irish youth crouching with him.

He gave no indication, made no gesture.

'The money,' McGuillig reminded.

Halloran slowly sank down, both hands reaching for the leather case in front of him. He sprung the two clasps.

His man looked back at him. No indication, no signal.

Halloran smiled and McGuillig suddenly realised that it was he, himself, who was in mortal danger. When Halloran quietly said—when he breathed—'Jesus, Mary' he heard that lilt once more.

Halloran's hands were inside the case.

When they re-appeared an instant later, they were holding a snub-nosed sub-machine gun.

McGuillig hadn't even begun to squeeze the .38's trigger before the first bullet from the Heckler and Koch had imploded most of his nose and lodged in the back of his skull. And the otherprovo hadn't even started to rise before blood was blocking his throat and gushing through the hole torn by the second bullet. And the Irish youth was still crouching with no further thoughts as the third bullet sped through his head to burst from his right temple.

Halloran switched the sub-machine gun to automatic as he rose, sure there were no others lurking among the trees, but ever careful, chancing nothing.

He allowed five seconds to pass before relaxing. His companion, who had thrown himself to the ground the moment he saw Halloran smile, waited just a little longer. McGuillig thought.

2 ACHILLES' SHIELD

The sign for Achilles' Shield was as discreet as its business: a brass plaque against rough brick mounted inside a doorway, the shiny plate no more than eight by four inches, a small right-angled triangle at one end as the company logo. That logo represented the shield that the Greek hero Achilles, if he'd been wiser, would have worn over his heel, his body's only vulnerable part, when riding into battle. The name, with its simple symbol, was the only fanciful thing about the organisation.

Situated east of St Katharine's Dock, with its opulent yacht basin and hotel, the offices of Achilles'

Shield were in one of the many abandoned wharfside warehouses that had been gutted and refurbished in a development which had brought trendy shops, offices and 'old style' pubs to lie incongruously beneath the gothic shadow of Tower Bridge. The company plaque was difficult to locate. To spot it, you had to know where it was. To know, you had to be invited.

The two men sitting in the third floor office—a large, capacious room, because space wasn't at a premium in these converted warehouses—had been invited. One of them had been invited many times over the past six years.

He was Alexander Buchanan, a suitably sturdy name for an underwriter whose firm, Acorn Buchanan Limited, had a 'box' on the floor of Lloyd's of London and company offices nearFenchurch Street .

Acorn Buchanan's speciality was K & R insurance. Kidnap and Ransom.

The person with him was his client, Henry Quinn-Reece, chief executive and deputy chairman of the Magma Corporation PLC. He looked ill at ease, even though the leather sofa on which he sat was designed for maximum comfort. Perhaps he did not enjoy the scrutiny he was under.

The scrutineers were three, and they were directors of Achilles' Shield. None of these men did or said anything to relax their prospective client. In fact, that was the last thing they wanted: they liked their interviewees to be on edge, and sharper because of it.

The one behind the large leather-topped desk, who was in charge of the meeting, was Gerald Snaith, Shield's managing director, officially titled Controller. He was forty-nine years old, a former major in the SAS, and had trained soldiers, British and foreign, all over the world. His main service action had been inOman , his exploits largely unknown to the public because, after all, that particular conflict-or more accurately, the British Army's participation in it—had never been recognised officially. A short man, and stocky, his hair a slow-greying ginger, Snaith looked every inch a fighting man which, in truth, he still was.

In a straight-backed chair to the side of the Controller's desk sat Charles Mather MBE, a keen-eyed man of sixty-two years (those keen eyes often held a glint of inner amusement as though Mather found it impossible to treat life too seriously all the time, despite the grim nature of the business he was in).

Introduced to clients as Shield's Planner, or sometimes Proposer, staff within the organisation preferred to call him 'The Hatcher'. He was tall, thin, and ramrod, but forced to use a cane for walking because of a severe leg wound received inAden during the latter stages of that 'low intensity' campaign. A jeep in which he was travelling had been blown off the road by a land mine. Only his fortitude and an already exemplary military career had allowed him to return to his beloved army, sporting concealed sears and a rather heroic limp; unfortunately a sniper's bullet had torn tendons in that same leg many years later when he had been GOC and Director of Operations in Ulster, hence the stick and early retirement from the British Army.

The only non-English name among a very English assemblage was that of Dieter Stuhr, a German-born and at one time member of the Bundeskriminalamt, an organisation within the German police force responsible to the Federal Government for the monitoring of terrorists and anarchist groups. Stuhr sat alongside Snaith at the desk. Younger than his two colleagues and four years divorced, his body was not in the same lean condition: a developing paunch was beginning to put lower shirt buttons under strain, and his hairline had receded well beyond the point of no return. He was an earnest, over-anxious man, but supreme at organising movement, finances, time-tables and weaponry for any given operation, no matter what the difficulties, be they dealing with the authorities in other countries (particularly certain police chiefs and high-ranking officials who were not above collusion with kidnappers-and terrorists) or arranging 'minimum risk' life-styles for fee-paying 'targets'. Within the company he was known very properly as the Organiser.

He bore an impressive scar on his face which might well have been a sword-scythed wound, perhaps the symbol of machoism so proudly worn by duellingHeidelberg students before and during Herr Hitler's rapid rise to infamy; but Stuhr was not of that era and the mutilation was nothing so foolishly valiant. It was no more than a deep, curving cut received while falling off his bicycle after free-wheeling down a too-steep hill outside his home town ofSchleiz . A truck driver ahead of him had been naturally cautious about crossing the junction at the bottom of the hill and Stuhr, an eleven-year old schoolboy at the time, had neglected to pull on his brakes until it was too late. The bicycle had gone beneath the truck, while the boy had taken a different route around the tailboard's corner catching his face as he scraped by.

The scar stretched down from his left temple, and curved into his mouth, a hockey-stick motif that made his smile rise up the side of his head. He tried not to smile too much.

Gerald Snaith was speaking: 'You understand that we'd need a complete dossier on your man's background and current lifestyle?' Quinn-Reece nodded. 'We'll supply what we can.'

'And we'd have to know exactly how valuable he is to your corporation.'

'He's indispensable,' the deputy chairman replied instantly.

'Now that is unusual.' Charles Mother scratched the inside of one ankle with his walking stick.

'Invaluable, I can appreciate. But indispensable? I didn't realise such an animal existed in today's world of commerce.' Alexander Buchanan, sitting by his client on the leather sofa, said, 'The size of the insurance cover will indicate to you just how indispensable our “target” is.'

'Would you care to reveal precisely what the figure is at this stage of the proceedings?' The question was put mildly enough, but the underwriter had no doubts that a proper answer was required. He looked directly at Quinn-Reece, who bowed assent.

'Our man is insured for £50 million.' said Buchanan.

Dieter Stuhr dropped his pen on the floor. Although equally surprised. Snaith and Mother did not so much as glance at each other.

After a short pause, Buchanan added unnecessarily, 'A sizeable amount. I'm sure you'll agree.'

'I dread to think of the premium involved,' Mather remarked.

'Naturally it's proportionate to the sum insured,' said the underwriter. 'And I'm afraid the discount on the premium to Magma, even if you accept the assignment, will be accordingly low. Ten per cent instead of the normal twenty.'

'I imagine, then,' said Mother to Quinn-Reece, 'that we are discussing the safety of your chairman.'

'As a matter of fact, no,' came the reply. 'The person to be insured doesn't actually have a title within the company.'

'We can reasonably assume that he doesn't serve the tea, though,' Mother said dryly. 'I'm sure Mr Buchanan has already informed you that a “target's” name never appears on any document or insurance slip concerning such a policy, even though documents will be lodged in various vaults—we demand total secrecy for security reasons, you see—but can you at least tell us your man's role within the Corporation? We'll come to his name later, if and when there is an agreement between us.' Quinn-Reece shifted in his seat, as if even more uncomfortable. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you that either, not at this stage.

Once a contract is agreed, then Magma will give you all the necessary information—on a “need to know”

basis, of course.'

'We're well used to such discretion,' Snaith assured. 'In fact, we encourage it. But so long as you understand that nothing absolutely nothing—must be withheld from us should we decide to take on the job.'

'I understand perfectly,' the deputy chairman replied, nodding his head gravely.

I wonder if he really does, thought Snaith. That every part of the 'target's' life would be delved into—his wife, family, friends, his habits, recreations. Whether or not he has a mistress. Especially that. A mistress (or mistresses) was always a weak link in any operation of this sort because usually the target himself tried to cover up that particular side of his activities, would even endeavour to elude his own protectors for the occasional tryst with his woman. Shield would also have to know how the target was regarded as a man—stubborn, soft, fit, unfit, loving, harsh, conformist or otherwise, and so on (intelligence was assumed if he was worth insuring in this way). If married and had children, what kind of husband was he, what kind of father? Snaith and his operatives would need to know his precise movements, every hour, every minute of the day and night. Were these movements regularly reported both inside and outside the Corporation? Would the media ever be informed in advance'? He was already aware of the employee's value to Magma—an incredible £50 million—but what was the nature and value of his function? All these questions, and many more, would have to be answered before Shield could begin to devise a specially-tailored security cover. Even then, no such protective system could ever be foolproof, not where terrorists were concerned. But one question had to be answered at the outset.

Snaith leaned forward on his desk, his fingers interlocking, thumbs turning circles around each other.

'Why now?' he asked. 'Why do you feel this member of your corporation needs protection at this point in time?'

'Because,' Quinn-Reece replied blandly, 'he told us so.' This time Snaith and Mather did not refrain from looking at each other.

'Your man has received a warning, a threat?' asked Mather.

'Not exactly.' Dieter Stuhr, who had been jotting down odd notes throughout the proceedings, rested his pen. 'Is Magma involved in some venture that could put your employee at risk?'

'Not at this moment.'

'It has been in the past?' Stuhr persisted.

Buchanan quickly spoke up. 'Gentlemen, I'm sure you're all well aware of the Magma Corporation's undoubted prominence in the commercial world. It has widespread international interests in the mining, industrial and energy sectors, with assets of over £6,000 million and an annual turnover of something like

£45,000 million. It would take you a whole day to study the list of subsidiary companies the Corporation owns.'

'Thank you for the information, Alexander, but what the hell has that to do with what we're talking about?' Snaith enquired bluntly.

'Only that you may rest assured that Magma is not involved in any enterprises that might be considered, er . . .'

'Shady?' Mather obligingly finished for him.

Stuhr smiled way past his left eyebrow.

'Questionable,' Buchanan allowed.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply . . .' Stuhr, still smiling, began to say.

'That's quite all right, I understand,' said Quinn-Reece. 'You need to be fully in the picture, as it were.

Let me put it this way: the man we are discussing has certain . . . abilities . . .' he stressed the word '. . .

that companies whose commercial activities are similar to our own might well envy. In that respect, he could always be at risk should one of those rival companies, shall we say, become over-envious.'

'They could always pay more than you for his services,' suggested Mather, becoming somewhat intrigued by their prospective client.

'If,' Quinn-Reece replied almost slyly, 'they knew of his existence.' He smiled at the three men facing him, pleased with their rapt attention. 'I'm sorry to sound so mysterious but, you see, our man has unique skills that would be virtually impossible to match. Not that our competitors would ever have knowledge of them—those skills are kept secret even within our own organisation.' Mather rested his hands over the handle of his cane. He glanced towards the room's huge window, a gull catching his eye as it swooped by, wings dazzling white in the cold sunshine. 'This sounds, uh, quite interesting,' he said, returning his gaze to the deputy chairman. 'Yes . . .' the word drawn out '. . . interesting indeed. Would you care to elaborate?' Quinn-Reece held up his palms. 'Again, I'm afraid not. At least, not until you agree to the assignment. I know that puts you in an awkward position, but we have our own security requirements.

There is also one other matter that might not meet with your satisfaction.' Stuhr's pen was poised once more.

'The man we're discussing,' Quinn-Reece went on, 'already maintains a strong protection unit around him.'

'Ah,' said Mather.

'Bodyguards?' enquired Stuhr.

Quinn-Reece nodded.

'Are they well-trained?' asked Snaith.

'Reasonably so, I believe,' replied Quinn-Reece.

'Then why does Magma need our services?' The deputy chairman looked at Buchanan.

'That's a priority condition of Acorn Buchanan if we're to take on the risk,' said the underwriter. “These personal bodyguards may well be proficient, but my company would feel more comfortable if Achilles'

Shield were running the show.'

'It's no problem,' commented Stuhr. 'I can work out an effective operation into which they can be absorbed. First though we would have to ascertain just how goad these men are, and how trustworthy; and they would have to recognise implicitly our authority over them.'

'Naturally,' agreed Quinn- Reece. 'Your company would have complete control.'

'That's fine then,' said Snaith. At least, he thought it was fine.

'Buchanan cleared his throat. 'There is yet another factor, Gerald,' he said.

The tone of his voice hinted that Snaith and his colleagues were not going to like this one.

'I've already explained to Mr Quinn-Reece and his chairman that it's Achilles' Shield's practice to have at least three operatives in direct contact with the target, so ensuring a too friendly relationship never develops between protector and protected.'

'It's our way of making certain,' Snaith told Quinn-Reece, 'that if our precautions fail and our client is abducted then negotiations between the kidnappers and our man won't be hindered by personal involvement.'

'I can appreciate that,' the deputy chairman responded.

'Unfortunately,' Buchanan went on, 'the Magma Corporation will allow only one of your men to cover the target on a close basis.'

'Good Lord,' said Mather, while Stuhr muttered under his breath, 'Verflucht!'

'That's impossible,' Snaith quickly asserted.

'Please understand that the condition only applies to internal security,' said Quinn-Reece anxiously.

'Whatever outside arrangements you care to make are entirely up to you. You see, we're dealing with a matter of utmost secrecy here—the nature of our man's role within the Corporation—and the less people who know of it the better as far as Magma is concerned.'

'I can assure you of absolute confidentiality,' Snaith insisted.

'I've no doubts on that score. But this person is one of the prime reasons for the Corporation's success throughout the world. Our secret weapon if you like. We have no wish for that secret nor even the fact that we have a secret—to be exposed beyond key executives within the organisation itself. If you are to take on this job, your man must be governed by that same secrecy.'

'You mean even we in this room are to be excluded from this knowledge?' a surprised Stuhr asked.

'That is the case.'

'It's highly irregular,' huffed the German.

Quinn-Reece was no longer ill at ease. He actually enjoyed laying down this last condition, because it reminded him of his position and how strong was his Corporation: imposing Magma terms was part of normal business negotiations and home-ground to him. He began to feel less intimidated by these three Shield people, more bullish. Besides, he was a shrewd judge of atmosphere and knew they were already hooked. Perhaps the talk of secrecy' was close to their own clandestine hearts. And obviously, the financial inducement was irresistible, for Achilles' Shield fees would be in direct ratio to the premium paid.

'Irregular.' he admitted, 'but as far as the Chairman and myself are concerned, fundamental.' A silence followed in which the Controller, Planner, and Organiser considered the implications of such a condition.

'For what period of time is the insurance cover?' Mather finally enquired.

'No more than a few weeks at the most,' Buchanan promptly answered.

'Reason?' asked Snaith.

Buchanan turned to Quinn-Reece, who replied: 'Our man feels there will be no risk after that.'

'He's somewhat remarkable,' said Snaith.

'Yes, that's quite true. Are you interested in the assignment, gentlemen?' Quinn-Reece searched each face.

'You'd be making our task very difficult,' Snaith told him. 'But yes, it sounds like an interesting job.

Finding the right operative might be tricky, though-our people are used to working as a team.'

'Oh no,' said Mather mildly. 'I don't think there's any problem at all in that respect, Gerald. I think we have exactly the right chap, don't you?' Snaith stared blankly at his Planner for a moment. Then understanding dawned in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the other man nodded his head.

