Sepulchre

He turned and she was putting the bottle and glasses she'd brought with her on the bedside cabinet.

'I remembered you liked Scotch,' Cora told him, and there was no confidence in her voice.

He shook his head. 'I'm on watch again in . . .' he checked his wristwatch '. . . a couple of hours. You go ahead if you want.' She did. Cora poured herself a stiff measure, turning slightly away from him to avoid his eyes, and he wasn't sure if she felt guilty at coming to him in the middle of the night or because she needed a drink. He closed the door.

Cora wore a white bathrobe against the night chill. 'You must think me silly. Or . . .' She let the sentence trail away.

Halloran walked towards her, lifting the big automatic from its holster and laying it beside the bottle and empty glass. 'We all have fears,' he had said.

Halloran began to move into her, taking care, even though she dug her fingers into his naked back, urging him on. Her teeth nipped his neck, his shoulder, as she squirmed beneath him, thrusting herself upwards. Cora still wore the bathrobe and he pushed it open so that he could caress her breasts. She moaned and there was a desperation to the sound. He lifted himself so that he could see her flesh, could kiss her breasts. He bent to a raised nipple and softly drew on it with his lips, moistening the tip with his tongue. She caught her breath, then let it escape in an unsteady sigh. He pulled the robe from her and tossed it over a chair, then turned back to her welcoming naked body.

He let his fingertips trail away, touching her side, her hip, his hand moving inwards so that it was between them, his palm smoothing her stomach, fingers reaching down into her hair. Her thighs rose around him and he was inside her, pushing inwards, meeting only slight resistance. Cora's hands were low on his back and they pulled him tight so that he lost control of the movement. He was drawn into her sharply, causing her to give a little cry of pain.

Every part of her seemed stretched, her muscles stiffened as if she had been pierced rather than entered.

Halloran's demand now matched hers as he felt the familiar floating sensation, the incredible tensing of his own muscles, the swift rise towards the breaking of that tension. He gasped air and the low moan came from him this time.

But it changed. Her clutching altered in intensity, became fraught rather than encouraging; her cries became those of frustration rather than passion. Halloran slowed his rhythm, aware that he was losing her.

Cora's legs straightened and her motion subsided, then became still. She turned her face away from him.

Perplexed, Halloran raised himself and looked down on her. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, welling there and finally spilling.

'Please, Liam. Help me.' He frowned.

Her eyes closed. 'In my robe,' she said so softly he scarcely heard.

When Halloran left the bed and found the thin coils of leather inside the bathrobe's pockets, he began to understand . .

20 ABDUCTION

They had watched the man with the strange scar that looked like the continuation of a smile leave the building and the observer in the passenger seat of the car nodded his head in affirmation. The man who had earlier ambled down that same street carrying a rolled-up newspaper leaned forward from the back, resting an arm on the top of the driver's seat, his face keen with interest.

The balding figure had turned in the other direction to where their vehicle was parked and they allowed him to get some distance away before the backseat passenger reached for the doorhandle.

The man in front stopped him with a motion of his hand. Their quarry was unlocking a car parked by the roadside.

The driver switched on the ignition and waited for the other car to pull out. When it did so, they followed.

They came for him before dawn, easily and quietly forcing the lock on the door to his basement apartment without causing damage. He awoke only when they were at his bedside, his cry of 'Wer ist da?' quickly stifled by his own bedclothes. Several blows were dealt to his head, the first two stunning him (the second breaking his nose in the process) but the third, delivered with impatient strength, rendered him unconscious. The fourth blow was just for the satisfaction.

His limp body was removed from the bed and dressed, wallet placed in an inside pocket, watch strapped to his wrist. The bloodied sheet was then stripped from the bed and folded into a neat square. It would be taken with them. The bed was remade and, first checking that everything was in order, they carried Stuhr into the hallway, then up the short concrete stairway to the street where a car was waiting.

The last man carefully closed the front door behind him. There was no wife, no lover, no one at all to witness the German's abduction.

21 BENEATH THE LAKE

Morning had brought with it a low-lying mist, the night's dampness evaporating as the earth slowly warmed again. Trees in the distance appeared suspended in the air; low bushes nearby were like spectral animals crouching in the whiteness, waiting for prey.

Halloran scanned the slopes above the mist as he walked through the neglected gardens, looking for any sign of movement on them, studying one spot for a while, going back to it seconds later to see if anything had altered. He also kept an eye out for the dogs that apparently roamed the estate, even though Cora had told him they never came near the house itself- he had little faith in that particular notion, wondering just how they could be trained to keep away. He thought of her as he walked, confused by the ambivalence of his feelings towards her. The bondage and the harshness of their lovemaking had helped satisfy Cora, but his own pleasure had been limited. True, his arousal had been enhanced to begin with, but the satisfaction afterwards had not been so complete. Prudish guilt, Halloran? Was the Catholicism of his youth still intrinsic to his attitudes? With all he had been through, all he had done, he doubted it.

Maybe he'd been mildly disappointed in her; and yet her inclination, her weakness had made Cora more vulnerable to him. After, when she had risen from the bed to find her robe, he had noticed marks across her back and buttocks. He made no comment, aware that they could only be faded whipmarks. But he couldn't help wondering what else there was to discover about her.

lie rounded the corner of the house and saw the mist shrouding the lake, slowly rolling across its surface, shifted by a mild breeze. His feet crunched gravel as he approached the dew stippled Mercedes.

Halloran dropped fiat to inspect the underneath of the car, searching with a pen-torch for any object that could have been attached during the night. He quickly checked all underside parts, then the wheel wells, shock absorbers and brake lines. Satisfied, he walked around the vehicle looking for grease spots, pieces of wire, hand prints, even disturbances on the gravel near the car doors. Before opening each door fully, Halloran ran a credit card around the tiny gaps to check for wires. This done, he sniffed the interior before entering, seeking the smell of bitter almonds or any other odd odour. Wary of pressure detonators, he checked the dashboard, glove compartment and ashtrays without putting any weight on the seats. He then looked under the seats. He examined the engine, using the credit-card check once more before lifting the hood completely; afterwards he did the same with the trunk. Only when this ritual was complete did he start the engine and let it run for a few minutes, moving the car backwards and forwards a few feet. Sure that the Mercedes had not been tampered with during the night, Halloran switched off and climbed out, locking up again before leaving it.

'Was all that really necessary?' a voice asked from the porch.

He turned to find Felix Kline watching from just inside, his arms folded as he leaned one shoulder against the stonework. He was dressed casually once more—jeans and loose-fitting jacket, a sweater underneath. And he had a grin on his face that dismissed all the fatigue Halloran had noticed the night before.

'I'd have done the same even if the Mere had been locked away in a garage overnight,' Halloran replied.

'I'll check out the Rover if it's unlocked.'

'So you really didn't believe me when I told you I was safe here.' Halloran shrugged. 'It isn't Shield's policy to take chances.'

'Nope, I suppose not.' Kline emerged from the shade, stretching his limbs and looking up at the sky. 'It's going to be a good day. You want to take a trip, Halloran? A little pre-breakfast exercise, huh?

Something to keep you in trim.'

'What've you got in mind?'

'Follow the leader and you'll find out.' He strode off in the direction of the lake and Halloran was surprised at the briskness of his step. Only last night Kline had appeared overcome by exhaustion, his features haggard, all movement wearied; this morning the man exuded energy.

'C'mon, forget about the other car,' Kline called back cheerfully.

Halloran walked after him at a more leisurely pace, although he was far from relaxed: all the while he kept an alert eye on their surroundings, looking for any sudden change in the landscape, any glints of light that might be sun reflecting off binoculars or a rifle barrel; he paid particular attention to the road leading from the estate's entrance.

Kline was well ahead, almost at the lake's edge. Occasionally he would wind his arms in the air or skip full circle, and Halloran halt-expected him to do a cartwheel at any moment. It was as if the small man had too much energy to spare.

The ground dipped slightly towards the water and Kline was stooping, only his head and shoulders in view. Halloran hurried his pace and found his client on a low jetty; moored to it was a rowing boat.

'This'll set you up for the day,' Kline said as he untied the mooring rope.

'No outboard?'

'I like the quietness of the lake, its stillness. I don't like engines upsetting that. Monk or Palusinski usually do the rowing for me, but you can have that privilege today.' Kline hopped into the boat and settled at its stern. 'Let's get going.'

'There won't be much to see with this mist,' Halloran remarked, stepping onto the jetty.

'Maybe,' Kline replied, turning away to look across the cloud-canopied surface.

Halloran climbed aboard, using a foot to push the boat away from the landing-stage. Sitting on the middle bench, he used one oar to set the boat further adrift, before sliding both into their rowlocks.

Turning about, he set course for the middle of the lake, soon finding an easy rhythm, their passage through the curling mists smooth and unhurried. His position gave Halloran an opportunity to study his companion at close range and he realised Kline's change had little to do with any physical aspect, but was linked with the man's volatile nature, his puzzling splitpersonality, for nothing in his features had altered. There was just a brightness to him, a shining in those dark eyes, a sharpness in his tone. Not for the first time, Halloran wondered if his client was on drugs of some kind.

Kline, whose face had been in profile, suddenly swung round to confront him. 'Still trying to figure me out, Halloran?' He gave a short laugh. 'Not easy, is it? Nigh on impossible, I'd say, Even for me.' His laughter was longer this time. 'Thing of it is, I'm unlike anyone you've ever met before. Am I right?'

Halloran continued rowing. 'I'm only interested in your safety.'

'Is that what your bosses at Shield instruct you to tell your clients? Is that in the handbook? You can't deny you're curious though. Wouldn't you really like to know more about me, how I got so rich, about this power of mine? You would, wouldn't you? Yeah, I know you would.'

'I admit I'm interested.' Kline slapped his own knee. 'That's reasonable.' He leaned forward conspiratorially. 'I can tell you I wasn't born this way. Oh no, not quite like this. Let's call it a late gift.' His smile was suddenly gone and, although his eyes bore into Halloran's, Kline seemed to be looking beyond.

'You make it sound as if your psychic ability was handed to you.' An oar had dredged up some rotted weeds and Halloran paused to free the paddle end. The tendrils were slick under his touch and he had to tug several times to clear the wood. When he dipped the oar back into the water he found Kline was smiling at him, no longer preoccupied with distant thoughts.

'Did you sleep soundly last night?' the dark-haired man enquired.

Was his smile really a leer? And why the abrupt change in topic? 'Well enough for the time I had,'

Halloran replied.

'You weren't disturbed at all?'

'Only by Neath's lack of security. You're taking unnecessary risks here.'

'Yeah, yeah, we'll discuss that later. Cora's an interesting lady, don't you think? I mean, she's not quite what she seems. Have you realised that?'

'I don't know much about her.'

'No, of course not. Has she told you how she came to be working directly for me? I decided I wanted Cora the first time I laid eyes on her in old Sir Vic's office about three years ago. Recognised her potential, y'see, knew she had . . . hidden depths. Know what I mean, Halloran?' Halloran ignored the insinuations, but had to hold his rising anger in check. 'She obviously makes a good PA.'

'You're right, she does. Aren't you curious though?' Halloran stopped rowing, resting the oars in the water, letting the boat drift. 'About what?' he said evenly.

'Huh! You are. Me and Cora, what goes on between us. Does she do more for me than just arrange schedules, type letters? Maybe you want to know if she and I are lovers.'

'That's none of my business.' Kline's smile was sly. 'Oh no? I'm an extremely aware person, Halloran, and it isn't hard for me to sniff out something going on under my nose. I don't mind you having your fun as long as you remember who Cora belongs to.'

'Belongs to? You're talking as if you own her, body and soul.' Kline turned away, still smiling. He squinted into the low white mist, as if to pierce it. The trees and slopes were faded along the lake's edge, the haziness of the sky belying the sharpness of the early morning air.

'Can you feel the weight of the water beneath us?' Kline suddenly asked, still looking away from the other man. 'Can't you feel the pressure underneath these thin wooden boards, as if all that liquid down there, all the slime and murkiness that lies on the bottom of the lake, wants to break through and suck us down? Can you sense that, Halloran?' He almost said no, a total rejection of the notion. But then Halloran began to feel the potency beneath his feet, as if the water there really could exert itself upwards, could creep through those tight cracks between the boards like some glutinous absorbing substance.

Kline's suggestion had somehow turned the lake into something less passive. Halloran shifted uncomfortably on the rowing bench.

A ripple in the lake caused the boat to sway.

Kline's attention was on him once more and his voice was low in pitch, less excitable, when he spoke.

'Look over the side, look into the lake. Notice how silky is its skin beneath this mist, and how clear. But how far can you see into the denseness below? Come on, Halloran, take a peek.' Although reluctant, Halloran did so. No big deal, he told himself, no reason to be churlish. He saw his own shadow on the lake.

'Keep watching the water,' came Kline's quiet voice. 'Watch how it swells and falls, as soft as anything you could ever wish to touch. Look into your own shadow; how dark it makes the water. Yet somehow the darkness allows you to see more. Arid what if the whole lake was shadowed? What depths could you perceive then?' Halloran was only aware of the blackness of his own reflection. But the blackness was spreading, widening in tranquil undulations, forcing away the mist as it grew. Kline's voice coaxed him to keep his eyes fixed on the lapping water, not even to blink lest that merest of movements disturb the placid surface, to stare into the darkness until his thoughts could be absorbed . . . absorbed . . .

absorbed by the lake itself, drawn in so. that what was hidden before could now be viewed . . .

. . . There are monsters beneath us, Halloran . . .' He could see the shapes moving around, sluggish, lumbering patches of greater darkness, and it seemed to him—it was insinuated to him—that these were grotesques who knew nothing of light, nothing of sun, creatures who slumbered in the depths, close to the earth's core. Among them were sleeker denizens, whose very tissue-like structures prevented pulverisation under such pressure; they glided between their cumbersome companions, two opposite natures co-existing in a nocturnal underworld. There were others with them, but these were less than fleeting shadows.

Halloran sensed their yearning, the desire to ascend and make themselves known to the world above, weary of perpetual gloom but imprisoned by their own form. Yet if they could not rise, perhaps something of what they sought could be lured down to them . . .

The boat tilted as Halloran leaned further over the side.

'Touch the water,' he was softly urged. 'Feel its coldness . . .' Halloran stretched his hand towards the lake that had become a huge liquid umbra, and there was a stirring below at his approach, a kind of quivering expectancy.

'. . . sink your fingers into it . . .

He felt the wetness and its chill numbed more than his flesh .

. . . deeper, let it taste you . . .

The water was up to his wrist, soaking his shirtsleeve .

. . . reach down, Halloran, reach down and . . .' He heard laughter.

'. . . touch the nether-region . . .

Halloran saw the shapes rising towards him, mutations that should only exist in the depths, mouths-were they mouths? They were openings, but were they mouths?—gaping, ready to swallow him in . . . to absorb him . . .

The laughter was sharper, startling him to his senses. Halloran pulled his hand clear, standing in the boat as if to push himself as far away from those rearing, avaricious gullets as possible.

Still they surged upwards, climbing as a single gusher, an almost solid stream of misshapen beings, terrible unearthly things without eyes but which had limbs that were stunted and as solid as their bodies, while others were only tenuous substances housed around jagged needle-teeth . . ~. coming closer, rushing as if to shoot above the surface itself . . .

. . . Until they began to disintegrate, to shatter, to implode, for they were never meant for the fine atmosphere of the upper reaches.

He heard their anguished screams though there were no sounds—their torment was in his mind only. All around the boat the water was bubbling, white foam spouting upwards as if the lake were boiling. Here and there geysers appeared, jetting into the air and carrying with them—or so Halloran imagined remnants of flesh, all that was left of the abyssal creatures.

The boat pitched in the ferment and Halloran quickly sat, both hands gripping the sides for support, staying that way until the turbulence began to subside, the lake becoming peaceful once more.

The two men were in an area of clarity, for the mist had been driven back to form a wide circle around the boat. Everything was still within that clear area, the boat now barely drifting.

The only sound was Kline's low chuckling.

22 FOOD FOR DOGS

Charles Mather was kneeling among his shrubs when his wife called him from the terrace steps. Always used to rising early, he had found the habit hard to break after leaving military service. So nowadays, rather than disturb Agnes, who did not share his fondness for early-morning activity, he would creep from their bedroom, dress in the bathroom, take tea in the kitchen, then wander out into the garden, which had become his second love (Agnes would always be his first). Whatever the season, there was always work to be done out there, and for him there was no better way to start the day than with lungs full of sharp—and at that time of the morning, reasonably untainted—air. The only negative factor was that the chill (always a chill first thing, be it winter, spring or summer) played silly-buggers with the metal in his leg.

He looked up from the bed he had been turning over with a short fork. 'What's that, m' dear?'

'The telephone, Charles. Mr Halloran is on the telephone. He says it's important that he speaks to you.'

Agnes was a trifle irritated because she'd had to climb from a bath to answer the phone, knowing that her husband would never hear its ringing in the garden. Here she stood shivering with the morning freshness and catching pneumonia by the second.

Mather pushed himself up from the padded kneeler and, the tip of his cane sinking into the soft earth. he hobbled towards the terrace.

'I should get back inside if I were you, Aggie,' he said as he awkwardly climbed the steps. 'You'll catch your death of cold standing around like that.'

'Thank you for your concern, Charles, but I'm sure poking around in the damp grass for a couple of hours hasn't done much for your leg either,' she replied more tartly than she felt. 'I think you'd better take a bath right after me.'

'Mother knows best,' he agreed with a smile. 'Now you get yourself back indoors before I whip off your dressing-gown and chase you naked around the garden.' She quickly turned to hide her own smile and walked to the patio doors. 'That might give the neighbours a breakfast thrill,' she said over her shoulder.

'Y'know,' he murmured, limping after her and admiring her rear with almost as much enthusiasm as when they were younger, 'I really believe it would.' He took the call in his study, settling down into an easy chair first and waiting for the click that signalled Agnes had replaced the upstairs receiver. 'Liam, Charles here. I hadn't expected to hear from you today.' There was no urgency in Halloran's voice. 'I've been trying to contact Dieter Stuhr since eight this morning, but had no luck.'

'As we have an ongoing operation he'll be at Shield all weekend,' said Mather. 'I assume you've already tried to reach him there though.'

'I thought I'd probably catch him at home earlier, then I< rang the office. No answer from there either.'

Mather checked his wristwatch. 'H'mn, just after nine. He'd have one other coordinator with him today and she should have arrived by now.'

'Only Stuhr would have a key.'

'Then she might be waiting outside at this moment. It“s not like Dieter to be late, but perhaps he's on his way. That could be why you missed him.'

'I rang his apartment over an hour ago.'

'Well, he could have been delayed. Look, I'll get on to Snaith—don't see why his Saturday shouldn't be disrupted—and between us we'll see what we can find out. No doubt it'll prove to be something trivial—his car's probably had an upset.' With his free hand, Mather rubbed his aching knee. 'D'you have a problem there at Neatly Liam?'

'I wanted to arrange for extra patrols outside, that's all. And I think our men should be armed. Security here is virtually nil.' There was a pause, but Mather sensed that Halloran wanted to say more. When no further words came, the older man spoke up: 'Anything else bothering you, Liam?' The question was put mildly, but Mather knew his operative well enough to understand something was wrong.

More silence, then, 'No, nothing else. Our client is unusual, but he can be handled.'

'If there's a problem between you two, we can switch. No need for added complications, y'know.'

'Uh, no. Leave things as they are. Let me know what's happened to the Organiser, will you?'

'Surely. Soon as we know something ourselves. Perhaps Stuhr stayed somewhere else overnight—I understand it frequently happens to single men. Could be whoever he's with has found ways to detain him.'

'It's not like him to be out of touch.'

'I agree, particularly when there's an operation in progress.' Mather was frowning now. 'We'll keep you informed, Liam, and in the meanwhile we'll organise some extra cover for you. I assume last night went without incident?'

'It was quiet. Anything more on the stolen Peugeot?'

'Still drawn a blank there, I'm afraid. Police can't help. You're sure our client doesn't know more than he's telling'

'I'm not sure of anything.' Mather stopped soothing the ache in his knee. Again he waited for Halloran to continue, but all that came through was atmospherics on the line. 'It might be an idea if I paid Neath a visit myself,' he suggested.

'We'll be back in London on Monday. Let's you and I meet then.'

'If you say so. Look, I'll get back to you as soon as I've got some news.'

'Fine.' He heard the click as the line was disengaged and he held his own phone close to his ear for several seconds before putting it down. Mather was thoughtful for several more moments before he lifted the receiver again.

Halloran stood by the telephone in the large open hallway, his hand still resting on the receiver. He was concerned about Dieter Stuhr's absence, well aware that it was out of character for the German to go missing during a major assignment (or even a minor one, for that matter). Maybe, as Mother had suggested, he was having problems getting into the office that morning. Less likely was that he'd been detained at some other address; the Organiser didn't run his life that way—he'd have at least let Shield know where he could he contacted no matter how impromptu the situation. Halloran ran his fingers across his as yet unshaven chin. Maybe Kline—and Neath itself—was getting to him. He was beginning to feel uneasy about everything.

There were footsteps on the staircase behind him. He turned to find Cora approaching, her descent faltering momentarily when he looked into her eyes, her hand touching the wide balustrade for balance.

'Good morning, Liam.' Her greeting was subdued, as if she were not sure how he would react towards her.

'Cora,' he responded. He moved to the foot of the stairs and waited. Neither one smiled at the other and both were conscious that this was not the usual way for lovers to say hello after a night of intimacy.

'Have you had breakfast?' she asked, the question put to break the awkwardness between them rather than out of any real interest.

'I'm on my way in,' Halloran replied. He touched her arm to atop her from walking on. She looked up at him, startled. 'Cora, why didn't you warn me about Kline?' She could not conceal the tiny flicker of alarm that showed in her eyes.

'Why didn't you tell me he had the—I suppose you'd call it “power”—to hypnotise? We took a little trip this morning, out on the lake. He made me see things there, things I never thought possible. Creatures Cora, monsters that seemed to be living in the slime beneath that water. I don't know whose imagination he dredged them from—his or mine—but they scared the hell out of me even though common sense told me they couldn't really exist. He froze me, and it's been a long time since anyone did that.'

'lie was playing games with you.' She had mowed closer and her voice was quiet, almost mournful. 'It was Felix's way of showing you how manipulative his mind is, how sometimes he can direct images into the minds of others.' Halloran shook his head. 'Thought transference—it's the same as hypnosis.'

'No. No it isn't. He can't make you do things, control your actions. He can only suggest images, make you feel something is happening.' Halloran thought back to the white room at the Magma building, remembering his first encounter with Kline, the finger prodding him in the darkness when no one was near, reaching out and touching withered skin when only he and Kline were in the room . . . 'At least it makes a kind of sense,' he said aloud, although it was more a rationale for himself.

Her laugh was brittle. 'Don't look for sense in any of this,' she said. Cora slipped from his grip and made her way towards the dining room.

A creak from the balcony above. He looked up sharply and was just in time to see the bulky shape of Monk stepping back out of sight. Halloran was sure the big man had been grinning.

'Well, I can see your appetite hasn't been spoilt by this morning's little upset.' Kline waved away the Arab who had been pouring him more coffee.

Halloran glanced up from his plate and returned his client's smile. 'It takes a lot to do that.'

'Oh yeah? For a moment there in the boat I thought you were going to puke. Couldn't figure it—there was hardly a ripple in the lake. Unless all that mist out there disorientated you that can often make you giddy, y'know, that and the drifting sensation. You had me worried.' He sipped from his cup. 'Youssef, give Miss Redmile some more coffee. She looks as if she needs it. Make it strong, leave the cream.

Cora, you've got to eat more than you do, you're going to waste away otherwise. Don't you think she looks kinda drawn, Halloran? You not sleeping well, Cora?' Halloran had to agree: she looked pale, the dark smudges under her eyes even more pronounced.

'I think that business yesterday is having some effect on me,' Cora said. 'Delayed reaction, I suppose.'

'The attempted kidnapping?' The incident sounded pleasurable to Kline. 'There was no problem, not with our hero along to protect us. Those bastards didn't stand a chance, am I right, Halloran? Not with you around. I bet they couldn't believe their eyes when they saw our car reversing away like a bat outa

. . .' He didn't complete the sentence, gulping coffee instead.

'Hopefully your own driver, Palusinski, will have learned the technique by now. That and a few others to get away from a road-block fast.' Halloran continued eating, a surprisingly good English breakfast provided by the two Jordanians. He noticed that Kline, for all his jibes at the girl, hadn't eaten much either. Monk probably made up for the pair of them in the kitchen.

'Were you an army man, Halloran?' The question from Kline was unexpected.

'Most of your outfit are ex-military, aren't they?' Kline went on. 'You ever killed anybody? Shot them dead, knifed them? You ever done anything like that?' Cora was watching him, along with her employer.

Halloran leaned back from the table. 'What makes you ask?' he said.

'Oh, curiosity. Wondered if you had the capability. Can't be an easy thing taking someone else's life away. No, got to be the hardest thing in the world to do. Or is it? Maybe it's easy once you have the know-how, the experience. Have you had the experience? Could you do it?'

'It would depend on the situation.'

'Hah! Let me give you a situation then. Suppose those creeps yesterday had managed to stop our car.

Suppose they came at me with guns-which, presumably, given the chance they would have. Would you have used your own weapon'?'

'That's why I'm here, Kline .'

'Okay. Let's change the scenario a little. Say they held a gun at Cora's head and threatened to blow it off if you made a move towards them. You got your own gun in your hand and it's pointed in their direction.

They're dragging me into their car and the guy with Cora is blocking your way. What would you do in that situation? Would you risk her life to protect me? I'd be interested to know.' He smiled at Cora. 'I'm sure she'd like to also.' Halloran looked from one to the other, Kline grinning, enjoying the moment, Cora uncertain, as though the question was more than academic.

'I'd let them take you,' he replied.

Kline's grin faded.

'Then I'd negotiate the ransom for your release.' His client's fist hit the table. 'That's the wrong fucking answer! You're being paid to look after me, Halloran, nobody else! Not her, nobody!' Halloran kept his tone level. 'By shooting the one who held Cora—and I could probably do it without her being harmed—I'd be endangering your life. Everyone would get gun-happy, and undoubtedly you'd be the second target after me. It'd make sense to keep things peaceful, bargain for your release later.' Kline was noticeably quivering. 'Bargain far my release? You crazy fuck. They could take the money and then kill me.'

'It doesn't work that way. These people are normally professional in what they do—to break a negotiated contract would mean they'd lose credibility next time.'

'You talk as if the whole thing is nothing more than a business.'

'That's just what it is, a multi-million pound business. Kidnap and ransom has become one of the world's few growth industries. Sure, every once in a while you get amateurs trying their hand, but they're few and far between, and generally frowned upon by their own but more competent kind—their bungling makes successful transactions more difficult for the professionals. It doesn't take organisations like mine, or the police, to discover which type we're dealing with, and I have to admit I prefer to be up against professionals -they're more predictable.'

'And that bunch yesterday? Haw would you classify them, Hall or an?' Kline's fists were clenched on the table-top and his lips were drawn tight.

'I'd say they knew what they were doing. The car they used wasn't traceable, they were patient and waited for exactly the right moment. Fortunately for us we had them spotted before they made their move.'

'They weren't that good. They failed, didn't they?'

'Only because we were better. And the fact that they managed to get clean away confirms my belief that they were competent. Once the first attempt failed they didn't compound their mistake by giving chase.

That could have been too messy. My guess is they'll be patient a while longer, wait for the right opportunity to come along. Or, at least, engineer that opportunity themselves. Now they know we're on the alert they'll be even more cautious.' “They'll try again?' It was Cora who had asked the question.

Halloran looked at her in surprise. 'Of course. But at least we have the slight advantage of knowing our client is a definite target.'

'I already told you that!' Kline was glaring at him, but although his wards were spoken angrily, the shrillness had gone from them. 'Why d'you think Magma hired your company in the first place? You think I'm on some kind of ego trip? Or suffering from paranoia? This is a real situation, Halloran, I told you that from the start.'

'Okay, so let's go back to an earlier question: who or what organisation do you think is behind it? I still can't accept that you've no idea.'

'Have any of your previous so-called targets known just who was out to get them? Why d'you expect me to?'

'Because you were aware before an attempt was ever made.' Kline's sigh transmuted into a groan. 'After all I've shown you, you still don't believe.'

'It's precisely because of what I know about you that I don't understand why you can't sense who your enemies are.' For the first time Kline looked unsure. His eyes went to Cora, then back to Halloran.

'There's the mystery, Halloran,' he said. And then, as if to himself, he repeated, 'Yeah, there's the mystery.' Once more Halloran was checking through the house, prowling the corridors, ensuring that no outside door or window had been left unlocked. Even in daytime he wanted Neath shut tight. It was when he was passing along the first-floor hallway overlooking the inner courtyard that he paused. A door was opening on the other side of the decayed fountain.

He waited by the window and watched, curious, as Khayed came through. The Arab was carrying a round metal container with handles on either side and by the way Khayed's body leaned backwards the burden had some weight. He scuttled across the yard, calling out to someone behind. Youssef Daoud appeared at the same doorway and he, too, dressed in the robes of his country as was his companion, carried a similar metal container. Both men were laughing and apparently joking as they went through another door leading to the front of the house.

On impulse, Halloran hurried downstairs and went out into the courtyard. He quickly crossed over and went through the door the two Arabs had emerged from. He was in the short passageway he had entered the night before, at one end the stairway, at the other the sturdy closed door. He walked to the latter and tested the handle. It was still locked. Or, if the two men had brought the containers from there, locked again.

Halloran stooped to examine the lock and immediately felt cold dank air from the keyhole on his cheek.

He touched the stone floor at the door's base and the chill draught was even more noticeable. It had to lead to a cellar of some kind, perhaps where Kline kept his best wines.

Noises outside. The Arabs returning. Halloran straightened, taking one last look at the lock as he did so.

Old and strong, large keyhole needing a long key. Shouldn't prove too difficult to open. But he wondered at his own curiosity. And why not ask Kline or Cora what was down there? He also wondered why the was reluctant to do just that.

The voices outside were louder, approaching.

He quickly went down the short length of the passage and stepped through the open doorway. The two Arabs stopped when they saw him. The one called Khayed was the quickest to regain his composure, his friend's look of hostility dissolving a fraction later.

Khayed gave a small bow and regarded Halloran questioningly. 'Assayed?'

'I found it open,' Halloran said, indicating the doorway behind.

'Ah,' said Khayed, then spoke to his companion in their own language. 'Sadi koona hashoor.' Daoud smiled at Halloran, who offered no more explanation than he'd already given.

A smell of spices drifted towards him from the two men. They waited there and he guessed they'd stay all day without saying another word until he went on his way. It was in his mind to ask them again what was beyond the locked door, but he doubted he'd receive a reply. He noticed Khayed held a long key by his side.

Halloran waved them through, but they remained where they were, politely indicating that he should pass them. 'Min fadlak, assayed,' said Khayed.

With a shrug, he cut back across the yard, this time making for the corridor leading to the main hall and the front of the house.

Coolness and gloom after the brightness of the yard struck him as soon as he entered and his footsteps were hollow on the stone flooring. He frowned when he saw that the doubledoors of the entrance were open wide and guessed that Khayed and Daoud were the culprits. He went to the door and passed through into the porch area.

Outside he saw that the Rover's tail was up, and inside were the two metal containers. He walked over to examine them more closely, tapping them both at first, the sound heavy, indicating they were full. The tops were tightly sealed.

He was prising at one with his fingertips when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Now there was no quick disguising of the alarm in Khayed's expression. He was alone, obviously having followed Halloran out while his companion went nn about his business.

'Kala, assayed,' the Arab said, recovering welt enough to smile.

Halloran raised his eyebrows. He indicated the containers. 'What's in them?' he asked.

'Nothing to concern the good sir,' came the reply.

'I'd like to take a look.'

'Oh no, sir, there is nothing of interest for you in them. It is food, you see.'

'What'''

'I said it is food inside the bins.' His companion appeared on the porch and he was holding vet another container. He halted to look at both men, then hurried over to the back of the car, politely edging past Halloran to place his load inside with the other two. He straightened and grinned at Halloran, his eyes full of amusement.

'For the dogs.' he said. “Akel Ilkaleb They will cat well tonight.' -His snigger became laughter. Khayed joined in that laughter.

23 THE LODGE-HOUSE

Dusk was aided by a clouded sky, the fine day having changed its mind mid-afternoon, becoming overcast and broody, yet shedding no rain, as if sulking without tantrum, leaving the air warm and muggy.

Halloran took off his jacket as he strolled away from Neath's front gate, no longer having to worry about exposing his waist-holster now he was away from the public road.

He had just completed briefing the two sets of Shield operatives, keeping them no more than ten minutes so that the roads around the estate would not be left unpatrolled for longer than was necessary (he realised even double the number of observer cars would still be inadequate, because it would be easy enough for intruders to enter the grounds during surveillance 'gaps'; nevertheless, even two cars could usually spot potential trouble parked vehicles, loiterers, anything out of place or suspicious and two were better than one, one better than none). Halloran wasn't happy with the situation, but knew that only a small army would really be adequate in the circumstances and at least the operatives were now discreetly armed; he could only hope that Kline's faith in his guard dogs was justified.

It had been an odd day (no reason it shouldn't have been, Halloran told himself, considering the whole affair was odd), beginning with his hallucination on the lake that morning. But that had amounted to no more than Kline flexing his psychic muscles, showing Halloran his psyche's strength, a mild 'frightener' to let him know he was dealing with a man who had a genuine ability, one that could be used in any direction Kline chose. Fine. The experience had been unnerving, but at least had given his client some satisfaction, and that in turn might make him more amenable to following Halloran's strictures on security.

Kline's outburst at breakfast had left the operative unperturbed: he already knew the man was an ego-maniac, as well as being somewhat eccentric, so it wasn't surprising that he was concerned solely for his own safety. How Cora tolerated her employer's boorishness Halloran couldn't understand at all. The question had been in his mind most of the day: why was she so dependent on Kline?

Halloran had wanted to talk with her alone, but she had avoided his company, disappearing to her room immediately after breakfast. He had gone to her, and she had opened her bedroom door only slightly, her eyes downcast, almost as if she were ashamed of what had happened the night before. Cora had told him she was suffering from a migraine headache, that she needed to lie down for a few hours, curtains drawn, if it were to pass. He'd left her, disappointed in her lack of response to him, for even though her sexual preference had surprised him (and, if he were to be totally honest with himself, dismayed him a little) a tenderness between them had followed the lovemaking. Cora had wept when he untied her, and had clung to him, body trembling, tears dampening his chest, for a long time before falling into a troubled sleep.

Somewhere in the distance he heard the faint sound of church bells, evensong in some nearby parish, and his thoughts drifted back to the country of his childhood. The small town in Kilkenny, where the priest's authority was irrefutable, his word law, his temple the court, his judgement final . . . Halloran checked himself. It wasn't the time for such reflection—he needed to be alert, aware of what was going on around him at the present moment, not having his thoughts wandering around the past. That was happening too much of late.

Adding further to the day's discord was the news that Dieter Stuhr had disappeared. Mather had rung Halloran before lunch to inform him that Shield's Organiser couldn't be located, but everything at his apartment appeared to be in order. Key members of Shield had been recalled to the office to try and track him down, and Gerald Snaith had decided it was far too soon to involve the police. Besides, out of keeping though it might be for the German, there might just be a rational explanation for his absence.

Mother would ring Halloran the moment he had more information.

He was before the lodge, a building of similar but darker stone to Neath itself, its grey-slated roof full of holes, windows dulled by grime. It looked unlived in. Yet someone inside had somehow allowed him to open the front gates (he'd had a better chance to examine the lock and still hadn't detected any electronic device installed within), for on first try the gates wouldn't budge. He studied the lodge a while longer before leaving the road and walking the short track up to the frontdoor. The best he got when he stretched a hand to the rusted bell was a dull clunk. He rapped on the wood.

There were no sounds from inside the house. No one came to open the door.

He knocked louder, then tried the handle; it was as though the door were solid to the stone itself, for it did not even jar in its frame. Halloran stepped back to look up at the first floor windows and saw nothing through the smeared glass. He walked back to the edge of the rutted road for a better view, but the angle merely rendered the windows an opaque black. He took one more backward step.

Halloran was suddenly cold, as if he'd stepped into a pocket of wintry air. He was being observed.

Such an awareness was not unusual for him -experience in his particular profession brought with it a certain sensitivity towards prying, unseen eyes -yet never before had the sensing been so acute for him.

The coldness, he realised, was due to the crawling sensation of his own skin, as if it was undulating in small ridges. He shifted his jacket to his other arm so that his gun hand was free.

Nothing stirred inside the lodge. At least, not as far as he could tell. But the urge to run from there, to put as much distance between himself and that uninviting abode, was immense. A whisper, whose source was somewhere deep in his own mind, cautioned him against further investigation. Irrational, he told himself. Are you sure? his sub-conscious taunted.

He raised a hand to his forehead as if to dispel further insinuations that had gathered, warnings that something nasty, something unclean, was waiting for him inside the lodge-house, and that contained within its walls were secrets that should remain secrets; but physical action was useless against the tenacity of the psyche. The thoughts continued.

Halloran almost sagged under their force. He willed their dispersion and it was only gradually that his mind became calmer, that his own consciousness became dominant.

For those other thoughts had not been his. He was certain they had not originated from some sub-level of his own mind, but had been implanted by another. He turned his head, searching the woods behind, the roadway leading to Neath. Kline. Those thoughts had been Kline's. He had the gift: Kline had shown him that very morning. But the psychic was still at the main house. Or should have been. Again Halloran scanned the area around him. Did distance bother someone like Kline, could ideas be directed no matter how far away the recipient? Or was Felix Kline inside the lodge?

The coldness was still with him and Halloran slipped his jacket back on. He took a step towards the building.

And the thoughts intruded once more, stabbing at him, bringing with them not only fear but a curious reluctance to discover what was inside the old house. He remained where he was.

Halloran could see no one at the windows, but he sensed a presence beyond those walls. He had lost the inclination to enter the house, though, no longer wanting to find out who the occupant was. Not at the moment. He'd return when he was . . . prepared.

Halloran backed away.