'Yes,' Mather said. 'Yes, I think he'd be ideal.' A shade reluctantly, Snaith had to agree.

3 MAGMA

Halloran stopped for a moment to gaze up at the twenty-four storey building. Impressive, he thought, and impressive it was, rearing up between staid, grey City blocks like a massive glass and bronze sculpture, tinted windows impenetrably black, its metal structure reflecting the morning sun so that multi-faceted surfaces glowed a deep gold. Exterior elevators slid up and down the smooth walls, pale faces staring out from the capsules, watching the human patterns moving below. All corners -and there were many -were gracefully curved, the outermost buttresses adding a fort-like strength to the architecture, an image abetted by the different levels of the main building, some recessed, others outcropping.

Magma's headquarters was not a place to be easily stormed, Halloran mused. Yet for all its stunning grandeur, emphasised by the mostly uninspiring drabness ofLondon 's financial sector, there was something . . . something brooding about this edifice. Its surfaces dazzled a metallic lustre which seemed almost overpowering, too forceful for the surroundings.

He stood there a while longer, studying the Magma building, oblivious to the office workers scurrying around him, before crossing the road and going inside, to leave the crisp coldness of the early-spring air for the sterile coolness of the air-conditioned foyer.

Mather was already waiting for him, seated in the middle of a row of beige lounge chairs and facing a huge circular reception desk. Men in light-blue, epauletted shirts roamed inside the circle, banks of television monitors behind them, monochrome offices and corridors displayed on the screens. Other screens were imbedded in square pillars around the vast concourse, these providing a variety of information for anyone passing through: foreign exchange rates, the general market report, company news, active shares, leading shares, traded options, USM, new issues index and even BBC news headlines.

The area bustled with life. Escalators carried visitors and staff up to and down from the floor above, while lifts around the glass walls took passengers to the heights. Digital payphones were mounted on low tables set before the rows of lounge chairs, therefor the convenience of waiting businessmen. Lush palms and plants together with kinetic sculptures constructed from the same material as the outside walls, strove to de-formalise the concourse, succeeding only in part. Long glass display cases contained examples of rock strata, while others held samples of ore and minerals, crystals, even semi-precious stones, all exhibits of the earth's contribution towards the Magma empire.

Halloran noticed several informal meetings taking place around the floor, discussions conducted sotto voce, the undertones adding to the complex's general buzz. Who'd need an office with a set-up like this?

he wondered. Maybe the roving security guards who were very much in evidence were also there to discourage non-company personnel from such practices.

A marble-cladded wall, the large rectangular slabs needing no other decoration than their own subtle-hued textures, brought the wide reception area to an end; several doors and a central lift system (obviously provided for those whose vertigo somewhat reduced the joy of viewing the City panorama while rising above it) spaced themselves along the wall.

Mather had spotted him and was rising from his seat, one hand pushing against his cane for support.

Halloran went forward to meet him.

'Rather splendid, isn't it?' said Mather as they drew near.

'Even better than Changi airport,' Halloran replied” shaking the Planner's hand.

'Good to see you, Liam. Sorry about the Irish operation.' Halloran nodded, said nothing.

'Let's check in and get our instructions,' suggested Mather, turning away and limping towards the circular reception desk. Halloran followed, still taking in the scene around him.

A receptionist watched their approach and, when they reached him, said with no curiosity at all: 'Can I help you?'

'Mather and Halloran to see Sir Victor Penlock. Ten o'clock appointment.' If the uniformed receptionist was impressed that they were there for a meeting with the Corporation's chairman he gave no indication.

'Company?' he enquired, 'I think you'll find that information isn't necessary,' Mather told him.

The receptionist, a youngish man with spectacles and a distinct lack of charm, sat at his desk and tapped computer keys. Green lines of type reflected in his glasses and soon he appeared satisfied, although there was no noticeable change in his demeanour.

'You'll need ID tags,' he told them and punched more keys on a machine concealed from view beneath the counter. When his hand appeared once more it was holding two yellow strips with Mather and Halloran's names typed individually in capitals on each. He slipped them into plastic clips and passed them over.

'Attach these to your lapels, please. You need to go up to the eighteenth. You can take the scenic route to twelve, then transfer to an interior lift for the rest of the way. Or if you prefer, you can take the interior express straight up to the eighteenth.' He pointed at the lifts beyond the reception circle.

'I rather fancy the scenic route,' said Mather brightly. 'What d'you say, Liam?' Halloran smiled as he clipped on his name tag. 'Fine by me.' They crossed the busy floor to one of the capsule elevators, Mather chattering like a child looking forward to a funfair ride. They saw one of the lifts discharging its load and headed towards it, Mather quickly pressing the 12 button once they were inside so that they would be alone.

The older man's mood became serious, although he peered through the thick glass, looking for familiar landmarks as the lift rose above the streets.

'What went wrong, Liam?' he asked.

Halloran, too, watched the shrinking streets, the broadening view. 'My guess is that our client died at the time of kidnap or soon after. We already knew from his company's medical report he had a weak heart.

He'd suffered a minor heart attack two years before.'

'But you didn't know he was dead before you went in with the money.' Halloran shook his head.

TheThames was coming into view, its surface silver in the bright sunshine. To the west wasSt Paul 's, to the east, theTowerofLondon ; other landmarks, grey in the distance, were beginning to appear. 'I had the notion. They would never let me speak to him on the phone, told me I had to take their word for it that he was in good shape. There was little choice.' Thugs.' said Mather. 'Murdering IRA thugs.'

'They consider themselves to be at war.'

'Kidnap and murder? Indiscriminate bombings?

'There's never been a normal one.' The older man glanced at Halloran. 'I know you too well to imagine you have any truck with the IRA.' Halloran watched a dragonfly helicopter inching its way along the river, keeping strictly to its assigned route where an air accident could cause the least damage, heading for the Battersea heliport.

'I read your report,' Mather said to break the silence. 'Why the Heckler and Koch? An Ingram is more compact, easier to conceal.'

'Our own man had to examine the client—I needed accuracy so that he wouldn't get hit. And I didn't know how many I'd be up against, so I had to have the choice of switching to automatic. It was a pity for them their victim wasn't a well man—their organisation could have been a lot richer.'

'And a pity his company didn't call us in earlier as more than just negotiators. He might not have been abducted in the first place under our protection.' Mather shook his head with regret. Then: 'At least publicity was avoided.' Halloran smiled grimly. The last thing Achilles' Shield wanted was attention from the media, always preferring to remain anonymous, not only in name but in role also. Too many Members of Parliament were fighting to introduce a Bill banning K & R organisations such as Shield, condemning them as an inducement to kidnap rather than a deterrent. He had removed their client's corpse from the scene of the shooting, leaving it by the roadside in another county to be discovered by others. Because of that, the two incidents hadn't been connected—at least, not by the public. The authorities on both sides of the border who had cooperated with Shield before on similar K & R operations, had turned a blind eye (although the Garda naturally hadn't been happy about the killings on their territory).

'Here we are,' Mather said as the elevator glided to a smooth halt. The doors sighed open and the two men stepped out.

They found themselves in another reception area, although this was far less impressive than that on ground-level, and much quieter. Through the windows to their right they could see a wide, open terrace, white tables and chairs placed all around, the building itself recessed here to provide a spectacular viewing platform over the southern half of London. It was empty of observers at the moment, the sun too feeble to take the chill from the breeze at that altitude.

A few people sat inside, though, waiting in the beige loungers, while Magma staff wandered through, some carrying documents, others collecting the visitors and leading them off to second-stage lifts or into corridors branching from the lobby.

The desk on this level was set into the wall and stationed by only two blue-uniformed men. A girl was standing by the counter talking to one of them. On seeing Mather and Halloran emerge from the lift she broke off conversation and hurried over.

'Mr Charles Mather?' she asked, smiling engagingly.

The older man raised a hand. 'And this is Mr Halloran,' he said indicating.

'I'm Cora Redmile. Sir Victor sent me down to fetch you.' She shook hands with both men.

She was slender, dark-haired, her eyes a muddy brown flecked with green. Mid or late-twenties, Halloran guessed. Her smile was mischievous as she looked at him.

'I hope you enjoyed the journey up,' she said. 'Some visitors are quite unsettled by the time they reach the twelfth.' Halloran only smiled back, and for a moment, uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

'Absolutely splendid, m'dear,' Mather answered. 'Marvellously clear day for spying the landscape. You should make people buy tickets.' The girl gave a short laugh. 'Compliments of Magma. If you come with me I'll take you to the eighteenth. Mr Quinn-Reece is waiting with Sir Victor.'

'Up to the eyrie. Splendid.' Still smiling, the girl turned away and they followed her to the row of interior lifts.

Inside and on their way, Mather said: 'You'd be Sir Victor's personal secretary, I take it.'

'No, not Sir Victor's,' she replied, and made no further comment.

'Ah,' murmured Mather, as if satisfied.

Halloran leaned back against the wall, feeling the slight headiness of blood pressured by high speed. He caught the girl looking at him and she quickly averted her gaze.

'My goodness,' said Mather. 'We're fairly shifting, aren't we?'

'I can slow us down if you prefer,' Cora told him, anxiously reaching for a button on the console.

'Not at all. I'm rather enjoying the experience.' She smiled at Mather's glee, her hand dropping back to her side. Once again, her gaze strayed to Halloran. In his dark tweed jacket, with its leather elbow patches, his check shirt and loose-knitted tie, he should have resembled a country squire; only he didn't.

Far from it. And there was something about his eyes . . . lie looked like a man who could be cruel. Yet there was a quiet gentleness about him too. Cora was puzzled. And interested.

-How many security men does the building have?' Halloran's question took her by surprise. There was a softness to his voice also, the slightest trace of an accent. West Country? No, Irish. With a name like Halloran it had to be.

'Oh, I think Sir Victor has all those details ready for you,' she answered quickly, realising she had been lost for a moment.

He looked at her steadily. 'You know why we're here?' Now she wasn't sure if there was an accent at all. 'Yes. I'll be assisting you.' Mather raised his eyebrows at Halloran.

A small ping as the elevator came to a halt. The doors drew back like stage curtains to reveal a sumptuous lobby, its thick carpet a deep mauve, hessian walls, the palest green. Ceiling lights were recessed so that soft glows puddled the corridors leading off from the open area. Strategically placed lamps and spotlights compensated for the lack of natural light. A wide chrome and glass desk faced the elevators and the girl sitting behind it rose as soon as their feet sank into the lush carpet.

'Good morning. Sir Victor is ready to see you. May I arrange some tea or coffee?'

'Tea would be very nice,' said Mather.

'Any preference?'

'I'll leave that to you, m'dear, though I'm partial to Earl Grey.'

'Earl Grey it is.' She raised her eyebrows at Halloran, who said, 'Coffee, black, no preference.'

'If you'll follow me,' said Cora, and led them into the corridor beyond the hi-tech desk.

There were no doors, but display cases were set into the walls on either side, each depicting the Corporation's worldwide industrial and mining activities, either photographically or as models: a vast borate minerals open-pit mine, Mojave Desert; a hydrofluoric acid plant, UK; a pyrite mine, Spain; gold, silver, and emerald mines, Zimbabwe; open-pit copper, South Africa; oil and gas wells, UK and global.

And more: tin, uranium, diamonds, coal, low-grade ores, all manner of base and precious metals, some, like molybdenum (a silver-white metal), that the two men had never even heard of. Towards the end of the corridor was an encased back-lit map, bright red circles indicating areas of exploration and research around the world; there were a lot of red circles.

It was something of a relief when they arrived in a wide area flooded by daylight, both men feeling that they had just emerged from an educational passage in a geological museum. If visitors to Magma's chairman were meant to feel over-awed, perhaps even intimidated by the time they reached his office, then the ruse was effective.

'Nothing like flaunting it,' Mather quietly remarked to Halloran.

'The Magma Corporation is very proud of its many interests,' said Cora with no hint of reprimand in her tone.

'So it seems.' Mather smiled sweetly at her.

Broader corridors stretched left and right, glass-walled rooms with vertical blinds, most of these open, on either side. Sounds buzzed from them: muted conversations, ringing telephones, clattering typewriters.

But Cora crossed the open space before them, going to a wide double-door which looked so solid that Halloran wondered if she had the strength to push it open.

It opened with ease. She stood back to allow them through.

Now they were in an office shared by two secretaries; one could have modelled for Vogue, while the other, with her heavyframed spectacles and wire-frizzed hair, might have looked well on the cover of Science Today. Both were busily involved with word processors; they barely glanced up.

Another large door directly ahead. Cora went to it, tapped once, entered. A brief announcement, then she turned and beckoned Mather and Halloran through.

4 THE NEED FOR SECRECY

The chairman's office was high-ceilinged, the wall at the far end mostly tinted glass; it looked disconcertingly easy to step off the edge into open space. The chairman's oak desk was almost as wide as the room and the only traditional piece of furniture present. The rest comprised black leather and chrome, with dark ash units around the walls. The chairman himself was as imposing as the rest of the Magma building.

Sir Victor Penlock was tall and slim, with silver and grey hair in plenty, and no sign of relaxed stomach muscles. He wore a grey, double-breasted suit, the material of which had a subtle sheen. His face was sharp, light blue eyes keen. His grip was firm when he greeted them.

First Mather, then Halloran, shaking their hands, studying their faces. He spent a second longer studying Halloran's. 'I understand you haven't yet met Quinn-Reece,' he said to him.

The deputy chairman came forward. 'I'm told you'll be particularly suited for protection cover of this kind. You prefer working on a one-to-one-basis.'

'We'll see,' Halloran replied, disliking the clamminess of Quinn-Reece's hand.

'I beg your pardon?'

'We'll see if I'm suited after I've spoken to the target. We don't appear to know much about him.'

'My apologies for that,' cut in Sir Victor. 'But there are reasons.' He indicated chairs. 'Please, won't you sit down, then perhaps we can put you fully in the picture.' The chairman took his place behind the desk and the others found themselves seats around the room. Cora, Halloran noticed, sat in a chair by the wall as though she were an observer of the meeting rather than a partaker.

'By the time most new visitors to Magma reach my office,' Sir Victor began, 'they've become aware of the Corporation's numerous activities throughout the world, so it should be unnecessary for me to give you a detailed lecture on our size and strength. Suffice it to say that we're recognised as a major force as far as mining, industrial and energy interests are concerned. No doubt you've taken note of the various companies that form our Group, and the reason they have their own identity is because for the past twenty years we've practised a decentralised system of management which encourages the profitable development of individual companies inside their own industries and locations. Between them, they either produce, process and fabricate most prime metals—anything from aluminium to zinc—as well as manufacture industrial, construction and engineering products and chemicals; or they may supply raw materials for energy, principally coal, oil, gas and uranium.' He paused. 'I said I wasn't going to lecture, didn't I? No matter—I am leading up to an important point. So, you have an idea of what Magma and its companies are all about. We employ over eighty thousand people throughout the world, twenty thousand of those in theUK .' There was a light tap on the door and a woman in a pale blue uniform shirt and dark blue skirt brought in a tray of tea and coffee. Sir Victor waited for the beverages to be distributed and the door to close again before continuing.

'As a corporation involved in enormous investments both here and abroad, we have two considerable problems. One is that large fluctuations in currency exchange rates give us immense difficulty in predicting the economic environment in which long-term investment decisions will come to maturity.' Halloran caught Mather's eyes glazing over and hid his grin behind the coffee cup. Sir Victor's diction was crisp and clear, yet nothing could prevent the words themselves entering the brain as a drone.

'Unfortunately, the lengthy lead times from feasibility study to commercial operation mean that decisions have to be made today concerning the next generation of mining projects. In other words, we have to decide now what will be best for Magma in, say, seven to ten years' time. You'll appreciate just how difficult that might be.'