With a last lingering look, he turned from the lodge and began the long trek to the main house where earlier he had decided to leave the Mercedes, preferring to make the journey to the estate's entrance on foot. Too much could be missed when viewed from a moving car and Halloran had wanted to get the 'eel of the surrounds, with particular regard to the private roadway which was a natural place for an ambush, safe from public gate, out of sight from anyone in Neath itself. Now, with the evening gloom taking a firmer hold and the unease left by the uninvited thoughts, Halloran regretted his decision. At once he berated himself, a little astonished by his own trepidation. But then, as he'd already acknowledged, it had been an odd day.

In the stillness around him his footsteps seemed louder than normal. Ahead the road narrowed, trees on opposite sides linking leafy arms to form a tunnel. It was twilight inside that tunnel.

He was too warm suddenly, the air almost too heavy to breathe. The clouds were swollen and dark and he relished the idea of rain, or even a storm. But it was as though the dampness was scaled into the masses above. He walked on, at irregular intervals glancing from left to right, occasionally checking the road behind. All was quiet. The lodge-house was a distant image, rendered small and impotent. The road in front of him had begun to curve, no exit visible inside the tunnel.

A stirring of ferns by the roadside, no more than a transient breeze. ,A faint crash further within, merely a dead or broken branch shed from a tree.

Light faded as he passed beneath the canopy of leaves. It was cooler, although not much, and Halloran quickened his pace. The more he progressed, the dimmer became the light. Soon it was as though night had fallen prematurely. His senses sharpened and he allowed his vision to wander, never focusing on any particular section of forest for too long, constantly shifting his attention from one dark area to another.

At first he thought he had imagined the snuffling, for it had been barely audible over the sound of his own footsteps, but then it came again. He stopped to listen. Nothing now. And that in itself was unusual, for the woods were always full of noises of some kind, small scufflings, the flapping of wings, an owl settling in for the night's vigil. Over many years he had learned to discern nature's disturbances from those that might originate from stealthy humans, the difference being that animal or natural noises generally continued even if for no more than a second or two, whereas those caused by humans—be they hiding or stalking prey -had a tendency to cease immediately.

He resumed his journey, the tension in his stride indicating an extra alertness. Keeping his steps as quiet as possible, Halloran moved into the curve of the tunnel. A rustling to his right, a definite movement. He carried on walking, a hand reaching under his jacket to the butt of the Browning. More movement, something keeping pace with him. He began to suspect what that something might be.

He had assumed that the dogs were controlled during the daytime and allowed to run free at night.

Perhaps it was at dusk that their keeper set them loose on their own.

Snuffling noises again, and then a louder rustling through the undergrowth as though the animals were hurrying to get ahead of him. Initially the sounds had come from some distance inside the woodland, but now they were drawing close, as if the dogs were cutting in at an angle. Halloran deliberately maintained his own steady pace.

For one brief moment he caught sight of a shadow loping through the trees, low to the ground. It was followed by another, then another . . . he watched a stream of shadows slinking through the undergrowth.

Strange that they didn't come straight at him, but maybe that was part of their training, to cut off and intimidate rather than attack. He sincerely hoped so. Could be that they'd also been trained to keep silent while they tracked their quarry. Halloran resisted the urge to break into a run, knowing he would never outpace them: there was no point in turning back either—they'd only follow. He slid the gun from its holster and held it down by his side.

It could have been midnight, so dark had it become under the trees. The disturbance to his right had settled as though the procession of dim shapes had passed on its way, having had no real interest in the solitary walker. Halloran did not relax his guard.

Something moved out into the open ahead. He could hardly make out the dog's form so mantled was the roadway, but he could hear the soft panting. The animal loitered there, making no other sound. Waiting for him. Soon others joined it, slinking from the undergrowth to create an undefined obstacle across the roadway. Their combined breathing seemed to take on a rhythm.

Halloran aimed the weapon in their direction. He moved forward again, his step slow and steady, his body erect, offering the beasts no fear.

He heard their base, scratchy snarling. Drawing near he sensed rather than saw those closest tensing themselves to pounce. l He was within seven or eight feet of the nearest shadow. His steps did not falter.

Until there was a different sound, and this from behind, growing louder by the moment. He stopped, but dared not look away from those looming shapes lest they take advantage of a brief second's distraction.

The trees and the Toad were becoming brighter as lights approached, rounding the bend. Illuminating what lay ahead of Halloran.

He drew in a breath, his grip tightening an the automatic. Eyes, yellow-white in the glare from the car's headlights, were watching him. The rest of their lean bodies became brighter.

They were indeed dogs, but of a special loathsome breed.

They stole back into the woods, soon swallowed by its inkiness, and he listened to their quiet retreat until the sounds had faded completely.

The car drew up behind him and he slid the gun back into the holster. He turned around to face the vehicle, shielding his eyes with an arm and, save for the dazzling lights and the sofa purr of its engine, the car might never have been there, for its blackness blended perfectly with the darkness of the forest. As he walked around to the driver's side he heard a window descending. ,A broad face appeared, barely recognisable in the dimness.

'It is better that I drive you back to the house, moj kolega,' said Palusinski. 'The jackal can be a ferocious beast, particularly against the defenceless.' JANUSZ PALUSINSKI—A PEASANT'S

SURVIVAL His father, Henryk Palusinski, had been a hero of the people, a peasant farmer who had joined the march to Zamosc to do battle with the much-feared General Semyon Budenny of Russia's First Cavalry.

So fiercely did the tiny ragbag army of Polish cavalry, peasants and gentry fight there, sheer desperation their driving force, that General Budenny had no other choice but to order a retreat and flee back to Russia with his defeated and humiliated troops.

The year was 1920, and Janusz Palusinski had not yet been born.

Henryk returned to his village wearied but triumphant, the sabre slash wound in his side never to heal completely, weeping small amounts of blood mixed with foul-smelling poison for years to come. The villagers were proud of their man and, still mourning for those who had not come back from battle, pledged their help to Kazimiera, their hero's devoted wife, in running the small farm until Henryk was well enough to cope for himself. Unfortunately it was two years before he was able to plough his field again, and then only with his faithful Kazimiera by his side to lend support. Still his neighbours offered assistance, but less so than before; hero-worship is difficult to sustain when danger has long since passed.

Besides, Henryk was no longer the solid and pleasant individual they had once respected and liked: his disability and reliance on others had soured him considerably.

So by the time little Janusz was born some three years later, conditions in the Palusinski household (which had always been less than comfortable anyway) had somewhat deteriorated. Nevertheless the couple were happy to have been blessed with a son; he would grow broad and strong as his father had once been, and in time would work the farm, rebuild it to its former (modest) glory. Providing they didn't all starve before he came of working age.

Due to Kazimiera's fortitude and the continuing kindness of others—albeit a dwindled kindness—the Palusinski family survived. But the father became more morose as the son grew older, for Janusz was not the kind of boy Henryk had in mind when he had dreamt of the offspring he would eventually raise. The boy was sturdy enough, no disappointment there, but there was a sly laziness to him, a reluctance to offer more than was required of him. Janusz's mother despaired, and she herself often did extra work her husband had ordered the boy to do, always taking the greatest care that Henryk would not find out. They ate poorly, selling what they could of their meagre produce and, because theirs was a farm without livestock, turnips, beetroots and potatoes became their staple diet. The boy craved something more.

Then one night his father, out of desperation and perhaps even bitterness, stole a neighbour's pig. It was a young pig, not yet plump, but one that could be dealt with quickly and easily in the dead of night.

Henryk felled the animal with one sharp blow of a mlotek, not even its sleeping mother rousing to the short squeal of pain. He yanked the pig from its pen, concealing it beneath his coat even though there was no one around to see, then scurried back to his own home.

The family did not wait for morning to cook their prize, for their stomachs groaned at the sight of the pink flesh. The small animal was quickly gutted and set over the fire to roast, liver arid kidneys set aside for later consumption. Henryk's wife chopped vegetables, adding to them dried mushrooms picked from the forest weeks earlier. Some would be cooked for the feast they could not deny themselves that night, while what was left would be used for the soup they would make from the pig's bones and trotters. Any guilt Kazimiera felt over her husband's dishonesty vanished as soon as the first aromas from the roasting meat wafted towards her.

Young Janusz was impatient. And there was sornething about the pink nakedness of the uncooked pig that had its own allure. His father brought out a bottle of the cheap wine he had taken to consoling himself with of late, filling tin mugs for himself and Kazimiera, even allowing his son one or two sips.. It had been a long time since Henryk had felt in such hearty mood and his wife enjoyed his suddenly restored robustness. While they toasted each other, Kazimiera almost coy under the leering looks she received from her man, Janusz's gaze kept wandering towards the liver and kidneys that lay neglected on the table.

The harsh wine on empty stomachs took no time at all to lighten heads and Henryk, after warning his son to watch the roasting pig as if his life depended on it—the slightest charring would mean the severest beating for the boy—pulled his notunwilling kochankg into the bedroom.

Janusz obeyed, turning the pig on its spit every few minutes. His mouth was wet with juices as the meat cooked. Yet his eyes kept returning to the raw meat glistening on the table at the centre of the room.

Making sure that the bedroom door was closed, he approached the table as stealthily as his father had approached their neighbour's farmyard. With trembling fingers he picked up the liver, finding its clammy softness not at all unpleasant. He sniffed the meat like a nervous mongrel. The smell wasn't strong, yet somehow it prevailed over the roasting pork. He bit into it.

He discovered that devouring raw meat was not so simple. It stretched and stretched, its shininess preventing a firm grip. He laid it down once more and lifted the kitchen knife. Janusz carefully cut off a thin sliver of meat (some enjoyment there, cutting into the moist softness, blood staining the blade), then pushed it into his mouth. To begin with the taste was repugnant, but the more he chewed the more he became used to it. And soon he began to appreciate the raw freshness.

Janusz, aged just nine years, swallowed the meat and cut off another sliver.

The whole family feasted in the early hours of the morning, eating the pork and vegetables in enraptured silence, Henryk swilling wine until the bottle was empty, occasionally winking at Kazimiera and grinning lewdly. The very fact that the meat was so clandestine added its own special flavour.

It was a feast that the young Janusz would never forget. Indeed the memory would taunt his tastebuds many, many times in the years to come.

Neither of his parents mentioned the missing liver the following day—perhaps Henryk's improbity towards his good neighbour subdued any anger he felt against his own son for stealing the meat, and Kazimiera could only feel shame that circumstances had driven her little Janusz to such a hungry state.

Conditions did not improve when suspicion for the loss of the pig fell on the Palusinski family, although no accusations were made. Help from others came less and less.

Janusz grew, his frame sturdy enough, but his flesh lean and undernourished. He was disliked by the other boys of the village (who had no particular regard for the senior Palusinski's ancient act of valour) for Janusz could best be described as shifty, always on the edge of any group, constantly seeking ways to better his own lot (he was hungry most of the time, a discomfort that can easily shape a person's character). As the years passed and the boy was able to take on more man's work (albeit unenthusiastically), conditions for the Palusinskis improved. They were still impoverished, true, but then so were many of their neighbours, and Henryk's old wound continued to make prolonged labour difficult: yet food for the table slowly became less of a problem and occasionally there were zlotys enough to spend on other things, usually new farming equipment. Poland itself was establishing a more benevolent governance, initiating land reforms that were beneficial to the small farmholder, creating a social security system and organising health care for its population. Janusz Palusinski might well have grown into a relatively normal young man had not yet another unfortunate chapter in Poland's history begun.

On 1st September 1939 Germany invaded, bringing a reign of terror that would eventually lead to the total subjugation of the Polish people. Important officials, potential troublemakers, men of learning were to be eliminated under the new order of the General Government. The Polish workers were to be intimidated into submission: the murder of countless numbers saw to this. Failure to obey the edicts of the Third Reich meant immediate execution or being sent to a concentration camp (which usually resulted in a more lingering death). All Jews were to be exterminated.

For Poland it was a return to the bad old days of rule by fear. For Janusz Palusinski, then sixteen years old, it meant a return to the bad old days of permanent hunger.

The Nazis had set the Polish farmers working for the sustenance of the German people, each district commander ensuring that no produce was withheld, only the most meagre amount left for the farmer and his family so that they had the strength to work the fields. To hide food from the occupying forces meant punishment by death.

The people of Janusz's village, both men and women, young and old, were decimated during the terrible years that followed, for the Polish people are a proud and defiant race (not to mention stubborn) and the village was no mare, and certainly no less, than an encapsulation of the country as a whole. Many of the younger men became partisans, hiding in the surrounding forests by day, venturing forth to sabotage where they could by night.

Henryk Palusinski saw- this as a time to redeem his former glory. Age and his old wound prevented any active part in resistance operations, but he endeavoured to supply the hiding groups with what little food he and the other villagers could spare. He also fed them any information on German troop activities that came his way. He urged his son to join the partisans many times, but Janusz was even more reluctant to do that than he was to plough the field, and Kazimiera, when her son complained to her, forbade Henryk to persist with such suggestions. The risk in providing food for the cause was enough, she scolded, without exposing their one and only son to more danger than already existed for them all. Besides, who would work the farm if anything happened to the boy? Although disappointed in his son's lack of spirit, Henryk was forced to listen to reason.

Events took their own course when the older Palusinski fell ill in the winter months with a severe respiratory condition. In the early hours of one morning when he lay wheezing in his sickbed, there came an urgent rapping on the frontdoor. Kazimiera feared it was German soldiers making a spot check on the farms around the village, a frequent occurrence in those dark days, searching for hidden food stores, perhaps hoping they might discover a partisan or two skulking on the premises. She opened the door with much trepidation and it was with relief that Kazimiera recognised the woman standing outside, hair dampened by drizzling rain: she was from the village, her husband a member of the resistance. The woman held a small bundle in her arms.

'Food, Pani Palusinska,' she told Kazimiera, 'for my husband. The Germans watch me, they suspect my Mikolaj is with the resistance. But our men are starving in the forest, Pan Palusinski must take this to them.' Kazimiera explained that Henryk was too ill for such a journey. 'You have a strong son,' she was reminded, the woman's tone cold.

Henryk had heard the conversation through the open door of his room and he called out for his wife to bring the woman inside lest by chance she were seen by their enemy. The villager rushed to Henryk's door and pleaded with him to send Janusz into the forest with the food. The older Palusinski began to rise, prepared to undertake the mission himself despite his poor health, and Kazimiera pushed him back again, agreeing that their son should go, afraid that such an effort would surely kill her husband.

Janusz had no other choice. If he refused he would be pilloried by the villagers and neighbours, branded a coward, and his own father would make his life even more unbearable for him than it was already.

Besides, the risk should be minimal at that hour of the morning.

His father gave him detailed instructions on where to find the partisans' forest hideaway, and the youth set out, pulling his coat tight around his neck against the chill rain. It was one of those few occasions when Henryk Palusinski felt truly proud of his son. Unfortunately that pride was to be short-lived.

Janusz was captured in the forest by German soldiers who had always been aware that there was a supply line between the partisans and the villagers and farmers. As fate would have it and as perversely ironic as fate often is—a patrol had chosen that morning to watch a particular section of woodland in which the young Palusinski crept. He was caught within ten minutes of reviewing his home.

To his credit, Janusz did not instantly break under the Nazi threats and beatings which followed.

However, it took less than a day at the dreaded Lublin interrogation centre for that to happen.

He gave the names of partisans, revealed where their encampment in the forest was hidden, mentioned which villages assisted them (much of this was guesswork on his part and he strove to make it sound convincing to his tormentors) and who among the farmers supplied the underground movement with food.

It was not until they took him to another room and completely immersed his body in water, pulling him up just before he lost consciousness, repeating the process several times, that he admitted his own parents were involved with the partisans. Only when lighted cigarettes were pressed against his testicles and no more information babbled from his broken lips was the Gestapo sure there was nothing left for him to tell.

The next day Janusz was driven to Zamek Lublin, a hillside castle that served as both prison and courthouse. There, in an old chapel that had been transformed into a courtroom, the dazed youth was sentenced to imprisonment. He was lucky: others with him found guilty were dispatched to a room next door and instantly shot.

From Zamek Lublin he was taken to Majdanek, a notorious internment centre just east of the city where many thousands of Poles, Hungarians and Czechoslovaks were being held, and it was here that Janusz received the tattooed number on his wrist that forever would identify him as the unfortunate victim of a Nazi concentration camp.

Once he had recovered from his injuries, he began to realise he had certain advantages over many of the other inmates which might possibly help him survive: he was young and had learned to exist on a limited amount of food for a number of years (on this point he was soon to discover that at Majdanek 'limited'

meant hardly any at all); he was cunning, already a natural scrounger; he held scant remorse for any personal misdeeds (the thought of what had befallen those he had betrayed -including the fate of his parents -hardly disturbed him); he was not Jewish.

And there was one particular aberration of character that would eventually ensure his survival under the worst of circumstances, but that was not to be appreciated until much later.

His clothes were of a black-and-white striped material, thin and coarse and loose-fitting; his bed was a plank of wood on damp ground. His companions were the starving.

Janusz became used to raving hunger once more. He dreamt of great plates of sauerkraut, sausages, boiled pork and pickles, with coriander seeds mixed in. And often he dreamt of when he was nine years old, of the night his father had stolen the tiny pig, how his family had feasted, the park lasting for days, thin soup made from the bones lasting even longer. He would wake from the dream in the darkness of the night, his sunken eyes wide and staring, the succulent memory vanquishing the moans and smells around him in the rough hut. He would remember other details of that clandestine night, and juices would run from his open mouth.

Time passed and Janusz mentally sank into himself just as his flesh physically sank into his bones. Yet there was ever one bright, although tormenting, light far him. Unlike many of his fellow internees far whom food had become almost an abstract thing- they still craved it, still licked their bawls which had often contained only watery, meatless soup, a piece of black bread and sawdust; but the less they were fed, the more unreal to them became true sustenance—he never relinquished that one glorious memory of his family's night feast all those years ago. It became an obsession with him. And oddly, a driving force.

Where others slowly drifted down into their own private abysses of despair, Janusz's thoughts constantly stretched towards his vision, perhaps as a drowning man might reach for a swooping seagull.

He worked as hard for his gaolers as his enfeebled body would allow (and with considerably more eagerness than on his father's farm) and was never averse to mentioning any subversive talk he might hear in the barrack huts during the night, always willing to point out potential troublemakers to the German guards. He became a pariah among the prisoners for, although they could only guess he was an informer, it was his readiness to serve the Third Reich beasts that he was hated for. Fortunately for him, there was too much dread in their hearts and too much passion sapped from their souls for them to take vengeance.

Then one day, Janusz and two dozen or so others were marched from the camp to a hillside that was used for mass executions. They were instructed to wait beside several open pits.

The number of Unerwunschte-undesirables' as the Nazis referred to Jews—was too many to count (years after the nightmare Janusz could not remember if there had been hundreds or if there had been thousands) as they were lined up before the pits in groups. There they were machine-gunned, most of the bodies toppling into the open graves. It was the task of the working party to throw in those who had fallen the wrong way, then arrange the bodies so that the next batch could be heaped in on top. When the pile reached a certain level, they were to cover the pit with lime and soil. Before that was done though, there was a special job to perform for a chosen few. Janusz was one of the chosen.

An SS captain provided Janusz and three companions with pliers and short blunted knives; their orders were to pull any gold teeth they could find among the corpses and to cut off any rings that had not already been confiscated.

This was no shock for Janusz, because his mind had long since decided to protect him from such traumas. He crawled among the still warm corpses, giving them no more regard than if they were freshly slaughtered livestock. Dead meat. That's all this great tumble of arms and legs was. White carcasses.

Some still pink-coloured. Like the little pig . . .

No one was watching as he lifted the hand of the plump woman, the flesh of her finger swollen over the rim of her gold ring. The Gestapo had been merciful: they hadn't cut the jewellery from her while she was still alive. He sawed at the finger. No one was paying any attention. He slid the ring off. And drew meat from the fingerbone with his teeth. He swallowed. The woman's eyes opened. She looked at him and he fought to keep the bloodied morsel down. It lodged in his throat as life went from the woman's eyes. He swallowed again, once, twice. The meat was accepted.

That was the real beginning of Janusz Palusinski's survival. He had found a food supply. He was filled neither with joy nor shame, merely relief that he had a means to exist.

Exist he did, even though he was violently ill for days after that first eating of human flesh; his stomach was not accustomed to such richness. He was lucky to recover, for his general weakness might have allowed permanent damage. But Janusz was resilient, if nothing else. From then on he was more cautious about how much he cut from the piled corpses, often concealing small segments in his loose clothing to be consumed late at night beneath his thin blanket. The amount he was able to eat was never enough to have any marked effect on his physique, and that was fortunate, for such a change would have been easily noticed amidst the walking skeletons of the Majdanek concentration camp. But it was sufficient to strengthen him and thus renew his desire to survive.

Disaster, for him, came months later when for no apparent reason he was taken off the burial detail.

Perhaps the German soldiers themselves had grown sick of his eagerness to crawl among the dead, or perhaps they felt he had become too privileged. Whatever the reason, Janusz's specialist services were no longer required. His condition deteriorated rapidly with no regular sustenance.

He became as the others of the camp, a shuffling corpse, eyes enlarged as his skin shrivelled, his bones jutting with deep hollows between. He began to have fits of coughing that drained him of any strength he had left, and bloodspots speckled his palm when he took his hand away from his mouth. Delirium soon followed. Finally he was moved to a but where those who were dying were left without food or care, their passing hastened by lack of both.

He had no idea of how long he had lain there, it could have been days, it might only have been hours.

But something had drawn his senses towards one focal point. It was a smell. Familiar. From the past. He stared into the greyness above and his tongue ran across dry, cracked lips, failing to moisten them. He drew up his knees as hunger cramped his stomach and his head lolled listlessly when the pain passed.

That faint smell, what was it? So familiar. He was a boy again, and he stood in the centre of the room watching a door. Mamusia and Tatus had shut him out. They always did when they did things to each other, unless they thought he was sleeping. He could hear them laughing, and then he could hear them moaning as if they were hurting one another. But one night, when they thought he was asleep, he had watched them across the bedroom . . . and hadn't liked what he saw . . . but had wanted to be part of it

. . . to enjoy the game with them, to be hurt in the same way . . . but he knew it was forbidden . . . The faint smell. The boy looked towards the table, towards the source. The meat was dark red, blood seeping onto the rough wooden surface. He moved closer.

Janusz recognised the odour of raw liver. But it wasn't possible. He was no longer a child and this place was not his home. No, this was the death hut. The smell though. It was here. There was raw liver somewhere nearby. His smile made his lips bleed.

For the first time he heard the dull moans and they were around him, not from behind a closed door.

And the smell was with the moans.

He let his head fall to one side and in the pre-dawn light saw the shapeless bundle next to him. There was hardly anything left of the man, and he barely moved. But the smell was from him and it was mouth-watering. Janusz's arm trembled when he reached towards the figure.

The man was not sleeping, nor was he really conscious. He was near death and that proximity was comforting for him. Most of the pain had gone to some distant point, so far away it could scarcely be felt.

He sunk further within himself and realised that the journey inwards was the way to final peace. Yet something was moving him, interrupting his floating descent. Something was caressing his stomach. Pain was coming close once more, and the man did not want that. He tried to protest, but a murmur that was only a sigh was all the sound he managed. Sharp agony now. And something hard covering his mouth and nose, stopping any more sighs, any more breathing. The agony increased as something gnawed into his belly and he was too feeble to protest further. But the pain was becoming dulled, bliss was washing through him, for his senses were leaving and he, at long last, was leaving with them and it was good, so ultimately good.

No one went near the but that day, nor the next. No corpses were taken away, no more of the dying were dumped inside. It was to be five days before the door of the Majdanek death but was opened again, and then by Russian soldiers, for this was the summer of 1944 and the German invaders were being driven from Poland.

The Russians, already hardened by their own suffering in the terrible war, and by the atrocities they had witnessed during the march across their neighbouring country, were sickened by what they found inside the hut. Only one man was still alive and he, understandably, was demented by what had happened around him. He lay on a floor that was filled with corpses. Many had been mutilated, for it seemed rats had found their way inside and fed off his dead and dying compatriots.

Unfortunately for the Polish people, once the Russians had occupied their country they felt no compunction to leave. Poland came under Communist control, and oppression, although never as severe as under Nazi rule, remained the norm. Again farmers and factory workers found themselves working for the State rather than for themselves, with the government dictating at what rates produce should be sold.

Janusz Palusinski, who bore the indelible mark of German brutality on his wrist and never failed to let the tattoo show on any occasion that sympathy might help better his cause, came to thrive under the system, for scrounging and self-interest was the ideal apprenticeship for a black-marketeer. It took him a full year to recover from his treatment by the Nazis (although a whole lifetime would never erase the damage to his psyche) but his will to survive at all costs had been enhanced rather than depleted. He did not return to his father's farm for two reasons: he was not sure of the reception he would get from the villagers who must have known that it was he who had betrayed the partisans and those who helped them; he had no desire to become a farmer once more. During the year of recuperation, most of which took place in a small hospital just outside Lukow, he read through the published crimes of the Nazi regime, always searching for mention of his own village, and one day he came across what he had been looking for.

Listed were the names of locals and villagers who had been shot for giving aid to the underground movement. A hundred and thirty-two people were on that list, his parents among them. Even now, when concern for his own wellbeing was no longer acute, he felt no remorse, not even for the fate of his own mother. Such emotion, never strong within him anyway, had been entirely eradicated over the last few years.

As time passed, life began to flourish for Janusz, who took to the illegal trade he dealt in as if born to it.

He supplied goods-hungry farmers and food-hungry manufacturers with wh they desired, trade between the two factions being lucrative to the middle-man. But he always operated in a small way in those early years, never wishing to rise in fortune so much that became visible to the authorities.

Janusz could have survived very comfortably under the Communist system, except that the older he grew the more he ppered and the more he prospered, the greedier he became.

He bought a four-storey house in the suburbs of Lodz and, as front which legitimately enabled him to visit farmers arou the country, he maintained a small farm equipment spare-part workshop. Middle-age had softened his caution though, and went against his own basic rule. He had gained too much and was no longer invisible.

The authorities began to take an interest in the activities Janusz Palusinski. His spare-parts business was discreetly roves gated and it was found that the profits derived from it by no means accounted for the relative luxury the owner appeared to be living in. His movements were watched. Party officials came to his house to question him. His answers were not entirely satisfactory. Th took away all documents found in his home, warning him th would return as soon as the papers had been thoroughly studied and that he was to keep himself available until such time. Janus stole away that same night, taking with him what little cash he had and leaving behind his automobile, knowing how easy it was for the authorities to trace any vehicle on the roads of Poland. He left the city on foot, sleeping in cheap lodging houses at night, travelling by bus during the day, too afraid even to take trains. His journey led him towards the north, in the direction of the great forests. He had no idea why, panic and self-preservation driving him onwards without calculation, only instinct telling him that the dark forests were a place to lose oneself and to be lost to others. He was aware of the severe punishment dealt to those caught trading on the black market and was sure that his mind would never stand another term of imprisonment—too many dreadful memories would have been rekindled. There was no grand plan to his escape, no considered scheme for invisibility once more. Janusz fled merely because he had no other choice.

Because of the furtive manner in which his journey progressed, it took him several weeks to reach the mediaeval town of Grudziadz, and by then his money had nearly run out. A basic plan had formed though an idea that took no details into account. He would make for the Baltic seaport of Gdynia, avoiding nearby Gdansk where too many merchants knew him. There he would bribe his way onto a boat. He didn't care where his passage took him, just so long as it was far away from this accursed country and its oppressively authoritarian government which constantly hindered entrepreneurs such as he. The problem now was money. lie had barely fifty zlotys left and such a secret voyage would prove expensive.

Late at night Janusz went to the home of Wiktor Svandova, in Grudziadz, a particular businessman with whom he'd had many dealings in the past.

But Janusz had not reckoned on Svandova's respect for (or fear of) the State. The business associate ordered Janusz from his home, threatening to call in the police if he didn't leave at once. The fugitive reasoned with Svandova, cajoled, pleaded, even wept before him; he only produced the short metal bar he carried inside his greatcoat when Svandova strode to his desk and reached for the telephone. The first blow struck the businessman across the left temple, but amazingly he was able to stagger to the door, with Janusz following and beating at the back of his head and shoulders as he went. He threw open the door and even managed to scream out his wife's name before collapsing to his knees while his assailant continued to rain blows on him. At last, and to Janusz's great relief, Svandova pitched forward onto his face, blood from his broken head instantly flooding the hallway. Janusz ran from the house when the dead man's wife began screeching from the top of the stairway. He knew she had recognised him and he had it in mind to climb the stairs and silence her forever too; but other figures had appeared behind her, presumably Svandova's sons, and Janusz had no desire to battle it out with them.

He left the city, heading north once again, cursing his bad luck and his business associate's foolishness.

He was now a fugitive from a far more serious crime and every endeavour would be made by the police to capture him.

For nearly three months Janusz eluded them, the northern forests swallowing him up completely, bestowing upon him the invisibility he craved. But autumn was turning to winter and even the extra clothing he had stolen to wear under his greatcoat could not prevent the chill reaching his bones.

Food—the roots and nuts he found, the turnips and beetroots, and potatoes he dug from farmers' fields late at night, the small animals he occasionally was able to trap and kill—already scarce was becoming even more so. Yet again Janusz became intimately acquainted with terribl hunger. When stealing from farms—odd items of clothing cam from outside washing lines—he yearned to come across a pig pen dreamt of reaching in and pulling out a piglet, just as his fath had all those years ago. When he slept he dreamed of his family' feast, when he had watched the roasting pig, making sure t meat wasn't burned black. He awoke many times with the d licious smell still in his nostrils and before reality edged it away a more subtle aroma would become dominant . .

His heavy beard was matted and dirty and Janusz may ha appeared plump, but only layers of clothing created the illusio for beneath them his flesh was hollowed between the bones, j as it had been in the years when Germans had occupied hi country. He had plodded for two days through the snow-lade forest, sheltering where he could, cramming any foliage he cool find into his mouth and chomping until it was mulched enoug for him to digest. He even pulled pieces of bark from trees to gnaw on.

The policjareci had been waiting for him at the last farmhous he had attempted to rob; he had remained in one area for too long, the stealing becoming more than just an annoyance to th locals. A trap had been set for him and only blind panic had le him the strength to outrun his pursuers. Now it was only stomac pains that drove him on.

Janusz saw the column of smoke rising above the treetop and stumbled off in that direction. He came upon a small, log house in a clearing. His weary legs barely got him to the frontdoor. Isis fist made the faintest of sounds when he pounded on the wood.

The woodsman caught him as he tell inside and dragged him over to the fire. He called for his wife to warm some sok and bring it to the half-frozen man while he loosened the unfortunate's clothing. They were kind to this wretched wayfarer, even though suspicious, and they did their utmost to revive him.

After a while, when he was able to sit at the table and sip more of the warm brew, they tried to question him, but his replies were incoherent, his voice rambling. They soon realised the man was crazed with hunger and exhaustion. And the wife was uneasy at the way he kept staring at their twelve-year-old daughter who sat quietly in the corner watching everything with a wide-eyed expression on her plump little face, her skin pink and unblemished in the glow from the fire.

Janusz repaid their kindness by killing them all. He used his trusty metal bar to batter the man unconscious as he stooped to put another log on the fire, and a breadknife quickly grabbed from the table to cut all their throats.

When the two policjanci who had been following his tracks through the forest burst in less than an hour later, he had already started to eat the woodsman's daughter.

In one respect Janusz was lucky. The officers were fresh enough in their careers not yet to have witnessed the worst of criminal brutality and nor were they old enough to comprehend the true barbarism of the Nazi occupation during the last World War. When they saw what had become of the woodsman and his wife, when they realised that what their quarry was stuffing into his mouth was from the child's open belly, they were too shocked—too revolted—to move.

The madness in Janusz, further incited by the excitement of his deed, overcame the fatigue that was still with him; he threw the breadknife at one uniformed intruder and rushed screaming at the other. The vision of this wildman, his body puffed up by the layers of clothing he wore, mouth and beard daubed with blood, eyes huge and crazed, would have frozen the bravest of men, and the two policjanci had thus far won no service awards for gallantry. Neither of them could help but cringe away.

One was pushed back against the wall while the other scrambled to retrieve his rifle, dropped when he had dodged the thrown knife. The thief they had tracked so many miles was through the door and out in the snow again, scurrying back into the trees as a single shot was fired at him. The bullet chipped the top of his right collarbone but, despite the agonising ,jolt, he did not stop running. Nightfall helped cloak his escape.

Soon the gunshots behind him grew fainter and Janusz was both laughing and weeping as he scrambled up a slope. He toppled over the ridge and rolled down the other side, giggling and crying out as he went.

He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, spreadeagled on his back, half-buried in snow and his chest heaving with exertion.

He stayed that way for some time, his breathing gradually slowing as he listened for his pursuers. Their voices came from high above him and soon drifted away again, the darkness now concealing the trail of disturbed snow he had left behind. He had lost them. He had got away. He giggled once more and licked his lips, the taste still strong on his tongue.

Janusz waited a little while longer before rising to his knees.

He was instantly blinded by dazzling white light.

Russian tanks were strategically positioned in many sectors of Poland, never obtrusively, but usually in areas where their threat could be felt rather than continually observed. The soldiers who manned them were highly disciplined and never mingled with the community; but they were always on standby, ready to move against insurgence at a moment's notice. Perpetually bored by their low-profile assignment, the tank crews were eager for any distraction that might come their way. They had observed the dark figure tumbling down the hillside and patiently waited for it to move again once it reached the bottom. When it did, they switched on their tank lights as one.

Janusz screamed in terror. He stumbled away, not caring in which direction he ran, his only thought to be out of that intense glare as quickly as possible. The two policjants, alerted by the abrupt flaring of light, turned back.

Never had Janusz felt so naked, so visible. There was nothing he could see, nothing but blinding light, and he felt like a specimen exposed on a scientist's slab. He crashed into a tree, tasted his own blood rushing into his mouth. He staggered away, hands to his face. Then onwards, refusing to allow pain to stop him, too afraid to let it.

He was hurtling downwards again, over and over, this slope much steeper than the previous one. He shrieked when his damaged shoulder struck something solid. He was no longer falling, the surface flat and hard beneath him.

Janusz sobbed with self-pity. He was lost now. He no longer had the strength to run. They had him and they would punish him for the wicked things he had done.

He raised his head. The lights had found him. They were coming close, exposing him in the roadway as if he were some helpless animal, broken-limbed and prey to anything that should come along. Janusz tried to shield his eyes against the blaze, but there was no strength left in his arms.

The light was almost upon him. He waited in despair.

But now the bright beams were passing him, shining beyond. He blinked and it took an eternity for his eyes to discern the big black car that had drawn up alongside his prone body. The engine was still quietly running and nothing happened for a while. Then a rear door opened.

“Moge cie zrobic niewidzialnym, Janusz,' a soft voice said from within. 'I can make you invisible.' (And in a way, Kline did make him invisible.)

24 CORA'S ANGUISH

'Why jackals, for God's sake? There are plenty of other breeds that make better guard dogs.' Halloran had craned his neck round to look through the black limousine's rear window, halfexpecting to see shadowy shapes back on the roadway.

Palusinski shrugged, then gave a short laugh, his eyes becoming small behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wore. 'Perhaps Felix cares for the underdog.' He laughed again, enjoying his joke.

Halloran faced the front. 'I've never heard of trained jackals before.'

'All animals can be trained, moj kolega. As can all men.'

'I thought they were nocturnal, yet I saw one roaming in daylight yesterday.'

'They prefer night hunting, but even inherent habits can be changed. The dogs obey their master.'

'Kline?'

'Ah no.' Palusinski's foot gently touched the brake pedal as they gathered speed on the hill. The lights of Neath were like a beacon against the leaden slopes behind. 'Even an old dog such as I has learned some new tricks over the past two days. Your driving instructor teaches well.'

'Let's hope you never have to use those techniques.' The older man nodded. 'I am informed that you, yourself, had to do so yesterday.' Halloran made no comment. 'How long have you been employed by Felix Kline, Mr Palusinski?' he asked instead.

'Please, you may call me Janusz. Rest assured, I bear you no ill-will for your rough treatment of me two nights ago. I appreciate that you were merely pointing out the weakness of our defence. And there was no pain at the time, only an aching of the neck muscles afterwards. A skilful blow, sir, if I may say so.'

'Pity your partner can't forgive as easily.'

'Monk? An animal. A beast. It would be prudent to watch yourself with that one. Now, as to your question, I'm sure your company has access to the files on all of us. You must know how long I have been in Felix's employ.'

'Those files are pretty vague. They give no account of length of service.'

'I see. And you are curious, naturally.' The car pulled up behind the silver Mercedes at the front of the house. 'Felix brought me from Poland some years ago,' Palusinski said as he switched off the engine.

'Fourteen or fifteen years ago, I think.' Halloran was startled and about to question the Pole further, but Palusinski was already getting out of the car. 'Wait,' he said, and the older man bent down to look back inside. 'How old is Kline?' Halloran asked.

Palusinski smiled, his eyes narrowing behind the spectacles. 'Felix is older than you would imagine, sir.'

Then he was gone, walking around the front of the car towards the house.

Halloran quietly tapped on the door and waited. He was tired and that was due to more than just the lateness of the hour. There was a tension about this house that had little to do with any kidnap threat. Yet the day before there had been a stillness in Neatly a brooding heaviness which dragged at the spirit. That had now given way to a peculiar atmosphere of instability and he could almost feel a charge in the air, as if the building itself had been roused by the visitors like some slumbering monolith disturbed into a tensed wariness. He pushed the fanciful idea aside. A house was a house, bricks and mortar, timber and glass.

The events of the day and the unpredictability of his client were having an adverse effect on him. That Dieter Stuhr was still missing -Mather had phoned Halloran an hour before to inform him of this-added to his general unease for, as the Shield Organiser, the German was at the hub of an ongoing operation.

Nothing seemed right about this particular assignment.

He raised a hand to tap on the door again, but stopped when he heard the lock click from the inside.

Cora looked out at him.

'I wondered if you were okay,' he said, then added: 'You weren't at dinner.' Her hair was damp around her face as if she'd just stepped from the bath or shower. 'I wasn't hungry,' she told him.

'Nor was anyone else. I ate alone.' He was silent for a moment, waiting for some response from her.

When none came, he said, 'Can we talk?' Hesitation, then: 'I'm sorry, I'm acting like a stranger to you.'