'Yes, yes,' Mather appreciated. 'I should think you'd need to be a fortune-teller to do that.' Mather smiled broadly, but Sir Victor and his second-incommand regarded him soberly.

'You're nearer the truth than you might imagine,' said the chairman.

Mather's eyebrows arched and he shot a look at Halloran.

Sir Victor leaned back in his chair and swivelled it sideways, his head turning away from them to examine the view outside. It was an odd gesture, almost as though he was suddenly reluctant to face them directly. Yet his manner was uncompromising when he spoke.

'What I'm about to tell you, gentlemen, must not go beyond these walls.' He turned back to them, his eyes boring into theirs. 'I must have your solemn promise on that.' Mather was quick to respond. 'My company has already given assurances regarding confidentiality.'

'I'm not referring to Achilles' Shield. I mean Mr Halloran and yourself. This matter cannot even be discussed within your own organisation. May I have your word?'

'That would be highly irregular. If our assignment is to be water-tight, we must have every cooperation from -'

'You will have that. In full. But there are certain details which are not essential to your planning that must not become common knowledge . . .' He held up a hand against Mather's protest '. . . even among a select few. In fact, there aren't many inside the Magma Corporation itself who are privy to this information. I can promise you, though, your security arrangements will not be affected to any significant degree.'

'I shall have to confer with my senior colleagues,' Mather said dubiously.

'Let's agree.' All eyes went to Halloran who had spoken.

'It can't do any harm.' He placed his empty coffee cup on a small table by his chair. 'But there are conditions. If anything illegal is involved here, then we're out. And you must tell us everything—no little details held back. If we don't like what we hear Shield withdraws. Simple as that.' Quinn-Reece looked set to bluster, but his chairman smiled.

'That sounds reasonable,' Sir Victor remarked. 'Thank you for being so direct, Mr Halloran; it saves time. Are you in accordance with this?' He aimed the question at Mather.

Who smiled too. He was used to Halloran's bluntness. 'I suppose I have no objections,' he answered as if wondering to himself.

'Very well.' The chairman appeared to relax a little. 'A moment or two ago you suggested we might need a fortune-teller to predict safe investments for the ongoing profitability of the Corporation . . .'

'A mild joke,' put in Mather. 'I noticed you didn't laugh.'

'Nor would we. Would you be surprised if I revealed that despite all the highly sophisticated research methods, our extensive statistics for forward planning, explorations of new territories, satellite surveys using micro-wave, ultra-violet and infra-red radiation, structural analyses, advanced computer calculations all that, and more—much of our new growth depends almost entirely on the special ability of one person?'

'I'd be very surprised,' Mather replied without hesitation.

'As our competitors would be if they knew. As would the Press, and of course, our shareholders. Yes, I suppose such a revelation would create amusement in some quarters. And great personal risk to our man from others.'

'Your rivals? Surely not?'

'When the stakes are so high, with discovery of fresh raw materials diminishing so rapidly, access to new fields proving more and more difficult and expensive, there develops over the years a competitively cut-throat situation—and I use that term literally.'

'Is this why you want your man so heavily insured?' asked Halloran.

Sir Victor nodded.

'He's already received threats?'

'Not exactly.' Mather interrupted. 'Look here, can we slow this down for a minute? I'm not clear at all on just what this employee of yours does for Magma. Are you saying he's some kind of exploration wizard? And isn't it time we were told his name? All this nonidentity business is only serving to compound my confusion.' Halloran knew the older man's mind was far too sharp to be fogged by anything said so far; this was merely the Planner's way of drawing out basic information that so often prospective clients were reluctant to convey.

' “Exploration wizard” is not entirely correct, although “wizard” might be appropriate in some respects.'

Sir Victor allowed a small laugh between himself and his deputy chairman. Again Halloran found the girl, Cora, watching him closely.

'Gentlemen,' said Sir Victor, his tone serious once more. 'It's time you met your—how is it you refer to them? Target?—yes, it's time you met your target. I think then all will be made clear. At least, I hope that will be the case.' With that, he stood arid indicated a door leading off from his office. Mather and Halloran rose too, both more than a little curious.

5 THE WHITE ROOM

He was tired. He'd had to leave Ireland discreetly, travelling south by road to Wexford, hiring a boat to take him from there across to a point just outside Newport, Wales, the journey made in the dead of night. The sea had been rough, but that hadn't bothered Halloran unduly. No, it was disappointment that had dragged his spirits down, exhausted him.

He hated to lose a man. The negotiations for the release of the kidnap victim had gone on for weeks with Halloran using all the techniques he had learned over the years dealing with terrorists such as these: when to play tough, when to appease, when to hedge; when to sound innocently confused. Anything to gain more time and information. The first priority was always to retrieve the client unharmed—unharmed as possible, anyway, the capture of his or her abductors a minor consideration. If that wasn't possible, then it was vital that the kidnappers did not get their hands on the ransom money. That would make them too careless with their victims' lives in future snatches. It would also upset whoever was supplying the money.

Terrorists, as opposed to the normal criminal (if there was such an animal), were always tricky to deal with, because they were invariably neurotic, unpredictable, and given to bouts of violence towards their captives and quite often those negotiating the release. The IRA were different. Oh, they had all those faults, and others not mentioned, but they could be cool and calculating—and sometimes more cruel because of it. There was no trust in them, and no trusting in them. They were a conscienceless and dangerous entity.

Which was why Halloran was so often chosen to deal with them.

But this current assignment with Magma puzzled him. Not as to why he had been chosen to handle it—he worked best alone, when he didn't have to rely on others-but more specifically, why the Corporation had allowed only one protector working on the inside. For the incredible amount of money for which the target's life had been insured, he should have had a small army around him, even though he had four bodyguards of his own. Could keeping secret his function for Magma be that important?

Apparently SO.

They were in yet another lift, the access to which had been in a small ante-chamber next door to the chairman's office, and were rising towards the twenty-second floor. Quinn-Reece was no longer with them, having excused himself to attend another meeting elsewhere.

'Two floor buttons only,' remarked Mather, looking at the panel set by the doors.

'This is a private lift and only travels between the eighteenth and twenty-second,' Sir Victor explained. 'A limited number of employees are allowed to use it.'

'And the twenty-third and fourth?'

'Living quarters and machinery rooms, the latter being at the very top.' What price a sky-high penthouse in the heart of the City? Halloran silently mused. And whose penthouse? The chairman's? Maybe the target's, if he really was that important to the Corporation. There were a lot of questions still hanging in the air.

The lift walls were a glossy black, the occupants' reflected figures like shadowy ghosts around them. The overhead light was subdued, and it would have been easy to imagine they were travelling below the earth's surface rather than up towards the clouds.

Movement stopped, a subtle sensation, and the doors parted. The corridor beyond was as gloomy as the lift's interior.

A heavy-set man stood opposite, close to the wall, as if he had been awaiting their arrival. His arms were folded across a broad chest and they dropped to his sides in a token gesture of attention when he saw the chairman.

'He's ready for us?' asked Sir Victor, stepping from the lift first with no deference to Cora's gender or courtesy towards his guests.

The man nodded. 'He's waiting.' Just a hint of civility in his voice, his accent American.

From his thick-set stature and how uncomfortable he appeared in his business suit, it was easy for Mather and Halloran to surmise that this man was one of the bodyguards. His hair was long, incongruously (considering the staid suit) tied into a tail behind. Sullen eyes set in a pudgy face flicked over the visitors. At first, Halloran had thought the man's cheeks were unusually ruddy, but when he moved closer he realised that a patchwork of thin, livid scars emblazoned both sides of his face. Without further words the bodyguard led the way along the corridor, keeping at least six feet ahead of the entourage. The walls on either side were bare and dark and Halloran brushed fingers against one side.

feeling a coarse material: the covering was black hessian. It was unusually cold in that corridor, yet the gloom was beginning to feel stifling.

A turn to the right, a large double-door facing them. Its surface, like the lift walls, was glossy black, and for one startling moment Halloran had the impression of apparitions approaching them. As the bodyguard leaned forward, extending both hands to grip the separate doorhandles, his spectral reflection leaned closer as if to snatch him. Both sides of the double-door were pushed open, the bodyguard standing aside to allow the party through.

The room was huge and almost blindingly white.

'Welcome to limbo,' a voice said.

6 FELIX KLINE

The man who had spoken wasn't what Mather or Halloran expected at all.

He didn't look worth £50 million. He didn't seem like someone whom a multi-national, first-league corporation could possibly be dependent upon. He looked nothing like a genius, and nothing like a wizard.

He was something of a disappointment.

At first their eyes had been stung by the unexpected dazzle, the abrupt contrast between gloom and astonishing brightness. But as they blinked away the irritation, they were gradually able to take in their new surroundings. There were no windows, and there was no furniture apart from a low, moderate-sized dais in the centre of the luminously white floor. If there were other exits around the room, they could not be discerned against the white walls, at least not until their eyes had become accustomed to the glare.

Even the high ceiling was of white light. The whole effect was of vast and empty space which served to make the figure sitting on the edge of the dais seem even more insignificant.

He was wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt chopped off at the elbows, his legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed, his hands behind him and flat against the small platform's surface. He grinned at the group standing in the doorway.

'The sudden change wipes your mind clean, doesn't it?' he said. Then he laughed, a peculiar high-pitched giggle. 'That's the idea, y'see. A blank mind, a clean slate; a white sheet, waiting to be filled with images. I can make everything black if you prefer?' He looked at them with eager expectancy.

'Not just now, Felix,' said Sir Victor quickly. 'Not if you don't mind. I want to introduce you to Mr Mather and Mr Halloran from Achilles' Shield, the company I discussed with you.' The man addressed as Felix stood and ambled over to them, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. He was well below average height, about five-three, his shoulders slightly rounded so that he appeared to stoop. His age could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. His curly hair was dark and unkempt, his complexion swarthy, almost yellowish. And his eyes, above a hooked nose, were large and pitchy, as deep and shiny as oil pools.

Let me guess,' he said, grinning again, and looking over their heads.

There was something odd about his eyes and Halloran couldn't quite figure out what.

He stepped before them, lowered his gaze. 'You,' he said, stabbing a finger at Mather. 'You're Mather.

You're the Organiser -no, no, the Planner, that's what you're called, right? Am I right? Course I'm right.

Damn right. And you . . .' He faced Halloran.

His grin dropped away for an instant.

The grin was back, but humour was lacking. 'And you are Halloran,' he said more slowly, less excitedly.

'The Muscle. No, no, not just that. A bit more than that. Shit, you're a cold bastard.' Halloran returned his stare and realised what was bothering him about the smaller man's eyes. The pupils were unusually enlarged. With all the dazzling brightness around them, they should have been almost pin-points. Smack?

Could be. He seemed hyped up.

'This is Felix Kline,' Sir Victor interposed. 'The person you've been engaged to protect.' If Mather was surprised he didn't show it. 'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Kline.'

'That you are,' agreed Kline. 'How about you, Halloran? You pleased to meet me?'

'You might grow on me,' replied Halloran.

The girl stepped in quickly. 'There are lots of arrangements to make, Felix. These gentlemen will have to know your day-to-day movements, your plans in advance, how best their people can cover you twenty-four hours a day.'

'People?' snapped Kline. 'We agreed only one. Halloran's it.'

'He'll need back-up,' said Mather, beginning to get annoyed with this volatile young man. 'He can't keep his eyes on you every minute of the day and night. There has to be outside protection.' Kline was still watching Halloran. 'All right. You take care of that, Cora—you know my movements better than I do.

Give the details to Mather, he's the brains. I want to be alone with Halloran for a while. If he's going to be my constant companion we'd better get to know each other a little. What d'you say, Halloran? D'you have a first name?'

'Liam.'

'Yeah? I'll call you Halloran. It's okay for you to call me Felix.' He smiled then, and suddenly looked like an innocent. He turned to the chairman of Magma. 'Listen, Victor, I need to see you later aboutBougainville .'

'Copper?' asked Sir Victor.

'Uh huh. Think so. A source we haven't tapped yet.'

'That's good news if you're sure.' Kline was irritated. 'I can't be sure. You know I can't be sure!'

'No, I'm sorry, of course not,' the chairman appeased. 'We'll discuss it later. When you're ready.'

'Okay, okay. Now leave me alone with Halloran. We've got things to discuss. You come back when you're through, Cora.' They left, only the bodyguard lingering by the door. Kline snapped his fingers, then pointed, and the heavy-set man followed the others, closing the double-doors behind him.

'Mystified, Halloran?' said Kline, walking backwards, away from him, towards the low dais at the room's centre, his white sneakers squeaking against the shiny floor. 'Yeah, I bet you are. How come a little creep like me can tell a big wheel like Sir Victor what or what not to do?' He hopped onto the platform and stood with legs apart, thin arms folded across his chest.

'I'd be interested to find out,' said Halloran, remaining where he was. His voice sounded hollow in the empty space around them.

'Yeah, and I'd be interested to find out about you. You bother me, Halloran, and I don't like that.'

Halloran shrugged. 'You can always ask for someone else. There are plenty of good operatives at Shield who could take my place. But if I bother you, you might be more prepared to do as I say. It's your life I'll be protecting, remember.'

'Could I forget?' He dropped to the floor again and sat on the dais' edge, elbows on knees, his body hunched. 'You got questions you want to asks' Halloran walked over and sat next to him. 'Tell me exactly what you do for Magma. That'll be useful for beginners.' Kline laughed, a quick explosive sound. 'You mean the old boy hasn't told you? Probably wanted to lead you into it gently. Okay, Halloran, sit there and listen-you're about to be educated.' He was on his feet again, skittishly pacing up and down before his one-man audience.

'I welcomed you to limbo, right? Well, that's what this room represents. Nothingness. A void. Nothing to distract, nothing at all to interest. Not unless I do this' He darted towards the dais, reached for something behind Halloran. He held the rectangular object in one hand and Halloran saw it was a plain white remote control unit, even the buttons colourless and unmarked so that it had been almost invisible against its resting place. Kline aimed the sensor cells and thumbed a button.

The room was instantly plunged into total darkness.

Halloran moved instinctively, changing his position on the dais, going to his left. He heard a dry chuckle from somewhere in the inkiness, an eerie scratching sound that stiffened the muscles of his back.

'A different kind of void, isn't it?' came Kline's voice.

Halloran twisted his head, hopelessly trying to locate the source in the pitch black.

'It's full of things,' Kline said, and this time he sounded close. almost by Halloran's shoulder.

'Bad things,' Kline whispered in his ear.

Halloran rose, reached out. Touched nothing.

'And now we do this,' said the voice.

Halloran squeezed his eyes shut against the burst of light from one of the walls. He opened them cautiously, giving his pupils time to adjust. Some distance away an unmarked relief map ofSouth America glowed.

Light reflected off Kline who stood six feet away to Halloran's right. His hand, holding the remote, was extended towards the brightly lit map. He shifted his aim.

'Now this,' he said. Click. Another map.North America by the side of South.

'This. This. This.' Kline used his arm as a pointer, turning slowly, maps of different countries appearing one after the other, lining the upper halves of the walls, all the way around.India , Africa,Spain ,Australia

,Indonesia ,Alaska , many more, plus sections of land or islands he didn't immediately recognise. They illuminated the room, large, detailed murals in greens and browns, with seas unnaturally blue.

Kline was grinning at him, his face and body a kaleidoscope of soft colours.

'Satellite photographs.' Kline told him. 'We're looking down at Mother Earth from outer space. Now look at this.' He carelessly aimed the remote at one of the relief maps. A button clicked.

The map became an incredibly detailed flat study, exactly in ;talc to the one it overlaid, but with towns, villages, rivers, and mountains clearly marked. 'Something else, right. Halloran? I can tell you're impressed.' Click.

The pictures around the wall disappeared, shut off together save for one. An island.

'Know this place, Halloran?New Guinea .' The relief zoomed LIP, the left side growing out of frame.