She opened the door wide and stood aside so that he could enter, their roles reversed from the previous night.

He rested a hand against the doorframe. 'I didn't know .

'Come in, Liam. Please.' He entered the room and saw that it was bigger and more comfortable than his own. One half contained a small sofa and armchair, a coffee table in between, an antique writing bureau by the wall; the other side was occupied by a four-poster bed, bedside cabinet and dressing table, and a wardrobe of cavernous proportions. An open door led off and he assumed this was to an en suite bathroom. The curtains at the windows were drawn closed, which seemed unnecessary considering Neath's remote location.

Cora shut the door behind him and went to a table. 'Can I offer you a drink?' she asked, adjusting the belt of the white towelling robe she wore. 'Oh no, I forgot. You're always on duty, aren't you? I suppose you won't be surprised if I have one.' She poured herself some wine from a bottle on the table and settled back in the sofa, drawing her legs up under her.

'Why the antagonism, Cora? After last night = He stopped when she bowed her head as if the words had stung her.

'Have I disillusioned you?' There was scorn in her voice. 'I drink too much, I make love in an odd fashion, I'm subservient to a man who's half-mad, half-genius. I can imagine what you think of me.'

Halloran sat next to her, their bodies touching. 'The only thing I can't figure out is what you really drink.'

Cora had to smile. 'Whatever happens to be on offer,' she replied with only a hint of sullenness. She sipped the wine and he noticed the bottle level was down to the last quarter. 'Did I shock you last night?'

Cora asked, looking into her glass.

'Sure,' he answered.

She looked up sharply.

'I'd be a liar if I said I didn't enjoy it, though,' Halloran added.

'He made me do it.'

'What?'

'He made me go to your room.' She reached for the bottle and topped up her wine glass, even though it was still half-full. 'Felix told me to go to you last night.' Halloran was stunned. 'I don't understand.'

'He ordered me to seduce you. I don't know why. Perhaps he was testing you in some way. Or testing me. Perhaps he got some kind of kick out of it, finding another way to degrade me, turn me into a whore.'

'Why should he want to do that?'

'Felix enjoys corrupting people. But it's too soon for you to have realised that.'

'Cora, this doesn't make sense.'

'You already know there's no sense to any of this, Liam. Why persist in looking for it? I'm sorry if I've bruised your ego, but the truth is I was merely obeying instructions last night.' Her hand was shaking and she quickly drank to prevent the wine spilling over. She glanced at him and was surprised to find him smiling still, but this time that coldness was there, the glint of cruelness that somehow was constantly lurking beneath his surface manner.

'Maybe Kline wanted me kept busy,' he said.

She caught her breath. He was right. For reasons of her own—reasons that were unclear even to herself—Cora had wanted to hurt Liam, to break through that aura of sureness. But there was more to it than that. She had wanted him, had wanted him to make love to her, had gone to him willingly as if . . .

Cora struggled to crystallise the thought . . . as if he might be her . . . saviour? Redeemer? Oh God, what a fool she was. Even then, when he had been inside her, it wasn't enough. She'd needed something more, much more. And they'd had to make love a different way so that she could achieve her own satisfaction.

Felix had reduced her to that, made her a creature of sensations rather than emotions. And she'd despised Liam for this also, for she had allowed him to see her for what she was. Tonight she had tried to hurt him, but he had turned it around. It was she who had been humiliated further.

'Please go, Liam,' she said, her voice brittle.

'Oh no, not yet. Not yet, Cora.' That faint Irishness to his voice again. How strange that it should make him sound so dangerous.

'I want you to leave.' Instead he took the glass from her hand.

'I don't know what game it is you all think you're playing,' he said quietly, 'and honestly, I don't much care. But at least there's something more to you, Cora, something that megalomaniac hasn't touched yet.

I don't know how he's managed to bring you to this point, but I do know you've kept a part of yourself away from him. You were different the first time I saw you, and I think it was because I was seeing you the way you used to be, the way you can still be.'

'There's nothing left for -' He touched his fingers to her lips. 'You're wrong.' His own lips replaced his hand and she tried to turn away. He held her firm and kissed her, hurting her.

Cora sank into the sofa and pushed at his chest. She didn't want this. He wasn't the man to take her from Felix. They were alike, Felix and Liam. Cruel men. Vicious men. That was why Felix was fascinated by him. They were akin.

He was hurting her, and there was pleasure in that. But she mustn't let him, she couldn't let him . . .

Halloran grabbed her wrist and pulled it aside. She was lying on the sofa now, the robe open beneath the belt, exposing her thighs. He continued to kiss her, his mouth hard against hers, and when she finally wrenched her head away, his lips sank to her neck and he bit, but used no strength. Cora moaned, partly out of self-pity and partly out of self-disgust, for feelings were being aroused in her.

'Please don't,' she tried to say, but Halloran had pulled the robe away from her breasts. He lowered his head to them. 'I don't want this!' she hissed, but his hand was on her thigh, pressing firmly, then gliding down to her knee, reaching behind, touching delicate nerve-points. His weight was on her, pinning her, and he used his body to part her legs. Still she protested, squirming against him, her fingers clenched on his shoulders. She could have clawed him, or pulled his hair, or bit him. But she didn't.

He sank to the floor, kneeling before her, keeping his body between her legs. Her robe had fallen open completely, the belt loose around her waist, and Halloran deftly undid his own clothing. He entered her, the movement hard and quick, causing her to cry out even though she was moist, ready for him despite her resistance. His lips found hers once more and this time she did not refuse him; the force of her kiss matched his.

Her arms reached around him, drawing him tight, and now Halloran groaned, a soft murmur that excited her. Cora's legs were rigid against his hips and she thrust herself forward, letting him fill her, wanting more, crying for more, her breathing tight and her arms trembling. Cora's cries turned into gasps and Halloran's hands went under and around her shoulders so that he could pull her down onto him, his own thrusts controlled and rhythmic. But that restraint was soon overwhelmed and he twisted his face into Cora's wet hair and she arched her neck, pushing her head back into the cushions, her hips almost rising off the sofa, clutching at him as their juices surged to mix inside her body. Her cry was sharp, trailing to a whimper, their bodies shuddering together, slowly calming to a trembling, eventually relaxing to a stillness.

They lay there, neither one willing to separate.

Halloran felt the wetness on his cheek and lifted his head to look at Cora. She was weeping and when he tried to speak she pulled him down against her. His arm slid beneath her neck and he held her tightly.

They stayed that way until her weeping stopped, neither one saying anything, feeling no need to, content to rest with each other. Cora loved the feel of him inside her, even though he was soft now, and she ran her fingers beneath his shirt, caressing his spine. Halloran raised himself without withdrawing and lifted her legs onto the sofa. He lay on top, brushing his mouth across her face, kissing her eyes, her temples, her cheeks, passion subdued, replaced by tenderness.

'You don't know what he's done to me,' she said.

'None of that matters,' he soothed.

She sighed, a sweet sound, when she felt him becoming hard again. They made love slowly this time, their movement sensuous, almost languid, sensing each other in a different, more perfect, way. Their passion grew but was unleashed easily, a flowing then gently ebbing release.

As before, they remained locked together for some time and, when at last Halloran withdrew, it was with reluctance. He adjusted his clothing, then sat on the floor, an elbow resting on the sofa where Cora was still stretched. He leaned forward to kiss her lips, his hand smoothing away the damp hair from her face.

'Liam . . .' she began to say, but he shook his head and smiled.

'No need, Cora. We'll talk tomorrow. Tonight just think about what's happened between us.' He stroked her body, fingertips tracing a line over her breasts down to her stomach, running into the cleft between her thighs.

Her arms went around his shoulders and she studied his eyes, her expression grave. 'I need to know more about you, can't you see that?'

'In time,' he said.

'Is it possible for me to trust you? There's something . ' she frowned, struggling to find the word '. . .

dark about you, Liam. and I can't understand what it is. There's a remoteness in you that's frightening. I felt it the first time we met.' He began to rise, but Cora held on to him.

'I told you yesterday,' he said. 'I'm what you see, no, more than that.'

'It's what I feel in you that scares me.'

'I often deal with violent people, Cora. It can't help but have an effect on me.'

'You've become the same as them? Is that what you're saying?' He shook his head. 'It isn't that simple.'

'Then try to explain.' There was exasperation in her demand.

He began to rise again and this time her arms dropped away. 'In my trade violence usually has to be met with violence,' he said, looking down at her. 'It's sometimes the only way.'

'Doesn't that corrupt you? Doesn't that make you the same as them?'

'Maybe,' he replied.

She pulled at her robe, covering her nakedness.

Halloran walked to the door and paused there. 'It's when you start to enjoy the corruption that you know you're in trouble.' He went out, quietly closing the door after him.

Leaving Cora to weep alone.

Halloran washed himself in a bathroom along the hall before returning to his room. Once there, he hung his jacket over a bedpost and took the gun from its holster, placing it on the bedside cabinet. He removed his shoes this time, set the small alarm clock, and lay on the bed. The curtains were apart, but moonlight was feeble again that night and barely lit the room. Despite the fact that there was an extra bodyguard on duty inside the house, Halloran would only allow himself four hours' rest, intending to check on Monk and Palusinski during their individual watches, scouting Neath and the immediate outside area in between. Cora had taken up nearly an hour of his rest period. And a lot of energy.

He shut his eyes and remembered the hurt on her face as he'd left the room.

A brightness flashed beyond his eyelids.

Halloran opened his eyes again. The room was in darkness. Had he imagined the sudden flare?

It came once more, filling the room like a lightning flash. Yet no rumble of thunder followed.

He quickly moved from the bed, going to the window. He peered out into the night. A muted white glow marked the moon's presence behind a bank of clouds, the ragged-edged, mountainous shapes barely moving, the landscape below blurred and ill-defined. The lake was a huge flat greyness that appeared solid, as if its depths were of concrete.

Halloran blinked as the light flared again. The source was the lake itself, an emanation from its surface.

And in that brief light he had seen forms on the water, black silhouettes that were human. Or so he assumed.

He rolled back over the bed, pulled on his shoes, and grabbed his gun. Halloran headed for the stairs.

25 LAKE LIGHT

Monk should have been on guard duty. But the main hall was empty.

Halloran wasted no time searching for him; he switched off the hall lights, then opened one side of the frontdoors just enough to slip through. He was disturbed that the door had been left unlocked. His steps were barely audible as he hurried through the stone-floored porch, and he stopped only briefly once out in the open.

The lake was nothing more than a broad expanse, slightly lighter than its surrounds.

Halloran holstered the Browning and moved off, quickly edging along the frontage of the house, using it as a dark backdrop against which it would be difficult to be seen, his intention being to approach the lake from an angle rather than in a direct line from the main door. Once at the corner he made a crouching dash towards the lawn. Instinctively he dropped to the ground when light flared from the lake again. He blinked his eyes rapidly, feeling conspicuous and vulnerable lying there on the damp grass. But imprinted on his mind was the image the sudden brightness had exposed.

There was a boat out there, three or four figures huddled together in its confined space. They were watching something that was outside the boat, on the lake itself. Something that was not in the water but on the surface.

The vision dissolved as his eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. He stiffened when a howling came from the shoreline to his right, an eerie, desolate cry in the night. It was followed by a collective ululation, the baying of wolves—or jackals—a fearful sound wending across the water. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to see them among the indistinct shapes of trees and shrubbery that edged the side of the lake.

He thought he could make out the jackals, although it might only have been a clump of low foliage, for there was no movement. Halloran rose to one knee.

And again was temporarily blinded by a fulguration from the lake.

It had come from below the water, expanding across the surface, a silvery-white luminance swiftly expanding across the flat surface, its extremities shading to indigo and the deepest mauve. The illumination lasted only a second or so, but there was time for Halloran to observe the jackals gathered there at the water's edge. The glare had frozen them. Their heads, with long pointed muzzles and erect ears, stood high from their shoulders, cocked in alertness and perhaps puzzlement. At least a dozen pairs of glowing orbs, set in irregular pattern, reflected the light.

Darkness, total after the glare. But again an impression lingering. Halloran had seen someone standing among the beasts. A bent figure, a cowl concealing its features. Whoever it was had been watching the lake.

Halloran heard a voice—no, laughter—and his attention was diverted to the boat. He had recognised the dry cackle of Felix Kline, the sound amplified across the water. Halloran rose to his feet and moved forward at speed, keeping low, taking the gun from its holster as he went.

He could make out the landing jetty ahead and noted that the boat he and Kline had used that morning was no longer moored there. Did Kline enjoy a night-time boat-ride as well as an early morning one? Or had he been forced into a trip not of his choosing, the lake making an obvious route to avoid the guard dogs? But he had heard Kline laughing, hardly the attitude of someone being kidnapped. Nevertheless, Halloran did not relax. If they moved any further away he would get to a car and be ready to meet them on the opposite bank at the estate's border. He would also have a chance to call in back-up on the journey.

There was no cover this close to the shoreline, so Halloran moved back a ways, then spreadeagled himself on the ground, his gun pointing towards the dull shape on the lake. He waited and yet again was dazzled by another vast spasm of light. The intervals between had not been regular in length, so there was no way of preparing himself for each surge. The light vanished instantly, neither fading nor receding, snuffed like a candle flame. He rubbed at his eyelids, disbelieving what he had seen, telling himself there had to be a simple explanation, that he hadn't been able to take in everything during that short burst of light. Reason reassured him, but the after-image refused to compromise.

Halloran had seen four men in the boat—Palusinski, Monk and the two Jordanians. Kline had not been with them.

He was several yards away. He had been standing on the calm surface of the water.

Halloran shook his head, resisting the urge to laugh at the absurdity. There had to be something else out there just below the water level, a sandbank, a submerged platform, perhaps even a large rock. There was a logical explanation. Had to be. It was in Kline's nature to play such childish games. But surely they would have come across such an obstruction when he, himself, had rowed out there that very morning?

In the distance the jackals howled, the sound further away this time, as though they were leaving the shoreline to slink back into the wooded slopes. He heard oars swishing on water. Voices. Drawing close to the jetty. He waited for them all to disembark before getting to his feet and going towards them.

Moonlight squeezed through the merest rent in the clouds and the group came to a halt when they caught sight of Halloran.

'No need for weapons,' Kline said, humour in his voice. 'No enemies among us tonight, Halloran.'

'What the hell were you doing out there?' The question was quietly put, Halloran's anger suppressed.

'I'm not a prisoner in my own home,' Kline replied jovially. 'I do as I please.'

'Not if you expect me to protect you.'

'There's no danger tonight.' Moonlight broke through with greater force and he saw that Kline was grinning at him.

'The light from the water . . .?' Khayed and Daoud, dressed in the robes of their country, grinned as broadly as their master, while Palusinski glanced anxiously at Kline. Monk remained expressionless.

Kline's eyebrows arched uncomprehendingly. Then: 'Ah, the lightning flashes. Yes, there seems to be quite an electrical storm raging above us tonight. With thunder soon to follow, no doubt. And then, of course, a deluge. Best not to linger out here, don't you agree?' Once again his manner had changed.

Kline's disposition had become that of an older, more reasoning man, the insidious mocking still in his voice, but his tone softer, less strident. His persona was vibrant, as if brimming with energy, though not of the nervous—and neurotic—kind that Halloran had become used to.

'You weren't in the boat,' Halloran said almost cautiously.

There was elation in Kline's laughter. 'I'm not one for moonlight dips, I can assure you.' Palusinski snickered.

'I saw you . . . on the water.'

'On the water?' Kline asked incredulously, continuing to smile. 'You mean walking on the water? Like Jesus Christ?' Halloran did not reply.

'I see you've been hallucinating again, Halloran. Something in this lake obviously doesn't agree with your mental processes.' The Arabs chuckled behind their hands.

'I really think you should be resting,' Kline went on in mock-sympathy. 'The strain of the last couple of days is apparently affecting your judgement. Or should I say, your perception? I can't say I'm not surprised, Halloran. After all, you did come highly recommended as a bodyguard. I wonder if your employers realise that stress is getting the better of you.' At last even Monk smiled.

The clouds resumed their dominance and the landscape darkened once more.

'I think we should talk,' Halloran said evenly, ignoring the stifled sounds of mirth coming from Kline's followers (for that was what they were, he had decided, not just employees, but in some way, disciples of this strange man).

'But you should be sleeping. Isn't this your off-duty period? That's why we chose not to disturb you—we are perfectly aware that someone under your kind of pressure needs his rest.'

'Monk and Palusinski had instructions to alert me to any activity, no matter what time it was.'

'A late-night excursion on the lake was hardly worth rousing you for.'

'I gave them orders.'

'And I countermanded those orders.'

'My company can't function under those conditions. Tomorrow I'll recommend the contract is cancelled, or at least that I'm taken off the assignment. There's too much going an here that I don't like.'

'No.' At least the mood had been broken; Kline's tone was sharp, urgent. 'You mustn't do that. I need you with me.'

'You might need Shield, but you don't need me. There are other operatives equally as goad.' He tucked the automatic back into its holster and turned to walk away.

'Wait.' Kline had taken a step after him and Halloran paused.

'I suppose I'm being a little unfair,' the smaller man said, and immediately something of his 'other' self was in evidence, almost as though it were another guise. 'You're right, we should have let you know we were coming out here, should've brought you along for safety. But it was a spur of the moment thing, y'know, something I felt like doing. I didn't see any need to worry you.'

'That doesn't explain why you went on the lake. Nor does it explain the light. Or what I saw.'

'Look at those clouds. Just study them for awhile.'

'That isn't nec = A flash of light stopped him. He gazed skywards. Another, fainter, discharge of energy, but enough to throw the tumbled cloud into relief. 'That isn't what happened before. The light came from the lake.'

'Reflections, that's all. It bounced off the water's surface. The lake's calm tonight, just like a big mirror.'

A stuttered glare from above lit the group of men standing before him, hardening them into statues, bleaching their faces white. In the distance, as if to confirm Kline's explanation, came a deep rumbling of thunder.

'Let's get inside before the rain comes,' Kline suggested.

'I saw -'

'You were mistaken.' There was a firmness to the statement. 'We'll go back to the house, Halloran, and I'll tell you a few things about myself, about this place. You'll find it interesting, I promise you that.'

Halloran was tempted to advise his client to go to hell, but part of him was intrigued. The man was an enigma, and unlike any person he'd had to protect before. 'One condition,' he said.

Kline lifted his hands, palms towards Halloran. 'Whatever.'

'You answer all my questions.'

'Can't promise you that.' Light blazed the land again.

'I'll answer as many as I can, though,' Kline added, and the thunder was nearer this time.

'Tell your Arab friends to go on ahead.' Halloran indicated Monk and Palusinski. 'You two follow behind. And don't watch us—keep your eyes on those slopes and the road.'

'Ain't nothin' here to worry us,' Monk protested.

'Just do as I say,' Halloran snapped.

Palusinski slapped a hand on the American's shoulder as if to warn him not to argue. 'You go,' the Pole said to Halloran. 'We'll follow. Everything is fine.' As the group started walking towards the house, fanning out so that Kline and Halloran were at the centre of a square formation, the first raindrops spattered the grass. Kline grinned at his protector. 'I told you it was about to rain,' he said.