The map froze again.Papua New Guinea , a steamy hell-hole. But rich in certain things.' He watched Kline return to the dais, a shadowy, back-lit figure that somehow exuded electric energy. The small man squatted in the middle of the low rostrum, ankles crossed, crouching forward towards the screen.

'Copper, for one,' Kline said, his eyes intent on the bright picture. His voice became dulled as he concentrated. 'My deed for the day as far as Magma's concerned. It already has a copper mine down there, but it's running low. Did you know the demand for copper is up ten per cent after the long recession? No, guess you didn't. Why should you? Shit, I hardly care myself. But old Sir Vic does, him and his cronies. Big money to them, y'see. Well, looks like I found 'em a new source, quite a ways from the established mine. Did that this morning, Halloran, before you arrived.' Halloran stared. 'You found them copper? I don't understand.' Kline laughed gleefully, smacking the platform beneath him with his free hand. 'And who can blame you? You're like the rest: no concept of the mind's real power. Reason is mankind's disease, did you know that? A wasting away of senses. So what do you care? A dumb bodyguard is all you are.'

'So educate me a little more.' Click.

Total darkness once again.

Halloran softly walked to a new position.

Kline's disembodied voice came to him. 'All this black worry you, Halloran?' He didn't answer.

'Make you wonder what it's concealing? You know you're in an empty room, you saw that when the lights were on. But now you're not so sure. Because you can't see anything. So your own mind invents for you.' A chuckle in the dark.

'You can hear me, so you know I'm here, right, Halloran? 'Bout six or seven feet away But if I touch you

. . .' A cold finger scraped Halloran's cheek .

. . . now that scares you. Because reason tells you it doesn't make sense.' Halloran had instinctively gone into a crouch. He shifted position again, heard his own feet scuff the floor.

'Scares the shit out of you, right?' A finger prodded his back.

Halloran moved again and kept moving, reaching out for a wall, something solid on which to get his bearings. His stretched fingers touched a face.

Then brilliant light forced his eyes shut.

'You were helpless. I had you cold.' They were on the platform once more, Halloran steadily forcing his jarred nerves to settle, Kline sitting beside him, grinning, his oil-slick eyes watching. Halloran could smell the other man's sweat, could see the damp patches beneath his armpits.

'Sure, you had me cold,' he agreed. 'What was the point though?'

'A 'tiny lesson about the unreality of reality. You asked me to educate you some more.'

'That wasn't what I had in mind.' Kline giggled. 'Fear was something I put into you. And you did feel fear.'

'Maybe.'

'Yet you knew it was only me and you in here. A little guy like me up against a trained heavy like you.

Unreasonable, wouldn't you say? The darkness overcame your reason, don't you see? Made you vulnerable.'

'I admit I was disorientated.'

'Much more, I think.'

'It hasn't helped me understand anything. I don't see what it had to do with finding copper on a map.,

'Perhaps it was a demonstration and a test at the same time.' The coarseness had left Kline's voice and his manner had subtly changed, the banter all but gone to be replaced by a cool mocking. 'A silly game, yes, but I wanted to gauge your reaction to, as you put it yourself, disorientation. My life appears to be in your hands, after all.'

'Let's get on to that later. Talk to me about copper inNew Guinea . How did you locate this new source?'

'Through my mind, of course. Intuition, second sight, sixth sense, extrasensory perception—call it what you will. I look at maps and I perceive hidden minerals and ores. Even stores of raw energy. I can tell where they can be found beneath the earth's crust. Oh, I don't mean to boast—I'm not always right.

Seventyfive per cent of the time I am, though, and that's good enough for Magma. Oh yes, that's mare than good enough for Sir Victor Penlock and his board of directors.' Halloran slowly shook his head.

'You find these . . . these deposits with your mind? Like a diviner locates underground springs?'

'Huh! Finding water beneath the soil is the easiest thing in the world. Even you could do that. No, it's a bit more involved. Let's say scientific geological studies and even carefully calculated estimations point me in the right direction. I'm given an area to look at—it could cover thousands upon thousands of square miles—and I totally shed irrelevant matters from my thoughts. This room helps me do that: its emptiness cleanses my mind.' He waved a hand around at the room. By using the remote control a few moments before, Kline had dimmed the light considerably, rendering the walls and floor a pale, cheerless grey.

Halloran could now see faint lines where the screens were imbedded. He also noticed tiny sensors strategically and discreetly positioned to pick up commands from the console held loosely in the other man's hand. The room was ingenious in structure and design.

'Can you understand why I'm so valuable to the Corporation?' asked Kline, gazing down at the floor and massaging his temples with stiffened fingers as though easing a headache. 'Have you any idea how fast the developed countries are using up our resources—fossil fuels, minerals, metals, timber, even soils? We're rapidly running them down. Worldwide we're searching and digging and consuming. We've got greedy.

The big corporations don't believe in restraint: they've always done their utmost to supply the demand, with no cautions, no warnings, nothing to upset the flow of cash into their silk-lined pockets.' He raised his head and there was something sly about his smile when he looked at Halloran.

'Now they're getting scared. The harder new sources of raw materials are to find, the more concerned they get; the more expensive it is to scour those materials from the earth, the more jitterish they become.

That's what makes me Magma's biggest asset why I'm so precious to the Corporation. Even £50 million would hardly compensate for my death,' Halloran rose and walked away, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, head bowed as though he were deep in thought. He turned, looked back at the small watching figure.

'That's some story you're asking me to swallow,' Halloran said.

Kline's cackled laughter shot across the room. 'You don't believe me! You don't believe I can do it! All I've shown you and you think this is some kind of game. Wonderful!' He pummelled his feet on the white floor with the joke of it.

Halloran spoke calmly. 'I said it's hard to believe.' Kline became still. 'You think I give a shit what you believe? All you have to do is protect me, nothing more than that. So maybe it's time I found out how good you are.' His thumb worked the remote control unit once more and a buzzer or a light must have alerted the man outside the doubledoor, because one side opened and the bodyguard stepped through.

'Halloran here doesn't think you're up to much, Monk,' said Kline. 'You want to give him a little workout, introduce yourself?' Monk wasn't smiling when he approached.

Halloran still faced Kline. 'I don't do auditions,' he said.

'In that case Monk's liable to break your arms.' Halloran sighed and turned to meet the other man who was ambling forward as if he intended to do nothing more than shake the operative's hand. But there was a certain, recognisable, gleam in Monk's eyes.

He took the last two yards in a crouching rush.

To find Halloran was suddenly behind him.

Monk felt Halloran's foot planted squarely against his rear end, a hard shove propelling him further forward, the action one fluid movement. All balance gone, the bodyguard skidded to his knees, reduced to a clumsy scrabbling figure. He came up in a crouching position.

'Bastard.' The curse was high-pitched, almost a squeal, as though his voice-box was squeezed somewhere too low in his throat.

'Jesus, it speaks,' said Halloran.

The bodyguard ran at him.

'Felix, call him off!' It was Cora's voice, but Halloran didn't bother to look towards the doorway. He had no wish to hurt this lumbering apeman, but at the same time it was too early in the day to be playing silly games. He stepped aside from the charge again and brought his knee up into the bent man's lower ribs, using only enough force to bruise and upset his victim's breathing for a while.

Monk went down with a whoosh of escaping air and spittle from his open mouth. To give him credit, he immediately began to rise again, his face red and glowering. Resignedly, Halloran prepared to jab a pressure point in the man's neck to bring the contest to a swift and relatively harmless end.

But Cora strode between them to confront Kline. 'Put a stop to this, Felix,' she demanded. 'Right now.'

Halloran caught the brief flash of rage in the small man's eyes before it was suppressed and Kline beamed a smile of the innocent.

'Only a test, Cora,' he all but simpered. 'No harm done. I needed to know how good this guy was, that's all.'

'He wouldn't have been recommended to us if he wasn't any good,' she replied, her tone modified by now. She turned to Halloran. 'I'm so sorry, this should never have happened.' Monk was clutching his sore ribs with one hand, looking from Halloran to Kline, awaiting further instructions.

'Wait outside,' Kline snapped, obviously displeased with his man's performance. Then, to Halloran as Monk left the room with less ease than he had entered: 'You move pretty fast.'

'If he's your best, you've got problems,' said Halloran.

'Oh, he's not my best; he's my ox.' Kline rose from the dais, a quick feline movement. His eyes seemed even darker than before, and glistened with some inner thought. 'No doubt there are matters you will have to discuss with Cora concerning my future safety. She's my PA—no, much more than that—so feel free to confide in her absolutely. Now I need a shower; I'm beginning to stink.'

'You and I have a lot to go through,' Halloran said to him.

'Tell it to her. I need to rest.' It was a command and Halloran frowned.

The girl touched his arm though, and he looked down at her. Kline was already walking away, heading towards a far corner of the room. He clicked a button on the unit he was still carrying and a door that had been virtually invisible before slid back.

'Felix really does need to rest for a while,' Cora said as they watched him disappear through the opening. 'His special gift often leaves him quite exhausted.' Halloran had noticed the perspiration stain low at the back of Kline's sweatshirt as well as those beneath his arms, and his frown deepened. It was cool in the room, almost uncomfortably so. And when he had touched the small man in the darkness, Kline's skin had been cold.

He remembered that moment, remembered the shudder that had run through him.

For when his fingers had reached out and felt Kline's face in that total darkness, they had touched ridges and creases, dry, wrinkled skin that had no place on the features of a comparatively young man.

Reason told him he must have been mistaken, the shock of the moment creating an illusion, the sudden blinding light instantly wiping the image from his mind.

But now that thought—that feeling—had returned. And Kline, himself, had warned against reason.

7 KLINE'S PREMONITION

Cora picked at the salad, her interest centred on Halloran rather than the food before her. The riverside terrace was beginning to fill with office workers on early lunch break, the fine weather after such a dreary winter proving an attraction. A pleasure-boat filled with pink-faced tourists cruised by, theThames a slatey-blue again after months of sluggish greyness. New buildings lined the bank across the river alongside old decaying warehouses. There was still an edgy chill in the air, but it only served to make the new season more fresh, a cleanness in the breeze sweeping away the dregs of winter.

Halloran was winding his way through the circular tables, holding the two drinks chest high to avoid nudging heads and shoulders of other diners.

She watched and she was just a little afraid of him. The casual way in which he had dealt with Monk's aggression made her wonder how lethal he could be if the situation were desperate. Yet at first glance he seemed anything but a violent man. He was tall, but not massive, his body lean, certainly not muscle-bound. Even his clothes were casual, nothing sharp or self-conscious about them.

That was at first glance. Take another look and notice the pale blue eyes, the warmth in them that could turn to a bleak coldness in an instant. She'd seen that happen when he'd been introduced to Felix. And Felix had been aware of it, too.

That worried her, for Felix might need this enigmatic man, no matter what mutual dislike had already sprung up between them. There was something about I-lalloran's quiet strength that was totally reassuring: he was a man to feel safe with—unless you were his enemy.

Cora thanked him with a smile as Halloran placed the gin and tonic in front of her; she deliberately left it there, aware that she'd taken the first one too fast (to Halloran's surprised amusement). His own was a whisky with ice and he put it to one side as he tucked into his ham salad. She tried a dismal attack on her own food once again, but gave up after a few mouthfuls.

'I don't seem to be very hungry today,' she said, and wondered why it sounded like an apology. She lifted her glass and drank, finding the gin more sustaining than lettuce and cucumber.

Halloran nodded and took a healthy sip of his whisky to keep her company. His smile was gentle.

'What part ofIreland were you born in, Mr Halloran?' Cora asked, the sinking warmth from her second drink already beginning to relax her.

'Call me Liam,' he replied. 'I wasn't born inIreland . My parents were Irish, but I was born here inLondon , although I grew up in Kilkenny. My father was a captain in the British Army, and spent much of his time abroad while mother and I stayed on my grandfather's farm.'

'And did you eventually join the army?'

'It was a natural enough thing to do.' He put down his knife and cut pieces of cheese with the edge of his fork. 'I need to know a good deal about your employer, Miss Redmile. His private life as well as business.'

'Cora.'

'Okay—Cora. Tell me about him. Tell me how long he's been your boss.'

'I joined Magma about five or six years ago, but I haven't worked for Felix all that time.' He encouraged her with a nod.

'Felix took me on as his PA three years ago. I don't know why. He saw me when I was delivering some documents to Sir Victor's office one day from my department on the sixteenth. The documents were urgent and I interrupted their meeting. Apparently he asked about me and the next thing I knew he'd put in a request to have me as an assistant. I wasn't even sure who he was at that time, although I'd heard rumours.'

'Rumours?'

'Yes. No more than office gossip. Felix Kline's presence at Magma has never been official; you won't find his name mentioned in company papers, not even on a pay slip or P.45.'

'Isn't that illegal?'

'Not if he's never been employed by the Magma Corporation. As far as the outside world is concerned, he could just be paying rent for the penthouse suite.'

'Except I bet even that isn't on record,' suggested Halloran.

'The official resident is Sir Victor himself.'

'So Kline's role for the Corporation really is that secret? Your board of directors is afraid that he'll be nabbed by the competition?'

'More than that. There are over a hundred thousand shareholders of Magma, most of themUK

registered: imagine their reaction if they found out their Corporation was guided by a mystic.'

'It's a relief to hear you say that. I was beginning to wonder if I was the one who was out of touch with modern business practices.' Cora laughed and he was glad. She had been tense ever since she'd taken him away from the white room, as if the minor tussle she'd witnessed between himself and the heavy had upset her. Later, in the daylight, he'd noticed a faint darkness beneath her eyes, like smudges under the surface skin, the look of someone who'd recently found sleep difficult. Maybe she was concerned for her employer, worried because the danger to him was considered serious enough to warrant hiring a K & R

agency, despite the fact that Kline already had his own bodyguards.

'I gather—and this might sound naive given all I've learned so far today—that Kline has achieved fantastic results for Magma.'

'That's an understatement.' Cora smiled at him before sipping from her glass.

'When did the Corporation discover his talents?' Halloran left his fork on the plate and leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the table's edge. 'I mean, just who approached who?' Now she avoided his eyes. 'I'm not at liberty to say. I'm sorry, Liam, but my instructions are to supply you with information relevant only to your protection plans.'

'Is there a reason for that?'

'The same reason that just one person—you—will be allowed to stay close to Felix: secrecy, discretion, call it what you like. The less people who know about Felix Kline, the easier Sir Victor and others will feel.' She was suddenly anxious. 'I'm not assuming too much, am I? You have accepted the assignment.'

'Oh yes,' he replied softly and again, there was something disconcerting in his eyes when he smiled. 'But there are certain ground rules he'll have to agree to.' Halloran reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a folded sheet of paper. 'A simple list of Do's and Don't's,' he said, handing it to Cora.

'Make sure he reads through it today. If Kline's willing to go by them, call Shield later this afternoon, talk to Mather.'

'And if Felix isn't willing?'

'Then we've got problems. Possibly Shield will turn down the assignment.~ 'May I see the list?'

'Of course. You'll be part of the set-up.' Cora unfolded the sheet of paper and ran her eyes over the lines of type. She nodded her head. 'It all seems straightforward enough.' Halloran reached over and tapped the corner of the paper. 'Point three there. Does Kline have a chauffeur?'

'Yes. One of his bodyguards. Janusz Palusinski.'

'Is Palusinski familiar with anti-kidnap driving techniques?'

'I . . . I don't know.'

'It's important.'

'I'm sorry, I really have no idea. Palusinski has been with Felix a lot longer than I have.'

'Okay. If he isn't he'll have to spend a day or so with one of Shield's drivers. He'll need to learn the handbrake turn, the reverse turn, how to break through a road-block—that kind of thing. None of it's too difficult to master for an experienced driver. Until then, I'll do any driving for Kline.' Cora looked down at the list again. 'Covert signals?' she asked.