The deluge broke as though by command and within seconds the men were soaked through. That didn't appear to worry Kline at all. He laughed and suddenly ran free of the formation, twisting his body around in the air, raising his arms high, fingers stretched outwards. He came to a stop facing the hurrying group, his face turned up towards the sky, mouth open wide to receive the pelting raindrops. He slowly lowered his head and arms and something in his gleeful expression brought the others to a halt.

Kline pointed behind them. 'Look at the lake!' he shouted over the downpour.

They turned to look back.

The broad expanse of water, suddenly lit by another flickering of lightning, was a churning mass, the rainfall exploding into the surface and creating millions of tiny geysers.

After the light was spent, Halloran was left with the unnerving impression of a million fingers pushing through the surface from the other side.

26 AN ANCIENT CULTURE

They sat opposite each other in the drawing room, Kline furiously rubbing at his dark curly hair, grinning across at Halloran as he did so.

'Refreshing, huh?' he said. 'I love the rain. It purges the flesh. Pure and fresh, uncontaminated by human effluence. You ought to get dry. Don't want my bodyguard coming down with pneumonia.'

'I'll take a bath before I turn in.' He realised ruefully there would be scant time for sleeping if he were to keep to his own schedule.

The room was like most others at Neath—sparsely furnished and cold in atmosphere, even the roaring fire Kline had ordered to be lit infusing little spiritual warmth to the surrounds. Save for the fire glow there was no other light source in the room, for Kline had switched it off moments before. On a pedestal in one corner, its face animated by dancing shadows, stood the stone figure of a robed woman; the eyes were wide and staring, her hair swept back in almost mediaeval style. Above the mantel over the fireplace was a frieze depicting chariots and soldiers on the march; its colours, almost lost in the shadows, were of blue and white with the palest of reds for contrast.

'Made of shell and limestone,' Kline said when he noticed Halloran studying the frieze while Khayed tended the fire and Daoud went off to fetch a towel. 'Part of the Royal Standard of Ur. See one of the enemy being crushed by a chariot? There was plenty of gore in art and literature even in those distant days. People's taste doesn't change much, does it? You know anything at all about the Sumerians, Halloran?' With the feeling he was about to find out, Halloran shook his head. 'History was never one of my strong points.'

'Not even ancient history? I think you'd have found it fascinating., 'I'm more concerned with what's going on right now. You agreed to answer some questions.'

'Sure. Just relax. Let me tell you something about these Sumerians first, okay? Never too late to learn, right?' Daoud returned with a towel at that moment, which he handed to his employer.

'You can go ahead and feed Palusinski,' Kline told him. 'Our Polish friend has been drooling all evening.'

The Arab grinned. 'I have kept for him some tasty morsels,' he replied and beside him, having completed his task at the fireplace, Khayed chuckled. Halloran noted that, unlike yesterday, Daoud had not bothered to disguise his understanding of the English language. Both Arabs gave a slight bow and left the room.

Kline dried his hair with the towel, his rain-soaked jeans and sweater apparently not bothering him.

Halloran watched his client, tiny orange glows fluttering in Kline's dark eyes, his features sharp as if he were eager for conversation, with no thought for the lateness of the hour. One side of the psychic's body was in shadow, the side close to the fire warmly lit, shades of yellow dancing on his skin. His chair and body cast one corner of the room into deep, wavering gloom, but from its midst Halloran could see and feel those enlarged eyes of the stone woman staring at him.

Kline draped the towel over his head like a shawl so that only the tip of his nose and chin caught the glow from the fire. 'Did you know they invented the written word' At Halloran's quizzical expression he added, 'The Sumerians.'

'No, I didn't know that,' Halloran answered tonelessly.

'Yep. And they were the first to count in units of ten and sixties. That's how we got sixty minutes to an hour and sixty seconds in a minute. They applied it to time, y'see. It's why we divide a circle into 360

degrees, too. Not only that, but those old boys invented the wheel. How about that?'

'Kline, I'm not really -'

'You might be.' The retort was sharp, but a hand was immediately raised, palm outwards, to indicate no offence was meant. 'They knew about algebra and geometry, even had some idea of anatomy and surgery. I'm talking about 3000 BC, Halloran, 3000 BC and earlier. Can you beat that? Shit, the rest of the world was barely past Neolithic!'

'You haven't told me why you went out on the lake tonight.'

'Huh? I thought I had.'

'No.'

'Okay, okay. Look, would you believe me if I told you that the lake acts as some kind of conductor to my psychic power? That my psyche draws strength from certain physical sources. You know how a divining rod in the hands of special people is attracted towards an underground spring or subterranean lake, how it vibrates with energy and bends towards the source? My mind does the same thing, only it also absorbs psychic energy from these places.'

'That's impossible. You're mixing the physical with the psychical.'

'And you naturally assume there's no connection between the two. Never heard of kinetic energy, Halloran? How d'you imagine certain gifted people can move inanimate objects through the power of their own minds? It's that very connection I'm talking about, the link between the physical and the psychical. There's energy in everything around us, but energy itself has no form, no substance—it's an incorporeal thing, just like our own mindwave patterns. Is it getting through to you, or are you the type that never wants to understand?' Kline was leaning forward so that his whole face was in the shadow of the cowl. Halloran did not respond to the last question.

'It's the reason I bought Neatly' Kline went on. 'In these grounds I have my own psychic generator—the lake itself, one huge receptacle for spiritual force. You saw for yourself tonight how the lightning was drawn to it, and how those mysterious properties of the waters reacted. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of such fields on our earth, places that different races have worshipped from, built their shrines on, paid homage to, since man first became aware of the other side of his nature. They still do to this day.

And very few really understand why.' He sat back and the towel swung away from his jaw. He was smiling.

'In some locations, metaphysical and physical deposits become almost one, and that's because both kinds of energy are related. The moon affects the minds of men, ask any psychiatrist or psychologist, as well as influencing the earth's tides. Vast mineral deposits—ores, oil, gas or whatever—have that potential because they're all sources of energy. How d'you think I locate them for Magma? My mind's attracted to them because it's from these sources that it draws sustenance, the same way an animal can sniff food from great distances, a shark can sense blood in the water from miles away. Instinct or mind-power'? Or is it all the same thing?' Halloran understood what he was being told, could even appreciate that there was some kind of weird logic to it, but Kline's dissertation was difficult to accept.

'Are you saying the lake has particular properties, minerals that -'

'I don't know what the fuck it has, Halloran. Nor do I care. Maybe there's something underneath the lake itself, or in the sludge swilling on the bottom. None of that matters to me, I'm just happy to have my own private supply.' Kline rubbed at his hair again with the towel. 'I still have to search out sources in other parts, though. Like the Bedouins have their secret water-holes all over the desert, always handy when one dries up, I have my own wells. It involves some travelling, but like they say, travel broadens the mind. Right?'

'Is that how you picked up your bodyguards, passing through various countries?' Halloran asked, keen to lead the conversation away from such 'mystical' overtones.

Kline was reflective. 'Yeah. Yeah, I did a lot of travelling. Found suitable people along the way.'

'People and animals. How did you get the jackals back into the country?' Kline shook his head. 'They were bred for me here. Unusual pets, huh?'

'You could say. I can't help wondering why you chose such a breed.'

'Because they're despicable, Halloran. I like flat.' Kline chuckled as he gazed into the fire. 'And they're scavengers. But an underestimated species, all the same. Scavengers, yes, but not cowardly as popular belief would have it. Oh no, they'd fight off eagles and hyenas for food. And they'd snatch a morsel from under a lion's nose.' He shook his head as if in wonder. 'Cunning, too. You know, one will distract a mother antelope while another grabs the baby. They'll tear off pieces of a kill and bury them in different places for another day to foil rival scavengers. They'll even swallow food and regurgitate it later to avoid the risk of it being stolen by swooping eagles on the journey back to their young. Wonderful survivors, these creatures, Halloran.'

'As you say, they're scavengers.'

'True, their main diet is carrion, but they appreciate other delights. The jackal is very partial to the afterbirth of the wildebeeste, for instance. They'll follow a herd for miles sniffing after the pregnant cows.'

'There was someone with them tonight. He was standing by the lakeside.' Kline turned back to Halloran.

'So?'

'I assume it was the person who controls the gates.' The other man nodded.

'Someone else you picked up abroad?' Kline ignored the question. 'I haven't finished telling you about the Sumerians. Did I say they were the first astrologers? No, I don't think I did. They built ziggurats, massive square towers, as temple observatories. That was the start of astronomy just in case you're unimpressed by zodiac predictions.' He draped the towel over his head again and rested back in his chair, watching Halloran from the shadows.

'Their nation sprung up between the Rivers Tigris and Euphrates in what these days is called Iraq. A green, lush area, desert all around. It's the traditional site of the Garden of Eden, where that bad old angel called Serpent got Adam and Eve into deep trouble, and had his wings clipped—his legs too—for the rift he'd caused. Serpent was forced to spend the rest of his existence crawling on his belly, and when you're immortal, as all angels are, that's a long time. Anyway, the Sumerians knew how to govern themselves, with laws and organisation of labour forces and rates and taxes and coalitions between the different cities.

The smaller towns and villages even had their own mayors and municipal councils. Thing is, they took their farming seriously and because whole communities could be fed by a few, others were left to get on with developing new skills and professions. The beginning of real civilisation, Halloran. For better or worse, the start of the whole cultural shebang.'

'Look, right now there are more relevant matters to discuss. Like the lack of security on this estate, for instance.' It was as if Kline hadn't heard him. 'They even had their own sure-fire method of dealing with crime. On an eye for an eye basis, y'know? A son who raised his hand against his father would have that hand cut off, same with a doctor who fouled up an operation. An unfaithful wife would have a breast cut off. A man who set fire to a house, or maybe looted a burning home, would be roasted alive.' Kline sniggered. 'Rough justice, but effective. And oh boy, their death penalty. As well as roasting there was beating, strangulation and being thrown from their highest temples. Oh yeah—and mutilation. Anyone who really pissed them off was mutilated, had their arms and legs chopped off. The idea was to make sure that particular evil would never rise up against them again. Literally. So they turned these sinners into limbless creatures, snakes—like the Serpent of old, you see- only tit to crawl on their bellies in the dirt.

Nasty way to die, left all ,Done, unable to move, the only hope being that death didn't take too long.'

Kline visibly shuddered.

'You said they were civilised.'

'They found a way to make their system work. A cruel regime in many respects, but they taught the rest of the world something. Strange thing is that, as a race, they vanished from the face of the earth. Can you beat that? Just died out, absorbed into other cultures. You have to wonder why, don't you, considering all their achievements?'

'Yeah,' Halloran replied wearily, 'you have to wonder.'

'Even their language died with them.' A burning coal cracked, a gunshot sound that made both men glance towards the fireplace.

After a moment, Halloran said: 'I want to ask you about Cora.' Kline settled back in his chair and slowly pulled the towel from his head. There was a curious mixture of innocence and wickedness in his expression, perhaps because while his smile was ingenuous, there was a glint of maliciousness in his eyes.

'This on a personal basis, Halloran, or to do with my protection?T 'Maybe both. Why is she so . . .' an apt word was difficult '. . . dependent on you?' The other man giggled, a childish outburst. Halloran waited patiently.

'She isn't,' came the reply. 'Nobody's ever truly dependent on another person, didn't you know that? It's only their own weaknesses that they're servile to. An indulgence on their part. Self-inflicted. The tendency is to use someone else as a focus for their own deficiencies maybe even as a patron to them. Surprised you haven't figured that out for yourself.' Kline leaned forward as if to make the point. 'We all have total governance over our own will, Halloran. Ultimately, no one can interfere with that.'

'People can be corrupted.' The reply was swift. 'Only if that's what they secretly want.' Halloran realised that he was now reluctant to pursue the matter. 'We, uh, have to make arrangements for tighter security around the estate.' Amused, Kline studied his protector for several seconds. Why so interested in Cora?

You haven't become involved in anything that might be construed as ''unprofessional”, I hope. After all, you've been contracted to take an interest in my weilbeing, no one else's.' He knew his client was mocking him and wondered, not for the first time, why Kline had sent Cora to him the night before.

'There's a difference between loyalty and dependence.' Kline looked genuinely surprised. 'You suggesting Cora would betray me?'

'Not at all. I just need to know the full picture.'

'Well let's talk about her some more.' Kline interlaced his fingers over his stomach, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, eyes closed as if picturing Cora in his mind. 'She's intelligent, works hard, is super-efficient at her job. She's also some looker, wouldn't you agree? A little jaded nowadays, though, like she's got deep-rooted troubles. D'you feel that? Yeah, it's pretty obvious. What do you suppose those troubles are?' He was being taunted, but Halloran refused to take the bait. 'Let's get on to other things.'

'I think she's agonising over some terrible moral dilemma, don't you? You can see she's losing sleep over it. Can't be anything to do with the job, otherwise she'd leave, wouldn't she? No, it's got to be something in her personal life. She's a sensual woman, so maybe sex is involved, huh? What d'you think, Halloran?

Stupid of me—how would you know?' The urge to wipe the leering grin from Kline's face was almost overwhelming. 'We need chain-link fences topped by barbed wire erected at all access points to the grounds,' Halloran said calmly, 'with vibration sensors attached. Intruders can always cut their way through hedges, but at least we'll slow them down and make it easier for patrols to spot them.'

'Maybe Cora likes things she's been taught not to. She had a strong moral upbringing, you know. I understand her parents were pillars of society, so maybe they wouldn't have approved of her little ways.

You think that's what's bothering her? Parental disapproval, even though they're dead and gone? Guilty conscience on her part? Destructive thing, guilt.'

'I'm not in favour of moving searchlights—they're too easy to dodge—but a good lighting system close to the house and pointing outwards would be useful. That and low-frequency audio scanners or magnetic fields would provide a good cover. You need intrusion-detection sensors between the house and the lake, too, with sonar equipment directed onto the lake itself.'

'Still, none of us are infallible, are we, Halloran? We all have our weaknesses and foibles that make us vulnerable. We wouldn't be human without them. Can't help wondering what yours are.'

'Along the inside road you could do with one or two access control points where vehicles can undergo thorough checks. Closed-circuit television is essential for the main gates, incidentally, with a guardhouse by the side. That'll have to be built with hardened walls and glass, and will require a telephone line direct to the house. Reliance on your man at the lodge isn't good enough.'

'What makes you so inscrutable, Halloran? What goes on behind that mask of yours'?'

'As well as CCTV points on entrances to Neatly you ought to have bars mounted on all windows that provide easy access. It goes without saying that intrusion alarms will have to be installed nn all windows and doors, too.'

'Do you believe in God, Halloran?' He stared back at Kline. 'I'll draw up a list of firm recommendations and submit copies to the Magma Corporation and Achilles' Shield,' he said evenly. 'If we don't receive yours or Magma's consent to carry out these precautions, there's not much my company can do for you.'

'My question rattle you? You should see your face. I thought all the Irish were God-fearing, no matter what particular brand of religion they followed.'

'I'm not Irish.'

'Your old man was. And you may not have been born there, but you were raised in the of country.'

'How did you know that?' He realised immediately that Cora must have told Kline.

'You still haven't answered my question.'

'Information about myself isn't part of the contract. All you need to know is that I'm capable of doing a good job.'

'Just curious, that's all. You suddenly look even more dangerous, d'you know that?' There was an abrupt vision between Kline and himself. Father O'Connell's big, ruddy face was contorted with anguish, his tear soaked cheeks catching the flames from the fire. Only these reflections were of flames from another time.

Halloran cleared the image from his mind. But the sounds of the priest's wailing as he ran into the burning church were more difficult to erase.

'You still with me, Halloran? You look as if you've seen a ghost.' The Shield operative blinked. Kline was watching him intently and the slyness of his smile somehow suggested he had shared Halloran's vision.

'The Sumerians had lots of gods—lots of goddesses, too,' Kline went on as if nothing unusual had occurred. 'A whole team of 'em. Anu, god of the Heavens, Su'en, the Moon god, Enlil, god of Water, Markuk, god of Babylon, Ea, one of the good guys, and the goddess, Inin, later known as Ishtar—now she was something else. She was a whore. Then there was Bel-Marduk, the one they came to despise.'

His smile had become venomous. 'They misunderstood his cruelty, you see. But there was always someone—excuse me, some deity—to pray to for any cause, or to blame for any wrong. Delegation was the idea, spreading the load. Don't put too much pressure on the one god or goddess in case they get vexed and turn nasty. Or was it because they didn't believe in putting all their trust in one master? Maybe a lesson learned from their past. And that's the weird thing about these people, Halloran: we know hardly anything at all about their origins. Now, like I said before, that's odd, considering the Sumerians invented the written word.' Halloran scarcely heard, for he was still numbed by the strength of the vision of moments before. And tiredness also was beginning to weigh heavily upon him.

'It seems,' Kline continued, his enthusiasm not curbed by lack of interest from his audience, 'that kings, princes—maybe even the high priests—hid or destroyed all records of Sumerian early history. Yet they'd been setting things down as cuneiform writing on clay tablets since 3000 BC! What d'you suppose they needed to hide? I mean, to wipe out centuries of their past like that, they must have had some terrible dark secret they wanted to keep from the rest of the world, don't you think?' He was leaning forward again, hands resting on his knees, his face bright in the glow from the fire.

Halloran struggled to rouse himself, the room's warmth and Kline's almost mesmeric tone abetting the weariness. 'There's something more I need to ask you,' he said, and then had to concentrate to remember what it was. In the gloom of the far corner, the stone woman's eyes seemed larger.

'Even one of the greatest archaeological finds ever failed to turn up any evidence of what went on in Sumerian society much before 2500 BC,' said Kline, ignoring the pending question. 'That was when Sir Leonard Woolley discovered a gigantic grave site near the city wall of Ur in the 1920s. Thousands of the graves had been plundered, but something spurred on the old boy to dig deeper, and what he found underneath that cemetery staggered historians all around the world.' Halloran pinched the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. What the hell was Kline rambling on about?

'Know what was there?' Kline gripped the arms of the chair as if unable to contain his excitement. 'Stone tombs. Sepulchres! Can you believe it? Woolley's team got to them by ramps leading into deep shafts.

Inside those chambers they found intact skeletons of Sumerian kings, queens, princes, princesses, and members of the high priesthood, all decked out in full regalia of gold and semi-precious stones—and that's why it came to be known as the Royal Cemetery. Around them were golden cups, steles and statues, beautiful vases, silver ornaments—all kinds of valuable ,tuff.' Kline gave an excited laugh. 'And know what else, L Halloran? All their servants and attendants were buried right there with them. Court officials, soldiers, priests—even oxen with their wagons. No signs of violence, though. Those people had accepted their fate without argument. They'd taken poison and allowed themselves to be sealed in with their masters and mistresses.' He grinned. 'How's that for loyalty?' Halloran experienced a peculiar sense of relief when the other man turned away from him to gaze at the fire, as though Kline's intensity was a parasitical thing. Some of his tiredness lifted and he remembered the question he had meant to ask.

But Kline was speaking once more. 'For twelve years Sir Leonard worked that site, delving, dusting, probing, digging, yet nowhere did he find anything that toed him of the early Sumerians. Some historians surmise that everything was destroyed at the time of the Great Flood—if there ever was such an event.