'We'll work out a system of identifying each other with code-words. Handy for telephone conversations, knocking on doors and the like. We'll arrange non-verbal signals too for emergencies where words either won't help or might put us at risk. Nothing fancy, just simple signs. There'll be other key words for use in a kidnap situation, words that will let us know if Kline is hurt, the number of abductors, maybe even clues to his location if he's aware of it himself. If he sticks to the rules there shouldn't be any need for those.'

Cora shivered, caught by a breeze skimming off the river. 'This is scary,' she said.

'Sure it is. But that's how it should be—scary enough to keep you both on your toes.'

'That isn't very reassuring.'

'You're hiring my company for Kline's protection, not far giving false comfort. I've got to be frank with you, Cora: if an organisation, be it terrorist or hoodlum, is out to get someone, it's virtually impossible to prevent them from at least making the attempt—and that's usually when people get hurt. We can only do our best to minimise the risk. But if it's any consolation, it's far easier to assassinate someone than it is to kidnap them.' She visibly paled.

Halloran leaned forward again and gripped her lower arm. 'I didn't mean to alarm you. We are only talking about a kidnap and ransom situation here, aren't we? Nobody's threatened his life?' Cora slowly shook her head and Halloran withdrew his hand.

'What is it, Cora? What's upsetting you? As I understand it, all we're going on is a “feeling” Kline has that he's in some kind of danger, with no hard evidence of that really being the case.'

'You don't know Felix, you've no idea of his psychic ability. He has powers . . .' Her voice trailed off.

'Yeah, I know—powers that are secret.' Halloran looked away from her, towards the river. 'Well that's between Magma and Kline. My only interest is protecting a man made of flesh and blood, someone as vulnerable as the rest of us. But if he knows something about this particular predicament he's in—or imagines he's in—he'd better tell me. What is it that's frightened him so much, Cora” She bowed her head for a moment. Her fingers curled around the base of her gin glass, which was now empty; she twisted the glass, sunlight glistening off its rim. A group at a nearby table laughed at a shared joke. The microphone-voice from a pleasureboat guide drifted over the terrace parapet. Cora's fingers became still.

'For the past week,' she began, her voice low and hesitant, aware of the people around them, 'Felix has been troubled by some kind of premonition. Nothing substantial, nothing he can recognise. A dream, a nightmare, one that he can never remember when he wakes. But he knows it's a warning to him, a precognition of sorts that won't fully reveal itself to him. It's made him distraught. No, more than that

-Felix is terrified.'

'He didn't look that way to me,' commented Halloran.

'He'd never show those feelings to an outsider. Felix is a very private man.'

'You're telling me he's had a premonition of his own death'?' She gave a shake of her head. 'No. No, something worse than that.' A shadow fell across the table startling them both. A barman collected their empty glasses, transferring them to a tray of others.

'Lovely day,' the barman said, turning away without waiting The girl looked across at Halloran. She said nothing more.

8 BODYGUARDS

Snaith wasn't happy.

'You mean Magma is going to all this bother because their man—this chap Kline—has had a premonition of some sort?' He glared at Halloran as though it were his fault.

Halloran, himself, seemed preoccupied. He scratched the back of his fingers against his jaw. 'That's how it is,' he said.

Snaith rested back in his chair, one hand still on the desk, fingers drumming a beat. 'Ludicrous,' he pronounced.

'Not to the Corporation,' said Mather, sitting in an easychair opposite Halloran, his bad leg stretched out before him (now and again during the briefing and planning meeting he would absent-mindedly rub at his kneecap as if to ease the pain of the old wound). 'They have great faith in this man's ability; I don't think it's for us to dismiss his foreboding so lightly.' Dieter Stuhr, sitting at one end of the Controller's desk, tapped the blunt end of his pencil against the large notepad in front of him. 'Personally, I don't see how that affects us anyway. What goes on between Kline and the Magma Corporation is their affair. We should treat this like any other job.'

'Of course you're right,' agreed Snaith, 'but this business bothers me. It's . . .' he shook his head, frustrated '. . . it's not logical. What kind of man is he, Liam?'

'Changeable,' came the reply. 'I'd say he's highly unstable neurotic, in fact. He's going to be a problem.'

'I see.' Snaith's expression was grim. 'Well, we've dealt with prima donnas before. And his personal bodyguards? What's your opinion of their worth?'

'I was only introduced to one. He wasn't very effective.' Nobody in the room asked him how he'd reached that conclusion; they accepted his word.

Mather consulted a notebook. 'I have the names of the other three here. Let me see now, yes—Janusz Palusinski, his driver, then Asil Khayed and Youssef Daoud. They're described as “personal attendants”, which I suppose could imply anything.'

'Good Lord,' exclaimed Snaith. 'Arabs?'

'Jordanians.'

'And the first? Czech? Polish?'

'Janusz Palusinski—Polish.'

'And the one you met, Liam?'

'Monk. He didn't say much.'

'Theodore Albert Monk,' Mather supplied from his notebook. 'According to the Magma files, he's American.'

'That's some mixed bag,' commented Snaith.

'Apparently Felix Kline picked them up on his travels. They've all been with him for years.'

'The driver might need some training,' suggested Halloran.

'That's being taken care of,' Snaith told him. 'Kline's PA, Miss, uh—Redmile, rang me earlier this afternoon to arrange it. Dieter?'

'I've got him booked in for tomorrow. We'll lease Magma one of our own specials—for Palusinski to train in and to use afterwards. Kline's own vehicle doesn't have enough protection facilities; body and windows are bullet-proof, but that's about it. I'll want to keep Palusinski for at least two days, Liam, to make sure he really knows what he's doing when he leaves us, so it looks like you're Kline's chauffeur until then.' Halloran nodded.

Snaith spoke: 'Miss Redmile also confirms that her employer agrees to the list of conditions regarding his own actions in the forthcoming weeks. I understand you had lunch with her today?' He was looking directly at Halloran. 'Apart from their business relationship, what is she to Kline? Is she his mistress?'

Halloran took time to consider the question. Finally, he said, 'She could be.'

'She's that type?'

'What type?'

'The type who beds her boss.'

'I wouldn't know.'

'But she's a looker.' Halloran nodded.

'Let's assume that's the case, then.' Mother noticed the brief flare of anger in Halloran's eyes and was puzzled by it. Liam usually held his emotions totally in check. 'I don't see that it's entirely relevant, Gerald,' Mather put in. 'After all, Kline isn't married, and there's no mention of other girlfriends—or boyfriends, for that matter—in the dossier from Magma.'

'She could be a weak spot,' Snaith replied. 'He might put himself at risk if he knows she's in danger.

There could be other possibilities, also. Has she been checked out?'

'I have her file right here,' said Stuhr. 'Charles brought it back from Magma earlier today, so I've only managed to glance through it. She sounds pretty solid to me. Raised in Hampshire, an only child, father a university lecturer, mother a local GP, both now deceased. Attended private school until eighteen, bright seven Os and three As—but never went on to university. Rents an apartment in Pimlico, has a substantial sum of money in her bank account—what's left of the proceeds from the sale of her parents' home, plus a little of her own savings. Magma is her first and only job apart from a bit of summertime temping when she was still a student; she worked her way up in the organisation and I think she is wonderful.' He took a black and white photograph from the file and held it up for the others to see.

Snaith didn't smile. 'Dig deeper over the next few days. Find out who she socialises with, boyfriends, lovers, her politics, religion—you know the kind of thing. She's close to the target, so we can't take chances.' Snaith paused, ran fingers through his short ginger-grey hair.

'Now,' he said, looking round at all of them. 'Our friend Mr Kline. Just what the hell do we know about him?'

'Hardly anything,' answered Stuhr. 'It took me all of half-aminute to read through his file.'

'Hmn, that's what I was afraid of. This bloody secrecy can be taken too far.'

'Oh, I don't chink Magma is to blame,' said Mather. 'When I spoke with the chairman this morning it became very apparent that the Corporation doesn't actually know too much about Felix Kline's background. I got the impression that so long as the man continues to make them money, they're not particularly bothered.'

'Would somebody please tell me just what it is he does for Magma?' complained Stuhr.

'Sorry, Dieter.' said Snaith, 'that isn't necessary for you to know. Their terms, I'm afraid, so don't sulk.

What does his file tell us?' Stuhr made a snorting noise, but didn't argue. 'Like I said there isn't much. He was born inIsrael , arrived inEngland eleven years ago, began working far the Magma Corporation almost immediately = 'A Jew with two Arab companions?' interrupted Snaith.

'They're not all bitter enemies. He moved into the penthouse suite of the Magma building when it was completed about five years ago. He also has a country home inSurrey , by a lake, two thousand acres of pastures and woodland. I need hardly say that's a huge amount of land to own in the Home Counties.

He's obviously a very wealthy man. Unmarried, doesn't drive, doesn't smoke, drinks a little, no mention of drugs -but there wouldn't be—doesn't gamble. That's about it.'

'What?' said Snaith incredulously. 'There must be more.' Stuhr reached for a file lying beneath Cora Redmile's. He opened it and indicated the single sheet of paper inside. 'I told you there wasn't much to read.'

'It must give his birth date, where he was educated, his employment before Magma. Isn't there anything about his social activities? It's essential that we at least have some idea of what those are.'

'He doesn't appear to have any if this document is anything to go by.'

'Charles?' Snaith appealed.

Mather waved a hand. 'That's the situation I'm afraid. Even in conversation the chairman gave nothing away. Naturally I probed, but got nowhere. As I said, they seem to know little about the man themselves, and I think that's of Kline's choosing; perhaps part of his own terms of employment was his complete privacy on all personal matters. If he'd already demonstrated how good his abilities were, I don't suppose the board objected too much.'

'All right. I'm not happy, but let's accept the situation for what of is.' Then Snaith asked hopefully, 'I suppose his salary isn't in there somewhere?' Stuhr grinned and shook his head. 'Not even a hint.'

'We could find out from other sources, but let's not waste our tome. In fact, there's a lot more information we could uncover if we tool the trouble, but we'll take the assignment at face value. Our contract will be signed later today—we're moving fast on this one- Loam, you'll be Kline's constant companion as of eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Dieter, I want a report from you on terrorist and kidnap activities during the last year. Obviously anything relevant to Magma or its subsidiary companies is what we're after.' Stuhr made a note. After the meeting he would spend some tome at the data processing machine, using a special access code to link up with another company which specialised in maintaining and updating the activities and whereabouts of known worldwide terrorist groups on computer.

'I'll do some checks on Magma's rivals, also,' the German said, 'see if there are any areas where competition has become over-fierce.'

'Good. We're looking for enemies, business or otherwise. But if Kline is as neurotic as Liam says, this whole affair could well be a waste of time and effort. The man might be suffering from a severe case of paranoia.' The Controller managed a grim smile. 'Still, that's his and Magma's problem Achilles' Shield gets paid either way. What do you have for us, Charles?' Mather stopped rubbing at his knee. 'It's all fairly straightforward. For the time being we'll allocate four operatives to work with Liam, our inside man.

Two to a team, working six-hour shifts around the clock. We'll also keep a back-up here on alert. Any preference as to whom you want, Liam?' Halloran shook his head.

'Very well. As requested by Magma, our teams will keep at a distance. They'll maintain a constant patrol around theSurrey estate's boundaries—as usual, we'll inform the local police to save them from getting into a tizz.'

'Will our people be armed?' enquired Stuhr.

There was a pause. Snaith preferred his operatives to be 'lotted' against 'severe hostility', but it was illegal for private bodyguards to carry weapons inEngland (a law which was constantly abused, particularly by foreign visitors to the country). The Controller came to a decision. 'Liam will take with him to the estate whatever hardware he feels is necessary. I'm reluctant to sanction anything that will harm our special relationship with the police and Home Office, so our patrols will be unarmed for the time being.

However, should there be any definite moves against our client, then the situation will be reconsidered.

Although we'll have to rely on Liam and Kline's own bodyguards to take care of internal surveillance, we'll need a detailed report on the security system of this place . . .' Stuhr made another note.

' . . and the Magma building itself. The latter worries me considerably. Too many people in and out all day. However, we can plant an extra couple of our men in the lobbies of the ground and twelfth floors; naturally Magma's own security people will have to know they're there. We'll have a surveillance team outside at night, front and back, when Kline's in residence.'

'The building worries me, too,' said Halloran, and all eyes turned towards him. 'It's a glass and metal fortress, but it's vulnerable.'

'Then let's hope nobody tries to get at the target before we're operational,' commented Mather. 'Now that would be amusing.' Snaith didn't find that prospect amusing at all. Not one bit.

9 ENTICEMENT

Ah good, at last he is approaching the boy.

The boy is nervous but he speaks with bravado. He is pale; the boy, and looks unwashed; no doubt the rumpled plastic bag he carries contains all his worldly goods. He is perhaps sixteen, perhaps seventeen.

The English believe that is too young to be without family, without a home; would that they knew of the orphans who freely roam the streets and marketplaces of Damascus, boys who wander alone, others who prowl in packs, stealing, begging, and joining lost causes because they will supply them with guns.

Pah! The self-important British knew nothing of such things.

The boy is smiling. An unsure, nervous smile. He is lost in this huge railway station with its throngs of blank-eyed strangers. He would be even more lost in the city itself should he step outside. Now he assumes he has found a friend. If only he realised. Hah, yes, if only the boy understood.

Ajel, be quick, Youssef, do not linger on this plain of shuffling travellers and vagrants. Policemen patrol, they search for runaways such as this one.

Now he is hesitant. The boy is uncertain. Perhaps it is the dark skin he does not trust. The English nurture such intolerances, instil them in their young.

Talk smoothly, Youssef, my friend. He looks around, the movement casual, nothing mare than a glance at arrival and departure times, a constantly changing pattern high on the station wall: but Youssef really looks to see if he and the boy are being observed. You are not, my friend; I, Asil, have already looked for you. I am the only one who is interested. Besides, a man talking to a shab is familiar cares Life is too personal to these surroundings. Nobody really He places a reassuring hand on the runaway's shoulder and the boy does not flinch away. Perhaps money is mentioned. Ah, I see the boy nods. He has all the boldness and the stupidity of the unworldly.

My friend turns away and the boy follows. They walk side by side. Not close, not like lovers, but like associates in sin. I see it in your eyes, Youssef, the gleam that shines from your dark soul, even though outwardly you are calm. And the boy swaggers; but this is a self-conscious posturing, an arrogant affectation.

I must quickly go to the car. I must be ready in the darkness of the backseat. The boy will hardly feel the needle's sting; he will only sense my presence when it is too late.

Then, for him, sleep. A long, deep sleep.

And when he wakes—our pleasure and the master's sustenance.

10 INTRUDER

Hurry, Youssef, ajel. I suspect that same gleam is now m my own eyes. My body is already aching.

Monk was surprised. Nobody was due this time of night. Leastwise, nobody'd told him.

The elevator was humming though. Faint, but it was on its way up. Sounded like the one from the chairman's suite. No way could it be Felix's elevator, the one that slid all the way down to the basement.

Nobody else had the code for that. Even the chick, Cora, had to wait 'til it was sent down for her.

Monk was momentarily distracted by Cora's image. The image was naked from the waist down.

Sound's stopped. It'd travelled no more'n four storeys. Yeah, from Sir Vic's den. Who the hell -?

Monk heard the doors open.

But no one stepped out.

The bodyguard laid down his magazine and rose from the chair at the end of the corridor. He released the restraining hoop on his shoulder-holster, but stayed where he was, awaiting developments.

No mood for fuckouts tonight, he told himself. It'd been a bad day already. He'd been shown for a jackass that morning, a clumsy meatloaf, and he was in no mind for surprises tonight, even if some jerk had made a mistake in coming up to the twenty-second. Just step outside, lessee the colour of your teeth.

Still no one. But the doors weren't closing, and that wasn't right.

Monk crept down the corridor, one hand on the butt of his pistol, a big lumbering man who nevertheless approached the lift silently, soft carpeting helping his stealth. The corridor was gloomy-dark—the way Felix liked it—and mellow light from the opening ahead stained the floor and opposite wall.

The door should've closed by now. Unless someone had a mitt on the O button.

Monk drew out the Snaith and Wesson.

He paused, the opening only two feet away. There were no shadows in the glow that spread from it.

He braced himself, readied to spring forwards and sideways, gun-arm pointed into the lift. But he thought better of that tactic. Monk wasn't stupid. His bulk was too good a target.

So he got down on his hands and knees and crawled forward, gunbarrel almost alongside his nose, elbows digging into the deep-pile. No one expected to see a face appear below knee level.

He was at the very corner, easing his massive head past the shiny metal ridge, the lift's interior coming into view. His gun hand was no more than a few inches ahead of him.

Nobody there. It looked like there was nobody there after A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him forward onto his belly. A leg straddled him and crushed his gun into the carpet. Iron fingers still dug into his hair making the roots scream. Something slammed hard into his neck and his thoughts became unsettled dreams.

Janusz Palusinski sat at the kitchen's breakfast bar slapping butter on bread with a carving knife whose blade was at least nine inches long. Beside his plate was a tumbler half-full of vodka.

He checked his wristwatch, parts of tattooed numbers showing at the edge of the broad strap, then sawed off chunks of roast beef, the red meat rare almost to the point of being raw. As he cut he wondered if Felix—moj Pan, he mentally and with more than a degree of cynicism added—would scream in his sleep tonight. A terrifying sound that stilled the blood of anyone who heard it. What did the man dream of? What fears possessed him when he slept? How close to total madness had he come? But no. Janusz must not even have a negative thought about his master. Felix would know, he would sense.

Felix, Felix, Felix.

Just the name could cause an ache in Palusinski's head.

The Pole wiped the back of his fist across his forehead, the knife he held catching light from overhead in a sudden flare. Normally the kitchen lights, like all the others in the penthouse, would be kept low by dimmer switches, but at present Felix was sleeping, he wouldn't know. Yet sometimes he did . . .

Sometimes he would accuse them all of things that he should never have been aware of, and they would cringe, they would cower, they would be craven before him. Still Felix—O lord, master, and oppressor—would make them suffer, sometimes the punishment cruel, other times involving a mere few hours of discomfort. Palusinski often felt that the two Arabs enjoyed that part of their servitude. Monk's brain was too curdled to care either way, blazen that he was.

But Janusz was different, he assured himself. Janusz was aware of certain things . . . The others were fools. No, the Arabs were not fools. They believed . . .

Palusinski gulped neat vodka, then unscrewed the mustard jar lid. He dug in the tip of the carving knife, sunk it four inches, then spread the dollop it came out with across the cut meat. He slammed another thick slice of bread, also lavishly buttered, on top, pressing down with the flat of his hand so that yellow goo oozed from the sides.

Twenty minutes before the gorilla was to be relieved, he told himself as he raised the overflowing sandwich and barged his mouth into it. Monk—a good name for an animal such as he. flours of sitting watching an empty corridor was a fitting task for such an idiota. But for Janusz, it meant five hours of misery to look forward to. A torment. Another torture imposed by Felix. Even pain was better than boredom.

What was it that had made Felix so nervous? The man was mad, there could be no doubting that. But a genius also! No doubting that, either. Gowno! No doubt at all. But why afraid now, moj szef? You, who lives in shadows, who distrusts the light unless it is for your purpose. What fresh fear haunts you now, mgzcayana of many dreads?

Palusinski chomped on meat and bread, lips glistening from the surplus of butter. He stilled his jaw to gulp vodka, seasoning the mushed food in his mouth with fire. His eyes were small behind the wire-framed spectacles he wore, their lids never fully raised, like blinds half-drawn in a room where secrets were kept. They were focused upon the rim of the open mustard jar, everything else a soft periphery; yet his eyes were not seeing that rim with its sliver of reflected light, for his thoughts were inwards, perhaps examining those very secrets within that room of his mind. He sat, slowly munching, as if mesmerised.

Something snatched him from the introspection, though. And he didn't know what.

A sound! A movement? Palusinski was puzzled. He was sensitive to intrusion. Months of living rough, sleeping in ditches, eating raw vegetables dug from the earth, always with his eyes darting left, right, afraid he would be seen, what would happen to him if they found him . . . all that, even though it had been many years since, had attuned his senses for the slightest shift in atmosphere.

His grip tightened on the knife. Someone was in the room beyond.

Monk? He would never disobey Felix's orders to watch the corridor one floor below until Palusinski took over. Unlikely, then, that Monk would desert his post. Youssef and Asil? No, they were not due to return that night, they had the country house to prepare for their precious lord and master's visit. Then who?

Palusinski slipped off the stool and reached inside his jacket, which was draped over a chair back. His hand came out with a thick, round metal bar, its length matching the blade protruding from his other fist.

He crept over to the lightswitch and extended finger and thumb to turn it anti-clockwise. The light in the kitchen faded.

From where he stood the Pole could see a broad section of lounge beyond and he cursed the shadows out there, the darkness of the furnishings, the blackness of the walls. He could wait; or he could venture out. He had the patience—skulking and hiding in the old country had instilled that in him—but he also had a duty. To Felix. He must never fail in that.

He held his breath and armed with the weapons moved towards the open doorway.

The danger-if there was someone out there-would probably be from either side of the doorway where a person could lurk safe from view. Which side? Always the dilemma. Which side would an assailant strike from'? If there was someone there . . .

He crouched low and ran through, counting on surprise, the knife held at hip level, tip pointing upwards, ready to plunge or swipe. Palusinski turned immediately he was clear, thrusting one leg back for balance and for leverage, so that he could spring forward or withstand an assault.

There was no need. Nobody hid outside the kitchen doorway, not on any side.

But somebody was behind the long black couch nearby. Only Palusinski, sensitive to intrusion though he was, neither saw nor felt the shadow that rose up from it.

He may have felt fingers tilt his head to one side so that certain nerves in his neck were exposed, but if so, he didn't remember later. He definitely did not feel the edge of the stiffened hand chop down, fast and silent, to deaden those nerves. Nor would he have felt the shock travelling along their roots towards a certain terminal inside his brain. The journey was too swift for that.

Kline was within himself.

He swam in blood vessels amid cells which changed from red to scarlet around him, through narrow passages, breaking out into round caverns, swept on by a bubbling tide that never stilled, towards a source that was no more than a distant rhythmic echo somewhere ahead in the labyrinth of busy tunnels, the rush to the sound as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

There were other things racing with him that were alien to these passages, black misshapen forms that were there only to disease and destroy; but these parasites themselves were steadily destroyed, attacked by globules which engulfed, swallowed, digested. And these defenders decided that he, too, was foreign, had no place alongside healthy corpuscles, that he was an interloper, a danger, up to no good. Even though it was his own body he journeyed through.

He screamed at the giant lumps to get away, to leave him alone, he meant no harm. But they were programmed to fight to the death all that was not right in the system and had no minds of their own. Two attached themselves to him as he was flushed through into a wider tunnel, and he felt the burning of his own back, his arm, acid seeping into him.

Yet he was so near, the rushing even faster, moving in contractions, the steady beat louder, louder still, becoming a thunder, the rapids leading to a fall, the fall to be mighty and devouring. And that was his desire, no other yearning possible to him now: he wanted to be consumed by the mountainous heart.

Instead these blind, ignorant creatures, organisms that knew nothing of other things, were eating him. His body was decomposing under their chemical excretions.

Nearly there, nearly there.

He could hear the hysteria of his own laughter.

Nearly there.

The noise ahead—THUD-UP THUD-UP—deafened him, filled him with dread. Elated him.

Nearly there.

Nearly swallowed.

It wasn't too late.

He would make it.

Be absorbed by the heart.

THUD-UP THUD-UP There . . . !

But not there.

Drifting back, drawn away, consciousness ing upwards, a soft retreat . . .

An abrupt awakening.

There was someone with him in the bedroom. Kline opened his mouth to call out, but something clamped hard over it. A hand. A strong, threatening hand. He felt the extra weight on the bed.

Somebody, a shadow among shadows, kneeling over him.

Another hand encircled his throat.

'Someone else and you could be dead,' Halloran whispered close to his ear.

11 A DANGEROUS ENCOUNTER

Halloran glanced into the rearview mirror.

The blue Peugeot was still there, keeping well back, at least four or five other cars between it and the custom-built Mercedes Halloran was driving. His own back-up, in aGranada . was directly behind him.

He reached for the RT mounted beneath the dashboard and set the transmit button.

'Hector-One,' he said quietly into the mouthpiece.

'Hector-Two, we hear you,' came the reply through the receiver. 'And we see the tag.' Kline leaned forward from the backseat, his face close to Halloran's shoulder. There was a bright expectancy in his eyes.

'Turning off soon,' said Halloran. 'Stay close 'til then. Out.' He replaced the instrument.

'We're being followed?' Kline asked, nervousness now mingled with expectancy.

Cora, next to him in the backseat, stiffened, and Monk, who occupied the front passenger seat—riding shotgun, as he liked to think of it—shifted his bulk to look first at his employer, then out the tinted rear window. His fingers automatically went to the revolver at his waist.

'No need for that,' Halloran warned. 'And use the side mirror if you want to spot them.'

'Nobody can see in,' Monk protested petulantly, already aggrieved with Halloran for having made him look so useless twice the day before.

“They can see shadows through the glass. Face the road and take your hand off that weapon.'

'Do it,' snapped Kline. Then to Halloran: 'Which one is it?'

'The light blue. A Peugeot, a few cars back. It's been on our tail since we leftLondon . My guess is it took over from another car that picked us up in the City, probably close to the Magma building.' In fact, Halloran had felt uneasy long before he'd arrived at Magma early that morning to take Kline down to hisSurrey home for the weekend. Yet he'd been unable to spot the 'tag' until they were into the outskirts.

'Are you sure?' asked Cora, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at the traffic. 'This road is a main highway south most of these cars have probably been with us for miles.'

'Cora,' said Kline, 'if he says we're being followed, that's it -I believe him.' Halloran's easy penetration of Magma's security system the night before had impressed him. By wearing clothes that had merely resembled the security guards' uniforms, Halloran had strolled into the basement carpark, hidden until most of the day staff were leaving that evening, then found his way to the upper floors using the outgoing rush as cover. Nothing more than a stroll against the tide. Then a vacated room, a broom closet, or a toilet—Halloran hadn't given him details—until night time, then through to the chairman's suite, locked.

doors only slowing him down, not barring him. Observation cameras? No problem. Only certain corridors and halls were monitored that late at night and, at an agreed time, Shield had created a minor diversion. No more than a motor-bike messenger thumping on the glass main door to attract the attention of the two security guards on the monitoring desk. The messenger had waved a package in his hand and one of the guards had gone to the door while his colleague watched from the desk, poised to press an alarm button which would alert the other two security guards patrolling the building as well as the local police station should anything untoward occur. So his eyes had been on his partner and the messenger outside (the latter insisting that delivery forms had to be filled in and signed before he released the package) and not on the screens behind him. The ruse had allowed Halloran to negotiate the more exposed locations without being seen. Naturally a risk was involved, but human reaction being what it is, the risk was slight. The rest of the journey had been simple (simple that is, for someone like Halloran): the private elevator, the 'pacification' of Monk and Palusinski, the entry into his, Kline's bedroom. No big deal (and heads were already rolling in the Corporation's office that morning as specialists from Achilles'

Shield revised Magma's security arrangements).

Someone else and you could be dead. Kline remembered Halloran's words. Not quite that simple, Halloran, he thought. No, not quite that easy.

He smiled and Cora was puzzled by the sudden burning intensity in his eyes.

The Mercedes was slowing, the left indicator blinking. Halloran turned the car off the main road, then picked up speed again, their surroundings soon vignetting into green fields and hedgerows, with few houses between.

Cora noticed Halloran occasionally glancing into the rearview mirror, but his reflected eyes betrayed nothing. He had warned Monk not to look back and she, herself, followed the instruction. Their car maintained a steady speed and still Cora could not detect from Halloran's manner whether or not they were being followed.

Several minutes passed before he reached again for the radio transmitter.

'Hector-One.'

'Hector-Two. Over.'

'Tag's still with us, keeping well back.'

'Yeah. We made out three occupants. Want us to block them?'

'No. No offensive until we're sure. There's a village ahead. Pull in somewhere and let 'em by. Follow at a distance and come up fast if they make a move. Out.'

'Will do. Out.' Houses quickly loomed up, then they were into the village, a hamlet really, only a few houses on either side of the road. Halloran saw the small filling station and knew where his back-up would pull into. He checked the mirror as theGranada slowed into the forecourt. The blue Peugeot soon came into view and he put his foot down a little to give them cause to hurry.

He had taken a more circuitous route than necessary to Kline's country house, but now they couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes away. If these people were hostile, he wanted them to make their play soon, before they were too close to home. He preferred to keep trouble off the doorstep.

He eased up on the accelerator, inviting in the possible pursuer. The Peugeot increased speed, coming up fast, beginning to fill the rearview mirror.

Halloran had faith in the 'hardened' vehicle he was driving. The door panels, trunk, roof, and engine compartment were armoured with Kevlar, aluminium oxide ballistic ceramic tiles, which was lighter than the old-style heavy steel plate that tended to render a vehicle clumsy and so impede its performance. The windows were of layered bullet- and blast-resistant glass and the tyres were compartmentalised and self-sealing so that speed need not be reduced should they be punctured by bullets. Even the fuel compartments, main and reserve, consisted of separate cells which would limit the outbreak of fire should they be pierced.

The French car was directly behind now, only feet away from the Mercedes' reinforced bumper.

'Sit back,' he told Kline, whose face was still close to Halloran's shoulder. 'And keep low, legs against the back of the front seat, as though you're resting. Cora, they'll be coming up on your side, so brace yourself. You'll be okay—they'd need a bazooka to dent this tub.'

'Speed up,' Kline urged. 'Don't let them get alongside us!'

'Stay low,'Halloran calmly repeated. 'They may be no threat 'Why take the chance? I don't like this, Halloran.'

'Trust me.' Cora wasn't sure if Halloran's tone was mocking.

Monk had drawn his revolver by now. Halloran didn't even look his way, but said, 'Keep that bloody thing tucked into your lap and don't even think of using it unless I tell you.' They were rounding a bend and the Peugeot was straddling the middle of the road ready to overtake.

Halloran continued to instruct the bodyguard. 'Put your elbow on the sill and keep your left hand in sight.

You know how to act nonchalant?' The American grunted something.

'Okay,' said Halloran. 'Here they come. See that church steeple in the distance? I want you all to keep your eyes on that. No watching our friends here.' The road had straightened, a clear stretch ahead for at least half a mile. The Peugeot drew level with the Mercedes' rear wheel and Halloran deliberately glanced over his shoulder and touched his brakes, a gentlemanly gesture to allow the other vehicle to pass by. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, holding it steady, as the Peugeot inched its way alongside. He could feel the occupants' eyes on him and his senses sharpened to such a degree that he could smell new-cut grass under the petrol fumes, even though all windows were closed, could hear the Mercedes'

tyres rumble over the road's hard surface, could feel the pounding of machinery beneath the car's bonnet.

The acuteness of danger overlaid all those sensings.

Halloran smiled at the other driver, nodding at the deserted road ahead, an indication that he was leaving the way clear.

The Peugeot suddenly accelerated even more, then was by them, tail rapidly receding into the distance.

'Hogshit,' grumbled Monk.

'You scared us far nothing, Halloran,' Kline complained. Bastard, you scared us for -'

'Keep down,' Halloran warned.