No one's ever been sure whether or not that was only a myth, and one borrowed by another religion, incidentally. For Noah, read Utnapishtim, a hero of Sumerian legend. Anyway, no matter, flood or not, something should have survived from that catastrophe unless those old boys didn't want it to. But what could be so bad, so diabolically awful, that they'd want the knowledge of it obliterated from their history Answer me that.' His head slowly came around so that he was facing Halloran again, and there was a meanness to his smile. The flames of the fire had died down, the room considerably darker. Halloran felt oppressed by the shadows, as though they were drapes closing around him. ,And the weariness had returned, resting on his eyelids so that they were difficult to keep open.

The question. Not Kline's but his own. What was the question? Kline had reminded him. Underneath the cemetery. Under. Heath. Kline had even emphasised the word. He thought of the sturdy oak door that led to the cellar.

'Curious about what's down there?' said the other man. 'Under the house? Down in the cellar?' But Halloran hadn't voiced the question. His head sagged with tiredness.

'Not falling asleep on me, are you?' said Kline. 'Ah well, it's been a long day, so go ahead, close your eyes.' He didn't want them to, but his eyes closed. Halloran stirred in the chair, his limbs leaden. Sleep was approaching and it was irresistible.

'Not just a cellar,' he heard Kline say from a great distance. 'Something more than that. Down there is where I have my very own sepulchre. Did you hear me, Halloran?' Barely. Kline must be a long way

,away by now . . . . . My sepulchre Halloran . . .

. .yet the words were suddenly near, a whisper inside Halloran's mind.

27 A DREAM AND BETRAYAL

'Liam. Wake up.' He felt a hand shaking his shoulder and consciousness quickly drew him away from the unreality of his dream. Halloran's body was tensed and ready before his eyes opened, his fingers instinctively curling around the butt of his gun. Cora was leaning over him, her face anxious.

'Liam, we have to go back to London immediately.' He looked past her at the empty chair opposite.

Only grey ashes were in the fireplace and daylight did its best to penetrate the heavy curtains over the windows. Stone eyes still watched him from the corner of the room.

'Liam,' Cora urged.

'It's all right.' He stood, all drowsiness gone, his senses fully alert. He was angry with himself when he glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was nearly 8.40. Why the hell had he allowed himself to fall asleep in this room, and why hadn't one of the bodyguards woken him at the proper time? 'What's the problem, Cora?' he quickly asked.

'Felix has just had a call from Sir Victor. He has to return to Magma right away.'

'On a Sunday?' She nodded. 'It's serious.' He made towards the door, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

'Last night . . .' she said.

So much had happened the night before that it took him a second or two to understand what Cora meant. Her expression was so solemn, her eyes so grave, that he couldn't help but smile. 'We'll talk later,'

he told her, then kissed her cheek. They left the room together.

The streets of the City were empty, save for the few tourists who took the occasion of such quietness to view London's financial sector. Light drizzle soaked the pavements and roadways, freshening them for the onslaught they would take during the rest of the week. Glass towers glistened as though newly varnished, while older buildings hued darker as they soaked up the dampness.

A convoy of three cars, a black limousine, a Mercedes and a Granada, sped through the deserted streets, the drivers of each checking their surrounds and rearview mirrors each time they were halted by traffic lights.

Halloran was in the back of the second car, the silver-grey Mercedes, sitting next to Felix Kline, prepared to cover his client with his own body should anything untoward occur. Janusz Palusinski was driving the armoured vehicle, and Cora sat beside him in the passenger seat. Monk was the driver of the car ahead, Khayed and Daoud, who never ceased looking back to satisfy themselves that their master was not far behind, were his companions. In the Granada, the last in the procession, were two Shield men who had been taken off patrol duty around the estate.

Kline had been unusually silent throughout the journey, mentioning neither the events of the previous night, nor the reason for the summons to the Magma building that morning. Halloran realised he was witnessing yet another facet of this strange man's nature, a quiet brooding stillness that was in sharp contrast to Kline's irritatingly animated and talkative side. This mood was more akin to the soft-spoken, cultured role that Kline sometimes adopted, although again it was different, for there was no mocking in his gaze and no air of secret knowledge. The small man was withdrawn, thoughtful, seemingly unaware of any danger he might be in, with no agitation in his movements, no nervousness in his scrutiny. Yet Halloran could sense a deep anger burning inside him.

The Shield operative remembered the dream Cora had roused him from, for Kline had been part of it.

They had walked together, he and Kline, Halloran allowing himself to be led by the other man through a great blackness, his hand in Kline's as though they were lovers. Although nothing could be seen, he had felt a frightening vastness of space around and above them, as if they were inside a cathedral or a huge subterranean cave. Now and then something light would waft across his face, so that he recoiled, tearing there were long trailing cobwebs on all sides. Kline's whispered voice assured him that there was nothing to be afraid of, they were merely passing through thin, unseen veils. There was something in the distance, a tenuous mass that was blacker than the blackness around them, and Halloran could hear the sound of his own heartbeat as they drew nearer to that ultimate darkness, the thudding growing louder, joined by the beating of another's—Kline's—their life-surge keeping time, becoming as one. And then, all about the darkness, eyelids were opening in slow, drawn-out movements, so that a multitude of stone eyes stared as the two men drew closer to the void, the nucleus of the blackness itself. Kline had released his hand and was stretching his arms towards the core, creating an opening within its shell, their combined heartbeats becoming thunderous, joining—or so it seemed—with yet another whose loudness grew so that soon, very soon, it smothered their own, and although the rising sound appeared to emanate from the void before them, it was everywhere, filling the infinite space, deafening the two men. Kline was reaching inside that pitchy nothingness, arms trembling, his mouth gaping in a silent ecstatic scream and Halloran had moved close to see what it was that the other man grasped, but he was blind in such blackness; he could feel a terrible heat, sense something there, something he was glad he could not see. Yet still he reached out with Kline, the two men joined in an unholy alliance, compelled by the mystery . . .

'Liam.' And Cora's voice had recalled him from the dream.

'Liam.' The Mercedes was passing the Mansion House, the Magma building not far away, towering above others around it. Cora had turned in her seat and was looking directly at him.

Halloran blinked. He'd been completely lost in his own thoughts and once again was angry at himself for his negligence.

'Should we drive straight down into Magma's underground carpark,' Cora said, 'or do you want us to be dropped by the front entrance?'

'The carpark,' he replied. 'I arranged for it to be checked out by Shield before we left Neath. If there were problems they'd have contacted us.'

'Was there any news of those people who tried to stop us on Friday?' she asked.

Cora's face was still pale, her actions skittish, the weekend in the country apparently having had little calming effect, Halloran thought wryly. 'Nothing's turned up so far. Something'll break soon though, it usually does. We'll be okay so long as we're prepared.' He had addressed the last remarks to Kline, but the psychic's attention was averted; he was watching the streets, though Halloran had the feeling his client's vision was directed inwards.

The Magma Corporation's headquarters came into full view, and Halloran was once again impressed by its grandeur. The rain had intensified the lustre of its bronze surfaces, the deep shade of the windows defining and enhancing the metal sections so that the building's complicated structure was drawn in bold and deliberately simple lines. The curved buttresses and various levels added to the forcefulness of design, a formidable edifice amidst staid and less aggressive architecture.

The limousine ahead pulled into the kerb outside the main entrance and Halloran instructed Palusinski to keep moving until they reached the garage entrance around the corner in a narrow side-street. A member of the Shield team saw their approach and signalled for the entrance barrier inside the building to be lifted. The Granada followed the Mercedes down the ramp, the limousine now in the rear of the convoy.

The Pole reversed their vehicle into a bay and Halloran stepped out immediately it came to a halt. He quickly went around to Kline's side, right hand inside his jacket. A figure was already limping towards them as Palusinski opened the passenger door for Kline, and Halloran raised a hand in greeting. Mather's countenance was unusually grim.

'A word, Liam,' he said as he drew near.

'Go on ahead to the lift,' Halloran told the others. 'I'll join you there.' He went towards Mather, who ushered him a short distance away so that they would not be overheard.

'How have things been at your end?' the Planner said, stopping by a concrete pillar. At the top of the ramp the Shield operative who had signalled the car's approach stood with his back to them, observing the street outside.

'Not good as far as security's concerned,' answered Halloran. 'Neath is wide open.'

'But you've had no more trouble?' He hesitated before giving a shake of his head. 'What's wrong, Charles?'

'It's Dieter, I'm afraid.' Mather looked down at his cane, unconsciously tapping it twice on the ground.

'His body was recovered not more than an hour ago.' Halloran saw the others were walking towards the lifts, Monk and the two Arabs following close behind. The two operatives from the Granada were standing by their car, waiting for further instructions. 'What happened?' he said to Mather.

'Shot through the back of the head. Gerald is with the police finding out a bit more at this very moment.

What we do know is that Dieter was tortured before being killed.'

'Jesus, Mary . . .' breathed Halloran. 'Who?' Mather shrugged. 'I haven't a clue, Liam. No trademarks that we're aware of as yet.'

'Where was he found?'

'Floating in the Thames. Whoever did it didn't even bother to weigh down the body.'

'Anything to do with this operation?'

'We can't discount that factor. If there is any logical reason for his murder, and providing it isn't the work of some outraged husband, then torture obviously suggests information was being sought. Nevertheless, it's somewhat drastic to go to such lengths just to gain details of our plans for Felix Kline. It's reasonable to assume that any would-be kidnappers have sufficient knowledge of their target without resorting to that kind of violence. Another theory is that someone with a grudge from Dieter's past hated him enough to inflict such injuries before ending his life.'

'There's another possibility,' suggested Halloran. Kline and his entourage were at the lifts and looking round to see what was delaying him. 'It could be a way of warning us off.'

'From protecting Felix Kline?' He nodded. 'It's our only major assignment at the moment.'

'Hmn, it's a thought, I suppose,' voiced Mather. 'Unlikely, though. In the event of a successful snatch, kidnappers would rather negotiate with K & R people than the authorities, who're invariably against payment of ransom money.' The lift doors were opening. 'We'd better join the others,' said Halloran. 'I assume we keep this to ourselves.' Mather limped alongside him, the group ahead beginning to enter the lift. 'No need to cause undue anxiety as far as our client is concerned. We may have to issue some kind of public statement once the Press gets hold of the story, but even then there's no reason why Dieter's death should be linked with the Magma contract.' Halloran signalled the two Shield bodyguards to wait in the carpark, and stepped ahead of Monk and the Arabs before they could follow their employer into the lift. 'Take the other one,' he ordered and before they could protest, Kline nodded his head in a gesture of assent.

Mather endeavoured to promote conversation during the swift journey to the eighteenth floor, but the psychic refused to be drawn from his brooding silence and Cora's replies were perfunctory although polite.

Sir Victor Penlock himself was waiting to greet them when the lift doors opened again. He wore a navy-blue double-breasted blazer over a fawn turtle-neck jumper, sharply pressed beige slacks adding to the casual elegance. Halloran realised that Magma's security guard in the booth by the carpark entrance must have reported Kline's arrival. It seemed unusual, though, that the chairman of such a vast corporation should be waiting so anxiously for one of his own employees.

'Sorry to have dragged you back to town, Felix,' Sir Victor apologised, 'but as I explained over the phone, the situation is serious.' Apparently a day for bad tidings, mused Halloran as Kline swept by Sir Victor with barely a glance. The tall chairman nodded towards the two Shield men before walking after the psychic. 'Henry is waiting for us in my office,' they heard him tell Kline as they, too, followed behind along the mauve-carpeted corridor. As they passed the display cabinets set in the walls on either side, Halloran rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin and wondered what the fuss was shout. Kline had not been forthcoming on the drive up to London, and Cora appeared to know no more than he, himself.

Judging by the gravity of Sir Victor's tone and by the fact that the matter could not be fully discussed over the telephone, the cause for concern was not only serious but extremely confidential, too. The corridor widened into the broad hallways and whereas previously he had heard normal office hubbub from the offices to his left and right, now there was only silence. The big double-door opposite was already open and the chairman ushered them through. Once inside, however, he asked Mother and Halloran to wait in the outer office.

Then Kline spoke up. 'No. Halloran can listen in on this. But not Cora.' Without another word he disappeared into Sir Victor's office.

The chairman raised his eyebrows at the girl, then indicated that Halloran should follow him. He went after Kline.

'Seems you're to be privileged,' Mother remarked lightly. 'Well, Miss Redmile,shall we see if we can brew up some tea for ourselves? Perhaps you'll remain on guard here, Mr, er, Palusinski?' The Pole sat at one of the two secretaries' desks. 'I will keep good watch,' he assured them and frowned, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles, as he regarded the computer screen on the desk top. 'Such knowledge inside this tiny window,' he said distractedly.

Before Halloran went through to the main office, he caught C'orn's surprised expression; she was obviously bewildered by her employer's blunt dismissal. He closed the door behind him, curious himself about Kline's motive.

Quinn-Reece glanced up briefly from the papers neatly spread on a low table in front of him, but gave no sign of welcome. Kline was standing with his back to the room, staring out of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, the rain outside stippling the glass. Sir Victor vaguely waved towards a chair and Halloran lowered himself into it. Kline then did something quite unexpected: he whirled around, walked across to the chairman's broad, oak desk and took the seat behind it. He looked directly at Quinn-Reece and asked, 'How is it possible?' The vice-chairman cleared his throat before answering. Obviously we have a leak within the Corporation.' Sir Victor sat in a chair close to his own desk and tugged at the crease in his trouser leg. 'But who? How could such information be divulged so quickly unless its source was from a very high level.' Halloran shifted in his seat, puzzled but intrigued by the conversation.

'That isn't necessarily so,' said Quinn-Reece. 'Someone in the field team could be selling us out.'

'You mean that every single time that Consolidated Ores has negotiated exploration rights before us one of our agents in that particular area has gone over to them?' Kline spoke as though the notion were not feasible.

'It's hardly likely, is it?' Sir Victor agreed. 'The betrayal must he from these offices.' Halloran interrupted.

'Does what you're discussing have any bearing on my company's assignment for Magma?' As Kline, himself, had insisted that he 'listen in', ii was a reasonable assumption to make.

Quinn-Reece's reply was brusque. 'This matter doesn't concern Achilles' Shield in any way. As a matter of fact, I don't understand why your presence is required in this room.'

'I invited him,' Kline said quietly. He was staring at the vice-chairman, his dark eyes unblinking, and Quinn-Reece appeared uncomfortable under his gaze. 'Halloran has been hired to protect me, and this morning I feel in particular need of that protection. Strange how betrayal can leave you feeling so vulnerable.'

'You can't seriously imagine that Consolidated would be behind an attempted kidnapping?' the astonished Sir Victor protested. 'They may be formidable business rivals, and admittedly we've fought some fierce battles with them in the past, but it's always been purely on a competitive business basis. I can't honestly believe that they would resort to any kind of physical violence.'

'Someone has,' Kline snapped back.

'It might help if I know what's happened,' Halloran suggested.

'What's happened, my friend,' said Kline 'is that over recent months, practically every new source of mineral deposits I've discovered has been laid claim to by Consolidated Ores before our field agents have had a chance to make tests. It doesn't take an Einstein to figure out someone from within our own organisation is tipping them off.'

'If that's the case and they're getting their information anyway, why bother to kidnap you?' Halloran commented. 'Wouldn't that in effect be killing the golden goose? Besides, industrial espionage may be illegal, but it's nowhere as serious as abduction.'

'That's a fair argument, Felix,' put in Sir Victor. 'Why should any rival company take that risk when it doesn't appear to be necessary?'

'Because sooner or later the informer will be exposed.' Kline's reply was calm, his demeanour having changed yet again, his normal (normal? Halloran had to wonder at the term) excitability subdued.

'But what good would kidnapping you do?' queried QuinnReece.

'Maybe the idea's to eliminate me permanently.' Sir Victor and his vice-chairman exchanged astonished glances.

'I think that would be too extreme, particularly if Consolidated really is involved. I know the chairman personally and although he's something of a scoundrel, I cannot believe he'd sanction murder. No, no Felix, that really is beyond the bounds of reason.'

'Then why do I feel so threatened?' Kline coolly retorted.

'Uh, perhaps, Felix, perhaps you're overwrought,' Sir Victor suggested cautiously. 'After all, so much reliance on your psychic ability must eventually take its toll. You know, you haven't had a proper break for quite some time now.' Kline smiled. And Halloran's eyes narrowed. Despite everything that had happened over the past few days, he hadn't realised until that moment that there was so much danger in the man.

'Yes,' the psychic admitted, 'I do feel in need of some rest. A few more days at Neatly maybe. And then some travelling.

Yes, it's time I ventured abroad again.' His smile withered. 'But that doesn't resolve our current crisis.'

'How often has this other company managed to beat you to these new locations?' asked Halloran, genuinely interested in Magma's problem.

Quinn-Reece provided the answer. 'Three times in a period of five months.' Halloran raised his eyebrows. 'That doesn't seem an awful 'I can assure you,' Sir Victor said, 'that in a world of diminishing natural resources, it is.'

'Couldn't it be coincidence?'

'We were prepared to accept that on the first two occasions,' replied the chairman. 'But Felix indicated to us only last Thursday that an as yet untapped source of copper could be found in a certain region of Papua New Guinea. By the time our agent had arranged to see the appropriate authority dealing with land exploration rights, negotiations were already well underway with Consolidated Ores. These matters are usually dealt with on a first-come, first-served, basis—provided contracts are favourable to the country of origins, naturally. But no, Mr Halloran, this time we're certain that confidential information is being disclosed outside almost as soon as we, ourselves, learn of new deposits.'

'Could be they use a psychic of their own.' Sir Victor received the suggestion gravely. 'There is no other person on this earth who can match the sensory ability of Felix Kline.' It was a statement not meant to be argued with, and Halloran saw no point in doing so.

'How many Magma personnel knew of this recent find?' he asked.

'Not many,' replied Quinn-Reece, leaning forward and shuffling the papers before him. 'Myself, the chairman, and of course, Felix and Miss Redmile. At the other end, only the agent whom I contacted.

The news hasn't even been announced to our board of directors, and only one or two of our executives have become involved since, although we now know that wasn't until after Consolidated made their move.'

'Don't forget me,' said Halloran. 'It was mentioned to me on the first day I visited Magma.' Sir Victor turned inquiringly to Kline, who nodded. 'As you've only been associated with the Corporation for less than a week, I think we can sensibly discount you as a mole,' the chairman reasoned.

'Well, your range of suspects is mercifully limited,' said Halloran. 'But before you point a finger at anyone, I suggest you investigate these offices for electronic listening devices and make sure your phones aren't being tapped. You ought to check that your computer codes haven't been cracked also. Shield can make a thorough sweep, if you like.'

'Anti-bugging searches are carried out every week by our own security,' Quinn-Reece assured him.

'In an irregular pattern? I'd hate to hear, for instance, that you search the offices every Monday morning at nine o'clock.'

'Our security people aren't that naive, Mr Halloran.'

'Let's hope they aren't disloyal, either. And your computer codes?'

'We've no reason to suspect they've been broken.'

'Might be an idea to find out if there have been any recorded but unauthorised admissions over the past few months.'

'That wouldn't have any bearing on our immediate problem,' Sir Victor remarked.