There was yet another bend ahead and the blue car had disappeared around it.

Kline's mouth dropped. He snapped back into his seat and said, 'You're right. They're there.' The Peugeot was parked across the road, blocking it completely. A fence lined one side of the road, trees the other. The occupants of the car were outside, crouched low behind the bodywork.

Halloran slammed on the Mercedes' brakes and the car screeched to a halt, rubber burning off into the concrete in straight black lines. He immediately shifted into reverse and stabbed down hard on the accelerator pedal, throwing his passengers forward then back into their seats.

Monk's revolver had slid onto the floor and he doubled over, restrained by his seatbelt, podgy hands scrabbling at the floor to reach the weapon. Cora felt herself propelled forward again by the reverse motion of the car. Kline had already scrambled down into the well between backseat and front Halloran increased speed, looking over his shoulder through the back window, both hands still on the steering wheel. The bend in the road loomed up fast. He began the turn, hardly slowing down at all, the passengers hurled to one side. Round the curve and out of sight from their attackers. He straightened the car, increased speed.

Suddenly Halloran stamped on the footbrake, rapidly winding an full lock as he did so. The Mercedes responded beautifully, making a 180-degree turn so that it faced the direction in which it had been reversing.

Hard on the accelerator again, and they were away, scorching road, using its full width.

The back-upGranada was hurtling towards them and Halloran swerved over to the left-hand side of the road, both cars screeching to a halt beside one another. He was already snapping orders before the electric window was fully down.

'Hostiles just around the bend. Stop them following.'

'You want us to engage?' the other driver shouted back.

'Not if you can help it—I saw guns in their hands. I'll use another route to Home.' The cars took off at the same time, the exchange taking no more than seconds.

'Am I safe?' came Kline's querulous voice from the back.

'Not yet,' Halloran replied, looking into the rearview mirror in time to see theGranada disappear around the curve. He returned his attention to the way ahead, on the alert for possible support for the 'hostiles'.

A van was approaching, two more cars behind that. He pressed the button to raise his window and made ready to accelerate or slam on the brakes yet again, whichever course of action might prove necessary.

The line of vehicles passed without incident and he checked the mirror once more. Still nothing coming up from behind, the van and cars continuing to travel away from the Mercedes. He felt some of the tension ease from him.

Kline was back by his shoulder. 'Why didn't you tell your guys to shoot the bastards'?' he demanded angrily.

'This isSurrey ,' Halloran told him, 'not the Middle-East. Gun wars are frowned upon here. Besides, they're not armed at present, a condition that'll have to be changed, I think.'

'Listen to me, Halloran . . .' Kline began to say when the radio transmitter interrupted.

'Hector-Two.' Halloran reached for the hand-set. 'Hector-One. Give me the news.'

'They were gone before we rounded the bend. We drove on, but there was a junction not far ahead—they could've gone off in any direction. Our guess is that they'd spotted us earlier, so didn't hang around or try to follow when you got away.'

'You made out the number?'

'Sure, when they passed the garage.' So had Halloran, but there was no need to repeat it to his operatives: they were too well trained to have made any mistakes. 'Call Base, get them to use their influence to run a check.'

'Will do. As it was a Peugeot, it°s probably been stolen, not hired.'

'I agree. Check it out though. Scout the area for a while, then make your way to Home. Out.'

'Catch you later. Out.' Halloran drove on, moving briskly without breaking any speed limits, using the roadway to the full when he could, everwatchful at sideroads and bends, even though instinct told him they were now safe.

'Who were they, Felix?' he heard Cora ask from the back, nervousness still in her voice.

'How should I know?' was the reply. 'Thugs, lunatics!'

'Take it easy,' Halloran soothed. 'It won't be long before we reach your place.' Kline peered out the windows. 'Oh yeah? Well this isn't the tuck the way.'

'No, but it'll get us there eventually. I worked out various routes this morning before I collected you. My team will use another way and meet us there. Monk, you can put the gun away, you won't be needing it.'

The pony-tailed bodyguard reluctantly obeyed.

'I told you, Cora,' Kline said, his words rushed, his breathing excited. 'I said I was in danger, I told you all.' He was once again the Felix Kline Halloran had first met, nervous, arrogant; too many words spilling from his lips. 'I sensed the danger, I just damn knew didn't I? Bastards! Halloran, I need more of your men to protect me. I could've been hurt back there.'

'Wasn't it your idea that we limit our forces?'

'Yeah, yeah, you're right. You'll do. You got us out of a tight spot. No more manpower required. Right: I don't feel too good.' Cora immediately reached for him.

'Leave me alone!' Kline snapped, sinking back into his seat. 'I'm tired, I need to rest. You all want too much from me, you all expect too much. Let me rest, will you?' Halloran heard a clasp being opened, a rattling of pills in a container.

'Felix,' said Cora, 'take them, they'll calm you.'

'You think I want drugs at a time like this? You trying to make me weak'?' There was a slapping sound and the pills sprinkled onto the seat and floor.

'I've got to stay alert, you stupid bitch! Those bastards want to hurt me and you're trying to dope me up.'

'They're only Valium, Felix, that's all. You need to calm down.' Monk's seat jerked as Kline kicked its back. The bodyguard continued to watch the passing countryside as if he hadn't noticed.

Kline's voice had risen to a high pitch. 'You know what I oughta do with you, Cora? You know what? I oughta dump you right now, out of the car into the road. Leave you here. How would you like that, Cora, huh? How would you get by then? What fucking use are you to me?'

'Don't, Felix.' There was a mixture of misery and low panic in her voice. 'You've had a bad scare, you don't mean what you're saying.'

'Don't I? Oh don't I? You think I give a shit about you?' Halloran heard the smack of flesh on flesh, heard the girl's small, startled cry. He brought the Mercedes to a smooth halt by the side of the road and turned round to face Kline, one arm resting casually on the back of the driver's seat. Cora was leaning her forehead against the window, eyes closed, a watery line slowly seeping onto her eyelashes; there were red marks on her cheek.

'Kline,' he said evenly, 'you're beginning to irritate. I can do my job better if you don't. I want you to sit quietly so I can think, observe, and get you to our destination unharmed. If by the time we arrive you're sick of me too, you can make a phone call and have me replaced. It's no skin off my nose, know what I mean? Do we have an arrangement?' Kline stared open-mouthed at him and for the merest instant, Halloran saw something in those liquid eyes that he couldn't recognise. He'd faced killers and fanatics before and each had a distinctly similar and identifiable glint adrift in their gaze; he'd looked upon gunmen, abductors, and extortionists—childmurderers even—and a certain mien linked them all, setting them apart from others of the human race. But there was a glimmer shining from deep inside this man that was like nothing else he'd witnessed before. Kline's stare was almost mesmeric.

Until whatever held him became dulled, or at least, was veiled by a creeping normality. Kline laughed, and it was a full, rich sound, unexpected and unlike his usual cackling.

'Whatever you say, Halloran,' he said good-humouredly. 'Yeah, whatever you say.' Halloran turned and shifted into D. The Mercedes pulled away, heading into the winding country roads. And during the last part of that journey, Halloran frequently checked the rearview mirror. But this time he was mostly studying the man who was resting, with eyes now closed, in the backseat.

While Monk, from the corner of his eyes, watched Halloran.

MONK A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

It was a lousy name anyway. But none of the other kids ever added the 'ey'. MONKEY. Nah, too easy.

They called him Ape. Up until he hit fourteen, that is. That was when the ape pissed right back out of the cage.

Theo was never gutsy (or Theodore Albert, as his mama always called him — 'Theodore Albert you wuz baptised, and Theodore Albert you be called, honey mine'—as she parted his hair right down the middle, slicking either side with a licked palm, every fuckin' morning afore she pushed him out the door and along the path to where good of Uncle Mort waited in the pick-up—'You'd look real purty, boy,'

Uncle Mort often observed, 'if you wunt so porky'- to take him down to Coatesville Junior High where the boys bent their knees and dragged their knuckles along the ground behind him, lumbering from side to side in an ape waddle, imitating his high wheezy voice (another affliction which didn't help none) until he finally flipped his aid and whirled around and knocked them squat—no, a lie: he cried, he always fuckin'

cried. 'cos he was a mama's boy, he knew it and they knew it and they all knew he'd never raise a pudgy fist, he was too chickenshit to hit back, but . . .) but he hadn't been chickenshit those few years later at West Chester High when he stuck the fire under the assembly hall on prizegiving (no prizes coming to him anyway) morning, when all those turds had been up there nudging and sniggering and whispering, but soon wailing and screaming and punching, falling over each other to break out of that burning hell-hall, where only three were really roasted by the fire, but fifteen (no teachers damaged—the parents hated them for that) kicked off from chokin' and crushed rib-cages.

That day was the turning point for Theodore Albert Monk, 'pissin'-out day', the day he discovered every person had a power, anyone—big, small, fat or skinny—could decide for someone else when their Pay-Off Time (POT) had arrived. You didn't need to be Einstein or Charles Atlas (or even Charlie fuckin' Brown) to choose their day for 'em. Point a stubby finger and raise a meaty thumb like a cocked gun and that was it. Bingo. Not right there and then, of course; but that was decision time, that was as good as. After that you waited for the right moment. Could take days, weeks, maybe months. Thing was, it always came. You gottem when they and nobody else expected it. When you were safe.

He'd shown it to insects first, his power, graduating to animals—mice, frogs (slice 'em, dice 'em), Grandma Kaley's old crosseyed cat (weed-killer in its milk bowl), a stray mutt (lured by half a salami sandwich into a rusted freezer left to rot on the town's rubbish dump—he'd opened it up two weeks later and the stink had made him throw up). Then on to the big time.

Four of 'em he'd wasted (he enjoyed the macho sound of wasted), two boys, two chicks. And nobody the wiser.

When he'd moved on to Philly, there'd been two more three if you counted the spic. In LA almost—almost—one (the hooker had fought like a wildcat when, on the spur of the moment maybe just to get hisself excited—he'd decided to cancel her subscription, and the stiletto-heeled shoe she'd been treading him with for his pleasure had nearly taken out his left eye, hurting him so bad that he'd had to leave her there moaning and hollering in a way he'd thought nobody could with a snapped neck and a belly-full of bruises).

Things had gotten a mite tricky after that. The Pigs had a description, they knew who they were looking for. Hooker had seen him around before, that was the piss-puller, seen him hanging loose with Glass-Eye Spangler (an inch to the left with that stiletto heel and they'd have been calling him Glass-Eye, too). And good 'ol boy Spangler knew his drinking buddy's name, where he was from. Turned out there was a small matter of an unsolved crime and a missing delinquent back there in Coatesville. Nah, not the two boys, two chicks—one drowning, one car burning (the lighted rag stuck into the gas filler had blown the tank right under the backseat which the boy and girl were using for a make-out pad at the time), and one rape with strangling as the dessert (or maybe the main course, it was hard to remember now), not those.

There was the little mystery of Mama and Uncle Mort, brother and sister, found locked together in bed (joined at the loins, that is) with bed bugs buddying up with maggots on what must have been one sweltering, rotten feast-week, and Rosie Monk's sixteenyear-old, the one they figured was semi-imbecile because he never talked much and lumbered around like . . . like . . . say it . . . like one of them fuckin'

orangy-tans and just about as smart (this was in the days before Mr Snaith), had lit out, making him Number One suspect, since no one in his right brain would even think about kidnapping the big fucker (oh yeah, Theodore Albert aka Ape had filled his fat with muscle in the two years after POT power), after bludgeoning Mama and that groin-groping bastid Uncle Mort with his battered old Jim Fugosi baseball bat in the bed where they'd grunted and heaved and made the springs sing along.

So the Pigs were on his tail again, years after the event, hot for his ass. And maybe now those cops were finally figuring the big galoot had something to do with those other unexplained homicides, and if not, why not? Neatened up things to hang them on Monk too. Yeah, let's go for it, let's nail the mother-killer, the uncle-pounder, let's hand him the check for them all. They recalled nobody'd liked the fat creep anyway.

Escape. To Vegas. Some stuff on the way, most of it a blur now. Teaming up with Slimeball and Rivas in the glitz city, rolling drunks and mugging hookers for their purses nights, dealing crack days. Fine until the pimps ganged up (a pimp posse no less), sorely aggrieved that their take margin was down because three stooges from outa town hadn't yet learned their place in subsociety. This very point was explained to Monk one night by a big buck who had razor blades glued to the insides of the fingers of one hand so that when he slapped palm or backhand, made no difference, the blade edges stuck out from either side—neat red lines would criss-cross your cheeks until the cuts got closer and closer to eventually become one huge open wound, while five other hoods crushed Slimeball and Rivas' fingers and toes before chopping off an ear from each and making the boys chew on it (each other's ear, that is). They were saving him for something else, because he was the muscle and he had badly altered one of the girls'

features two months ago, turning her into an asset loss, no good to no muthuh.

But what the razor-toting buck hadn't counted on—he had a crazy grin to match his crazy eyes—was that pain hardly meant a pig's ass to Monk (it took extreme and prolonged agony to give Monk any pleasure, even in those days), so the slicing steel could have been chopping cheese for all he cared.

Monk did what he had come to know best. POT—Pay-Off-Time—had arrived for the nigguh and introduced itself in the form of Monk's hawked phlegm in his eyes (ol' Uncle Mort, in between feeling him up, had taught young Theodore Albert how to do that to dogs straight out of the pick-up windows) and a grinding of the black's privates by Monk's raised knee. The buck's own razor-blade fingers were used to sever his own jugular.

This last upset had proved too much for the rest of the vigilante squad who, pissed enough already by the cash loss, decided that what they'd had in mind for the ape-walking creep (their girls' description had pin-pointed Monk nicely) wasn't quite special enough. This bozo required something more permanent.

They came for him with open switch-blades and surgeon's hatchets (that season's in-weapon) and Monk would have been chopped ape if he hadn't used the still-gurgling black man as a battering ram.

Oh yeah, he'd gotten away, but had been damaged in the getting (but not as damaged as the two dead he'd left behind). A knife stuck firmly in his shoulder-blade had proved uncomfortable as well as a bad feature for walking the streets. Fortunately, a shithead who knew him on a supplier/client basis and whom he ran into several blocks away obliged him by tugging the knife free after much jiggling and muttering

'man-oh-man' and some giggling. Jiggle and giggle. The junkie had paid for the enjoyment with a windpipe so badly flattened that he talked like Popeye for the rest of his short years.

Once again, Monk was on the hoof, and this time both Pigs and Mob were after him. He robbed a drugstore for some travelling money (no gun necessary for a crude dude like Monk), leaving the druggist seriously splattered among his pills and potions.

The old flaky Dodge he stole only took him as far as the outskirts of town before coughing oil and chunking to a permanent demise.

Shoulder all fiery and already beginning to fester in the heat, ragged oozy cheeks like fast-food counters for flies, Monk legged his way down US95 (maybe he had Boulder City in mind he wasn't thinking straight by then), a fat thumb hoisted (all fingers fisted, no POT sign this) every time he heard an engine motoring up from behind. But who would stop for a hiker with a dark bubbly stain on his back and tomato-ketchup spread across his face? Right. No fucker. Nobody normal.

Except one car did stop.

The black car, its windows all tinted dark and mysterious, glided to a soundless halt beside him, the movement as easy as a vulture landing on a carcass.

Monk shifted his bulk so that he was facing the silent car (no grace in his movement, none at all), pain and fatigue stooping him by now (he'd left the dead Dodge at least five miles behind), his clothes and pony-tailed hair powdered with dust, his face, with its scarlet-rose cheeks, puckered up into a shit-eating grimace. For a few moments, he wondered if the occupants were Big Guys who kept Small Guys down (to keep the law in your pocket you had to maintain a certain law yourself) and he waited for a snub-nose to poke through a lowered window like some black viper sliding from its hole.