'No, but locating a hacker might help direct those accusing fingers.' Halloran stared across the room at Kline, who seemed almost dwarfish behind the broad desk, the high, rainspattered window at his back increasing the effect. 'Aside from that,' he said, 'you're the psychic: don't you have an idea who's giving away company secrets?' Kline returned the Shield man's stare. 'Oh yeah, Halloran,' he said, 'I'm sure I know who's the traitor in our midst.' He looked at each person in the room and his face was expressionless when he spoke.

'It's Cora,' he told them.

28 HALLORAN

'If I may say so, m'dear, you don't look at all well.' Cora had taken Shield's Planner to one of Magma's smaller conference rooms on the eighteenth floor, a place used for private meetings with business associates rather than full-scale executive gatherings or board meetings. Cora had disappeared for a few minutes, returning with tea for them both. Rather than sit at the room's long table, they had relaxed in easy chairs that were spaced around the walls. As Cora sipped her tea, Mather noticed a slight tremble in her grip.

'I sincerely hope this kidnapping business isn't upsetting you too much,' he said soothingly. 'We have you well guarded, you know. And I promise you, Liam is the best operative we have in this kind of situation.

He has an uncanny instinct for striking before being struck.' He caught her sudden glance at him with the mention of Halloran's name. Ah, he thought, our man is having an effect on her.

'I suppose it's made us all nervous,' Cora said.

But you look as though you haven't slept properly for several weeks, Mather thought to himself. 'Yes, I can appreciate that. Perhaps the blackguards will be flushed out soon and then we can all get some rest.

Our job isn't only physically to protect the target; we spend a great deal of time searching out those who are the threat.' He deliberately refrained from saying 'or assassins', unwilling to worry the girl any more than was necessary. 'We've been working on that since we agreed to the assignment.'

'But without any success.'

'True, but it's early days. We'll find out who's causing these problems soon enough, never fear.' He placed the empty teacup in the saucer by his feet.

'Would you like some more?' she asked.

'No thank you, one's enough. Of course, these villains might well have cried off after their unsuccessful attempt the other day. Nothing like a show of strength to make such thugs turn tail and run.' He smiled, doing his best to reassure her.

Cora merely stared blankly into her teacup. Her question was tentative. 'Liam would kill anyone he considered to be a danger, wouldn't he?' Mother was slightly taken aback. 'Why, yes, if that was the only way. However, he isn't a murderer, Miss Redmile. He'll only take what measures are necessary to retrieve a situation. I can assure you that Achilles' Shield is a law-abiding organisation which doesn't employ reckless hit-men. All right, it must be confessed, we sometimes bend the rules here and there, but our operatives are trained to control a situation rather than be pressured by it.'

'He . . .' Cora looked up and Mother saw the anxiety there . . . he frightens me.' Mother's short laugh was meant to be encouraging. 'There's nothing you need fear from Liam,' he told her.

'What makes such a person deal in violence? He can be so gentle, and yet . . .' Oh dear, mused Mather, it's gone deeper than I'd imagined. 'Liam is essentially employed to deter violence,' he said.

'You know it's there inside him, a terrible coldness. Sometimes, when he smiles, you can see it in his eyes. I could easily believe he has no conscience.'

'Perhaps you've mistaken that coldness for an immunity against . . . well, it's difficult to put a word on it, but you might consider it as an immunity against . . . forgiveness. Liam is unremitting, relentless even, when he, or others in his charge, are threatened. I don't believe he's a man who would ever seek vengeance, but nor is he one to turn the other cheek.' Mother tapped his cane against the shoe on his outstretched foot. 'Let me tell you something of his background, then perhaps you'll understand him a little more.' She appeared apprehensive, as though uncertain that she really wanted to know too much about the man.

'Liam's father, Pat Halloran, was a captain in the British Army, who met Siobhan, his future wife, while on leave in Southern Ireland—apparently he was a keen walker and angler, so what better place to spend his free time? He was also of Irish descent himself, so felt a natural affinity to the country. He returned some months later, proposed to the girl, was promptly accepted, and both came back to London where they were married. Within a year, Liam was born.' Mother reached down and retrieved his cup from the floor. .Perhaps I will have more tea, m'dear.' He watched her as she walked to the table and refilled his cup. She's confused about Halloran, he thought, and could hardly be blamed for that.

Even to Mother, who knew him better than most, Halloran was still something of an enigma. But it was Felix Kline and his strange cohorts that the Planner had misgivings about, doubts which he could not explain rationally; the girl could be an ally to his operative, an insider who could give warning of any odd business going on that might affect Halloran's course of action. The Planner had voiced his growing unease concerning the Magma assignment to Gerald Snaith that very morning, after the discovery of Dieter Stuhr's mutilated corpse. Naturally, the Controller of Achilles' Shield, a pragmatic individual to say the least, had demanded evidence of any link between tire two matters. Which Mother could not provide.

He thanked Cora when she handed him the fresh tea, and waited for her to sit before proceeding.

'His father's army career involved a fair bit of travelling that did not, unfortunately, require any long-term overseas duty whereby the family could stay with him. He took them when he could, but more often than not, Siobhan and the boy were left at home. Eventually it was decided that they might be better off living with Liam'; grandfather back in Ireland.' The girl had remembered that Mother favoured Earl Grey, and he sipped gratefully before continuing. 'I mention these early details, Miss Redmile, because I believe they, for good or bad, helped shape the man.' He received no response.

'The captain spent as much time as possible with his wife and son, but their marriage had created a rift between Siobhan and other members of her family. You see, she had cousins who had links—strong links, as it turned out—with the IRA, and they suspected that her husband was no more than a British plant” put there to seek out information on rebel activities in the area. It was sheer nonsense, of course, but fanatics can rarely be bound by common sense. And who knows? Perhaps over the years, Captain Halloran did innocently hear of certain nefarious goings on that he felt duty-bound to report to his superiors. Whatever, suspicion alone was enough for the terrorists.

'Liam, just eight years old, had gone fishing with his father, who had been home on leave for only a few days while serving in that bloody, if discreet, war in South Arabia. God knows, the man needed the rest.'

Cora regarded Mather curiously.

'They were both standing in the middle of a shallow stream, father and son, no doubt enjoying each other's company after so many months apart, when the gunmen struck. Liam saw his father shot dead before him. He told the Garda later that his father had struggled to the bank and had tried to crawl from the water. The boy was frozen with fear and could only watch when one of the masked gunmen kicked his father down into the stream again, then stood with one foot on the dying man's back holding him beneath the water. The boy said the stream had already turned crimson with blood when the man pointed his revolver into the water and shot Captain Halloran in the back of the head.' Cora closed her eyes, but the ghastly image became sharper in her mind. She quickly opened them again.

'Siobhan knew her cousins had been involved, otherwise Liam would have been murdered, too, as a witness. That's why the assassins had taken the trouble to wear masks, so the boy wouldn't recognise any of them. But there was nothing she could do. If she were to voice her suspicions, not only would she be at risk, but so too would her son, and possibly the grandfather. It's my opinion that her silence partly contributed to her eventual breakdown. Grief did the rest.' The girl was staring at him. 'How . . . how do you know all this? Did Liam tell you?'

'Pieces,' he replied. 'Even as a youth, Liam was never one to reveal his inner feelings. I made enquiries, I talked to his grandfather. You see, I was Captain Halloran's commanding officer in Aden. He was an excellent soldier, one I had a high regard for, and his death was a great loss for my unit so early in the campaign. I took a personal interest in the family he'd left behind, and that's how I learned of the boy.'

Mather finished the tea and again placed the cup on the floor. When he straightened, his hand began to soothe the ache in his knee. Talk of the war in Aden somehow always revived that pain.

'As Liam grew older, it seemed he was always in some kind of trouble, as though a wildness in him had been unleashed. Perhaps that was his way of smothering the sorrow, disguising it with anger. I've no idea, to be honest. The wildness grew out of hand when his mother, unhappy and unstable for all those years, finally committed suicide. I'd kept track of them both since the death of Captain Halloran, made sure the widow received full financial compensation from the British Army, but lost touch for some time when I had difficulties of my own.' He tapped his aching knee to indicate the precise nature of those 'difficulties'.

“Thought I was going to lose it, but managed to convince the medics the leg would come good again after a little tinkering with their scalpels. Nowadays, I wonder if I did the right thing,' he added as if to himself.

'Anyway, I received a letter from the grandfather informing me of Siobhan's death, and when I was yell enough, I travelled to Ireland myself to see what could be done for the boy.' He smiled wryly. 'I believe I arrived just in time.' It was difficult for Cora to picture Liam as a boy, angry, probably frightened, grief-stricken again with the loss of his mother, her death a direct consequence of his father's murder.

How could she equate that image with the man who had come to her room the night before, had taken her against her will, that very act of ravishment stirring the familiar pleasure such defilement had for her, so that she could not help but respond? But then the quieter passion afterwards, the lovemaking that was gentle, so tender, arousing purer emotions that eclipsed mere desire. It had left her stunned, unsure, as though he had deliberately enacted both sides of passion with her, the cold harshness lacking any caring, and then the simple joy which came without abuse or pain, a fulfilment she'd almost forgotten. But then Cora had to wonder if Halloran was someone on whose actions others put their own interpretations.

Was she presuming too much of him? Was he really only a man of violence?

Mather's voice broke into her thoughts. 'Liam had been getting into scrapes. No, more than that—his mischievousness went beyond the bounds of natural boyhood hooliganism. From what I heard on my arrival, he was in serious danger of being taken into youth custody. Several incidents around the small town where he lived with his grandfather had been attributed to him, although on the worst occasions no damning evidence of his involvement could be laid absolutely on his doorstep. There were particular problems with the local priest. Whether or not it was because the Church represented the nearest authority against which he could rebel, I've no way of knowing. One particular incident . . . but no, as I say, there was no definite proof, it would he wrong for me to speculate.' The Shield Planner interlocked his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of the char. He pressed his forefingers against his lip, momentarily lost in thought. 'I felt it was time to take Liam away from that environment; Ireland held too many tragic memories for him. So I arranged for him to board at a school in England, the least I could do in honour of his late father. The school had close connections with the army, turned out many fine cadets.

I'm afraid I was rather preoccupied with my own career, which was starting afresh after my leg injury, but I tried to keep an eye on things as much as I could. The boy appeared to settle down perhaps a strict regime was what he needed all along—eventually I suppose because of what his father had been, the type of school that had educated him, and the fact that his grandfather had passed away and that there really was no other place to go, Liam decided that soldiering was the profession for him.' Mather's face wrinkled with pleasure. 'Damn good at it, too, by all accounts. Oh, he was still somewhat reckless, never quite losing that touch of Irish wildness; but the army has ways of channelling that kind of spirit. Liam took to that way of life as if ordained for it, and was good enough to make the SAS.

'Unfortunately, he was involved in an incident in 1972 that I believe was the root cause of Liam's later cynicism. Still not into his twenties, he was stationed with a small British Army training team at Mirbat in Oman—about ten of 'em in all. A civil war was going on between the monarchy of Oman and its left-wing opponents, and the SAS unit had spent three months in that dreary little town of Mirbat attempting to drill some kind of order into the loyalists. They held two forts, thirty Askaris in one, around twenty-five Dhofar Gendarmerie in the other, with an unruly bunch of counter-guerrilla irregulars billeted in the town itself. The only artillery of any real weight they had was a Second World War 25-pounder, a

.50-inch Browning and an 81mm mortar.

'One morning, just after dawn, they were attacked by nearly three hundred rebels armed with machine guns, mortars, anti-tank rifles and a Russian rocket-launcher. It should have been an outright massacre, but the SAS commanding officer, an absolutely fearless individual, and only a few years older than Liam himself, organised his own men and their Arab allies into a fighting force to be reckoned with.

'I won't bore you with all the battle details, m'dear, but the officer, a captain, was here, there and everywhere, screaming orders, directing what meagre artillery they had, shaping his defence so that the attackers couldn't take a hold. Under enemy fire, he crossed four hundred yards of open ground with a medical orderly to reach the fort where the Gendarmerie was holed up. He'd already radioed his HQ for a helicopter to evacuate casualties, but enemy fire-power was so fierce the damn thing couldn't even land. The captain took over the second fort's gun position, the guerrillas no more than thirty yards away, and nearly had his head chopped off by machine-gun fire. Men were being cut down around him, but not for one moment did the captain consider giving the order for surrender. No, no chance of that. From his position, he was able to site targets for two Strikemaster jets that had arrived to lend support, but still the battle raged.

'At last, a relief squadron flew in from Salalah to assist, and the rebels, already stopped in their tracks and their numbers considerably depleted, gave up the ghost and fled. A quite remarkable resistance by the commanding officer and his men, and the rebel forces never really recovered from the defeat, although it took another four years for the war to end.

'I believe that battle affected Liam in two ways, the first being that he was involved in a carnage of mindless ferocity, and he, himself, had dealt out much of it; and the second was that he was shown an example of outstanding courage by his commanding officer—a captain, don't forget—which I'm sure he imagined his own father had been capable of. Yet the battle was never “officially” recognised by his own government, even though he was awarded a Military Medal for his actions, and the captain a DSO. That and the fact that he was unclear in his own mind as to whether he was on the side of the “goodies” or the

“baddies” made him rather cynical about war itself. Worse was to follow.

'Seven years later, that same captain, a man he had come to admire and respect, by then promoted to major, died from exposure during an SAS exercise on the Brecon Beacons. A totally wasteful death which so filled Liam with disgust that he resigned from the army shortly after.

'He became a mercenary, using conflict for his own ends, which were purely financial, rather than allowing it to use him. I observed from a great distance, learning of his activities through contacts I had in various countries and, it must be confessed, I was saddened, appalled even, by what I heard. Although it was never said that he killed indiscriminately, or ever used violence when it could be avoided, he had a reputation for being utterly ruthless as far as his enemies were concerned—and enemies were defined as those being on the side of those not paying his wages.' Mather noticed that Cora did not appear shocked, nor even surprised; it was as though he had merely confirmed her own suspicions about Halloran.

'A few years ago I began recruiting for Achilles' Shield,' he went on. 'Ex-SAS officers make extremely good operatives, so they were my prime targets. I'd lost all contact with Liam by then—it may be that I was afraid of what he'd become—but something inside urged me to seek him out, a niggling guilt perhaps, a feeling that it was I who had let him down. It may possibly have been nothing more than a nagging curiosity.

'I eventually located him in Moshupa, a small township in Botswana, very close to the border of South Africa. lie was training ANC guerrillas for incursions into their homeland where they would wreak as much destruction as possible before stealing back across the border to the neighbouring state. But Liam was a far different person from the young man I had come to know. He seemed . . . empty. As though what he was doing, the killers and saboteurs he was training, the awful conditions he was living in, meant nothing at all to him. He didn't even register surprise when I turned up, only a chilly kind of amusement.

When I spoke with Liam it was like talking to someone drained of emotion; but gradually I began to realise he possessed an inner seething that frightened me more than anything else about him. God knows what he'd been involved in after resigning from the British Army, but its mark had been left. No, he hadn't been brutalised; it was as though he'd become immunised against outrage, wickedness, against caring. As I said, that was on the surface: inside, emotions were being stifled, held so firmly in check that I suspect even he was unaware they were there. Or perhaps he glimpsed them now and again, yet refused to let them rise, refused to be influenced by them. I was sure I'd come at exactly the right time, couldn't help but feel I'd been nudged by some inner instinct of my own, because I could tell that Liam had had enough, he was ready to break. Those suppressed emotions—his own selfhatred—were about to erupt.

'He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but I think he saw me as some kind of lifeline, a means of dragging himself from that moral squalor he'd sunk into. As for me, I was only too happy to throw down the rope.

'Liam told me he had discovered there were no absolutes. No absolute right or wrong, no absolute good or evil. There were degrees of everything. Once you accepted that—truly accepted it, he insisted—you were able to set your own balance, you understood the bounds within which you could function without guilt clawing at you, tainting your thoughts and so hindering your actions. And he said that virtue, righteousness, whatever you like to call it, often held little sway over evil, because its own rules inhibited.

Sometimes only evil could defeat another evil. Degrees, he kept repeating, the lesser against the greater.

'None of it made much sense to me, but it indicated the slough of despair he was wallowing in. No, perhaps despair suggests self-pity, and the man I spoke to was too hardened for that. Pessimism might be a more appropriate word, cynicism even better. Anyway, he agreed to return to England with me and work for Achilles' Shield, protecting lives instead of the opposite.

In my opinion, that change was vital for Liam, because it pulled him back from the brink.' Cora, who had been listening quietly throughout, finally ;poke. 'He was that close . . . ?'

'In my opinion,' Mather reasserted. 'It may be an oldfashioned notion on my part, but when all probity is lost, total degradation is swift to follow. It seemed to me at the time that Liam had almost lost all reasonable values.' The girl looked down at her hands and Mather wondered if he had embarrassed her.

Were his ideas too rigid, or too 'quaint' for these racy times? Probably, but no less valid for that, he reassured himself.

'And has he changed?' Cora asked softly.

'Well, he's been with Shield for over six years now, and in many ways he's the best operative we have.

Yes, he has changed.' Mather smiled. 'But just how much, I really can't say.'

29 RECONNOITRE

They drove past the gates, all three occupants of the car peering round, looking along the uneven drive to see where it led. Unfortunately it curved into woodland which obscured any further view.

With a nod of his head, the front passenger indicated the old lodge-house set to one side of the big iron gates. The car did not slow down.

They studied the high wall as the car picked up a steady speed once more, and then the dense trees and undergrowth when the weathered brickwork ran out. They travelled a long way before a narrow lane came up on the left. The driver steered into it, the other two occupants continuing to study the hedges that bordered the left-hand side of the lane. Presently they were able to catch brief glimpses of downward slopes, woodland, a lake. The man in the backseat told the driver to stop the car.

Although their view was restricted by the trees closest to the lane, they could just make out what appeared to be a red-stoned building on the far shore of the lake, nestled beneath low hills. Reluctant to linger too long, the back passenger instructed the driver to move on.

The lane joined a wider road and again the car turned left, maintaining a casual speed, neither fast, nor slow. There were bends and dips along the route, but the observers' attention rarely wavered from the heavily wooded countryside on their left. Through his rearview mirror, the driver noticed another vehicle approaching from behind. It was a Granada and he mentioned the fact to his companions. It slowed down, keeping a distance of forty or fifty yards away, following without pressurising the lead car into hurrying.

The driver of the first vehicle watched for a road to come up on his right. One did, and he drove on by.

Soon another appeared, again to his right, and this one he took.

In his mirror he saw the Granada pass along the road they hid left, its two occupants staring after them.

It quickly vanished from view, but the driver of the first car kept on going, picking up speed.

Only when they had travelled a mile or so further did he pull in by the side of the road and turn to look at his companions.

The passenger in the back nodded. From what they'd seen so far, the scar-faced man (when they had finally broken him) had been quite correct: the estate was large, very large indeed.

30 RETRIBUTION IN DARKNESS

Quinn-Reece was alone in his office on the eighteenth floor of the Magma Corporation.

The tiniest smile of satisfaction twitched his lips as he completed the last paragraph of the report concerning the Papua New Guinea copper situation. A report that Felix Kline had requested he provide before leaving the building, so that the chairman could call a forward planning meeting after he had broken the news to the board of directors on Monday morning.

Did they really hope to retrieve the situation? Exploration rights for that particular area of land had already been granted to Consolidated Ores, and not even if Magma's bribe to the government officials involved outmatched their rival company's could the agreement he rescinded.