But a window didn't sink down. And no gun was pointed towards him when the rear passenger door was opened wide.

He squinted to see into the big gloomy interior and could only just make out the dark shape sitting in there among the shadows.

Then a voice said in a persuasive way: 'Need a lift, Theo?' (That was the first and only time Kline had called him by his first name.)

12 NEATH

'Not far, Liam,' said Cora, leaning forward slightly in her seat. 'Look for the gates, just ahead on your left.' Kline, beside her, opened his eyes and for a moment that seemed no less than infinite, he and Halloran stared at each other in the rearview mirror. It was Halloran who averted his gaze and he was surprised at the effort it took to do so.

Thick undergrowth and trees crowded either side of the road, the greenery even more dense beyond, the few gaps here and there almost subterranean in their gloom; these were woodlands of perpetual dusk.

The high, old-stone wall that appeared on the left came as a surprise: it looked firmly rooted as though having grown with the trees, a natural part of the forest itself, organic life smothering much of the rough stone and filling cracks. Twisted branches from trees on the other side loomed over, some reaching down like gnarled tentacles ready to snatch unwary ramblers.

He noticed the opening in the near-distance, the forest withdrawing there, allowing the smallest of incursions into its territory. Halloran slowed the Mercedes, turning into the drive, the roadway here cracked and uneven. The rusted iron gates before them looked impregnable, like the forest itself. Letters worked into the wrought iron declared: NEATH.

'Wait for a moment,' Kline instructed him.

Halloran waited, and studied.

Tall weathered columns hinged the gates, stone animals mounted on each (griffins? he wondered. Too decayed to tell), their blank eyes glaring down at the car, their lichen-filled mouths wide with soundless snarls. The gates would be easy to scale, he noted, as would be the walls on either side. No barbed wire and, as far as he could tell, no electronic warning system. And all the cover between wall and road that any would-be intruder could desire. Security was going to be difficult.

Then he noticed, beyond the gates, the lodge-house.

A two-storey building, its stone as seasoned as the walls. Its windows were as black as the Devil's soul.

Halloran frowned when the thought sprang into his mind .

. . . as black as the Devil's soul.

A phrase remembered from early years in Ireland, only then it had been: The Divil's owhn soul. Father O'Connell, thrashing the living daylights out of him, had said it. Thrashing Liam because of the heinous wickedness he had led the two Scalley boys into (the younger one had confessed, fearful of the mortal jeopardy in which his soul had been placed because of Halloran's leadership). Thrashing him because of the sacrilege against St Joseph's, breaking into the church in the hush of night, leaving the dead cat the boys had found it crushed at the roadside—inside the holy tabernacle, the animal's innards dripping out onto the soft white silk lining the vessel's walls, its eyes still gleaming dully when Father O'Connell had reached in for the chalice the next morning. Beyond redemption was Liam's soul, the priest had told the boy with every sweep of his huge unpriestlike hand, beyond saving, his spirit as graceless and as black as the Divil's owhn soul. A creature spawned for Hell itself, and a rogue who would surely find his way there with no problem at all. His troublesome ways would . . .

Halloran blinked and the memory was gone; '.but the disquiet lingered. Why think of boyhood iniquity at that moment? There were worse sins to remember.

'The gates are locked?' The trace of Irish in his voice once more, the unexpected reverie tinting his speech.

'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 towards 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 which had been dramatised 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 towards 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?T 'As we figured. The car was stolen from Heathrow's shortterm carpark some time 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?' enquired Eddy, gesturing towards 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 RT 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 'til 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 judgement 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 inside, the gate closed behind Halloran with a solid Chunk, leaving him with an absurd feeling that the estate had been sealed permanently. Monk glowered resentfully at him as he passed and he realised 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 realised 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 towards 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 tyres, gathering moderate speed as it travelled along the winding road through the estate's woodland. The lodge-house shrunk 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 realising how cloying the atmosphere inside the vehicle had become; fear, and excitement, left their own subtle odours, 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 colour 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 downwards 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, while wooded slopes framed its other sides. Those hills disturbed Halloran, for he realised 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 itself, which appeared to be a curious jumble of irregular shapes. Principally Tudor in period, various sections had apparently been added on 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 colouring 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 grey, 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 re-assess 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 pavings 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 ,gut. '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 boot, 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 towards 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. 'Corn 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 travelled 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 humour 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 paving 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 linenfoid panelling, 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 stairway's bend and leaned over the balustrade.

'Can you feel Neath's welcome, Halloran''' he said. '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 resembled 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 reconnoitre 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 iota 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 towards 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 grey, 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 dark spots within the blue 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 humour 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 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 ground 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 realised 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 Bloomed 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.

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 giltwood 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 towards 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 clasped over their chests as though in prayer, their eyes peculiarly enlarged so that they appeared to be staring in adoration; aboard game of some kind, its squares decorated with shell and what appeared to be bone, two sets of stone counters of different colour 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 civilisations.

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 multi-coloured, lumpy quilt, looked comfortable enough; bedposts at each corner rose inches above the head- and foot-boards, 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 defence 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 first-floor corridor overlooking the courtyard and made his way downstairs, quickly finding a door that led outside. The house was quiet and he realised 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 fossilised, 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 centre-piece, 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-Neatly 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 upwards, 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 having care not to bump into anyone on their 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 kerbside. It came to rest again after only a hundred yards or so further 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 lustre, 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 realised. 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 load barely touched his food, which was solid English fare and not the exotic dishes Halloran had half-expected the Arabs 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 demeanour 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 wine glass.

Kline waved a hand towards 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 sombre eyes of Kline's. His breathing became shallow and Halloran realised 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 was it that guarded the gates by the lodge-hawse, where were the dogs kept? But Cora had been unforthcoming, steering the conversation towards 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 enquiry through a personal contact an 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. Mother 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 day's heat. 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 odour of sweat drifted out and it was as unpleasant as Monk's stare.

'Your watch,' Halloran informed him.

'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 vest and loosened trousers, his belly pushing outwards so that the hem of his vest 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 inwards 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.' over.'

'You find me first or I'll break your arms when the fuss is The bodyguard turned back all the way, squaring himself at 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.' Monk might well have rushed him there and then and Halloran didn't think it was the memory of what had happened last time that prevented him from doing so: no, it had more to do with getting into trouble with his employer. Monk flicked his tongue across his lips, glistening them, his mind still not made up.

'I want you downstairs in two minutes,' Halloran told him curtly. Then he walked away, hearing something shatter in the room behind. Monk's bedroom must have been even more of a shambles with his dinner things scattered across the floor. Halloran smiled, knowing that a score would have to be settled when this affair was over; he, himself, was prepared to let it lie, but he knew the other man wouldn't share the same view. That was going to be Monk's misfortune.

He returned to his bedroom on the first floor, pausing to look out over the centre courtyard on the way.

The moon palely laminated the flagstones, the fountain throwing a misshapen shadow across the whiteness, an irregular stain on a pattern of rough squares. He searched to one side of the fountain, wondering about the sealed door he had found in the short corridor there. It had been Youssef Daoud who had disturbed him as he tried the door.

Halloran had asked where the door led to and why was it locked, but Daoud's comprehension of the English language (it was mentioned in their files that both Arabs spoke good English) had suddenly become very poor, and he could only grin at Halloran and shake his head. Halloran had gone back outside to the courtyard. Later Cora told him that the staircase the Arab had watched him from led to Kline's private quarters.

Darkness crept over the rooftops and down into the well below, thick clouds claiming the moon for their own, dim lights from windows around the house asserting little influence over the blackness. He moved away, going to his room and quietly closing the door behind him, relieved to shut the rest of Neath away for a short while. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Taking the Browning Hi-Power from its waist-holster, he placed it on the bedside table, then set his soft-alarm clock for ten minutes to four. With one last scan of the grounds outside the window—there wasn't much to see save for the black trumps of hills and an orange glow over a nearby town—he lay on the bed, undoing two more shirt buttons, but leaving his shoes an and laced. He put one pillow on top of its mate and rested back, his eyes closing immediately, the dim light from the bedside lamp no bother at all.

Sleep was not long in coming. And with its dream came a memory . . .

. . . He could hear the harsh breathing from behind the wood latticework, as though drawing in air was an uncomfortable process for the priest . . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . . Liam wondered why he did not feel the shame he was supposed to. He recounted his 'crimes' against the Holy Father in Heaven and smiled in the unlit confessional, feeling no resentment even in having to reveal secrets to a man whom he had no liking for, and worse, no respect for . . . I've lied, Father, I've stolen things . . . the bow of the priest's large head in the diamond holes of the struts, a nodded acceptance of the confessor's iniquity . . . I've abused my own body, Father—that's how the boys were taught to say it, 'abused'

instead of 'pleasured' . . . and I've called God dirty names . . . movement stopping in the adjoining cubicle, the priest's breath momentarily held. . . Liam's smile widening . . . I've asked God why's he's a wicked bastard, Father . . . the bulky head turning towards him, the priest's eyes, unseen but felt, burning through the latticework. He took him from mam an' me . . . the boy's smile hard, his eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing . . . Liam, gunmen took your father's life, not God . . . why He . . . why He made me Mam

. . . why He made her. . . the boy's eyes moistened, the smile still there . . . do things . . . mad things . . .

why she's to go away . . . Liam—the priest again, gentle now . . . why . . . the boy's first sob, the hunching of his shoulders, hands reaching up, fingers sinking through the black diamonds of the grille, curling round, clutching and pulling as if to wrench away a barrier against truth . . . the shadow beyond moving, light thrown to show emptiness there . . . the door beside Liam opening, Father O'Connell reaching in, touching the boy's shoulder . . . Liam pushing him away, shrinking down into the booth's corner, forcing his head hard against his raised knees, tears uncontrolled, thin body jerking with the outflow . . . the priest, a burly and dark silhouette, bending forward, arms outstretched . . .

. . . A tapping on the door.

Halloran's eyes opened immediately, consciousness returning almost as fast. The dream remained as an image, one that could be put aside for the moment. He was moving towards the door, gun tucked into holster, before the tapping resumed. He opened up, one foot rigid against the base of the door so that it couldn't be forced wider.

Outside stood Cora.

18 UNHOLY COMMUNION

There were candles all around him, tall thick-stemmed candles, candles that were black. They hardly lit the chamber, though his wretchedly thin naked body glistened highlights under their subdued glow; the two dark-skinned men had used oil on him, their excitement enhanced by the slippery smoothness of his skin.

And there were eyes watching him constantly. Large, unblinking eyes, grouped together at the far end of the room.

The youth moaned, twisted his head, movement weakened by the frequent injection of fluid into his veins. They kept him passive. But not all the time. Sometimes the Arabs liked to hear him screaming.

No sound could escape this room, they had said, grinning at him, holding each other's hand. This was a secret place, one of worship, where the walls were strengthened by the very earth itself. Scream, they had urged him. Shriek, for our delight, they had said as long needles pierced his flesh. Let us see you weep, they coaxed as sharp things were imbedded in his genitalia.

They had taken the hair from his (body, even gulled free the eyelashes, plucked his nostrils clear, so that he remained only gleaming colourless flesh, a languid, loose-muscled object one moment, a fitful shivering creature the next. And sometimes, perhaps because of the drugs, the pain was exquisite.

They had removed his tongue when they grew tired of his words, suspending his body so that he would not suffocate on his own blood, sealing the wound with liquid that blazed more than the cutting. Then they had mocked his gibbering as they used his body with their own, thrusting into him with a force that tore and bloodied him inside.

The youth attempted to move his limbs, but they were restrained, not by drugs but by manacles. He lay on the hard flat surface, arms and legs stretched outwards, body punctured by wounds, many needles still protruding, metal dull in the poor light, thin rivulets of blood, now dried and crusted, on his skin. Every part of him seared pain and, had his senses been more lucid, the agony might have checked his heart.

While one channel of his mind struggled for reason, others closed down, refuting the hurt to his body, the degradation it had suffered, instinctively knowing that full acknowledgement could only mean insanity.

The remaining dregs of morphia were an ally to their cause.

The low flames wavered, caressed by a breeze. He raised his head from the cold slab he was chained to, the motion sluggish, taking all his strength, and looked down along his own body. The slender spikes in his chest were huge to his fuddled brain, rising like crooked metal poles in a greasy snow field, and their undulation as he breathed became mesmerising. But light from above was seeping into the chamber.

He struggled to keep his head raised, but it was too heavy, the strain was too much. It fell back onto the stone with a sharp crack. He had seen the figures emerge from the passageway though, grouped together at the top of the stairs as if their bodies were joined. The youth moaned aloud, his dread even more acute.

He tried to call out when he heard their footsteps on the stairs, wanting to plead with them, and could only manage an incoherent wailing sound that became a whimper when his head lolled to the side and he saw them approach.

The two Arabs, as ever, were grinning down at him and between them stood—no, sagged, for the others were supporting him—a small man whose ravaged face was so old and so wicked that the youth tried to turn away. But it was impossible—the strength wasn't there; the side of his face could only rest against the stone and his eyes could only stare.

The dark-haired man, whose features were wizened and cruel, skin flaking away as though diseased, gazed on the youth, and his tongue flicked across dry, cracked lips. He extended a tremulous hand, index finger pointing, and trailed a yellow fingernail along the white stomach, bringing the nail up towards the sternum. As it travelled, the finger sank into the flesh, with no apparent effort, leaving a shallow rent behind.

Once more a syringe found a vein in the youth's spindly arm and fluid was pushed into him. The glow rapidly spread through him and he almost smiled his gratitude. Now he could turn his face towards the black, limitless ceiling above.

He was conscious of, but did not feel, the pulling apart of his ,kin, and the vapour that rose from his stomach into the cool air was no more to him than a light cloud rising from a warm dampness.

The dark-haired man shuffled away, aided by one of the Arabs, the other disappearing to a different part of the room.

The youth lay there on his blood-soaked slab, his body opened, and dreamily wondered why they had gone away. He didn't mind, not at all. It was pleasant lying there, watching steam gently curl upwards from a source near him, but just out of sight. He wanted to drift away, to sleep, but for some reason his mind wouldn't allow him. It was nagging, trying to tell him something, something desperately urgent, but he didn't want to know, the peace after so much pain was too intoxicating. Now the needles were tike birthday candles, their heads gleaming as tiny flames. Was it his birthday? He couldn't remember. Any celebration was nice though.

He heard nearby sounds and turned and craned his neck as far as it would go. Nerve-ends twinged only a little. The darkhaired man was inside an alcove, opening something, a cabinet of some kind. No, not a cabinet. One of those . . . what were they called? The sort of thing they had in churches, a box-thing priests were always poking into. Funny, this place was like a church with all the candles, even though they were black. The stone he lay on was like an altar.

The youth giggled, although the noise he made was more like a gurgle.

The three men converged on the pale, prone body, the dark-haired man carrying a dish of black metal, a veil, black again, draped over its edges. Blood was spilling over from the long scission in the youth's body, spreading in pools on the stone's surface, beginning to trickle down the sides. The youth had scant life left in him.

The veil was drawn away, revealing the dish to be more like a wide-brimmed chalice, for it had a base which was clutched in one trembling hand. With his other hand, the dark-haired man removed the contents and placed it inside the youth's stomach, gently pressing down, soaking it in blood, smothering it in slithery organs.

Now the youth did scream, a piercing screech that echoed around the stone walls of the chamber, for no drugs could deaden the pain nor the horror.

He was alive, but barely, when the Arab on the outer side of the stone raised the tool he had collected and began cutting into the youth's outstretched limbs.

And still those myriad eyes stared, never closing, never wavering.

19 CORA'S NEEDS

'I need company,' she said simply. 'I get . . . frightened when I'm alone in this house.' Halloran had opened the door wider and she'd hurried by him, glancing back over her shoulder as if someone had been stalking her along the corridor. He looked out to make sure there really was no one there.