Sepulchre

A door was open at the end of the corridor, rain pouring in. What was this? The house couldn't be that narrow. He hurried to the doorway and looked outside, suddenly understanding the layout. A courtyard, filling up with rain by the looks of it. And what was that?

Light from another doorway opposite. Somebody there, like him, peering out.

Shay did not hesitate: he was through the door like a shot, racing across the courtyard towards the other man. Something was bubbling to his right, but he paid it no mind, realising it was a fountain, the storm causing its basin to overflow.

He kept running and the other person had spotted him, was backing away. The fool's attention must have been on the fountain before, not on the shadow bearing down on him through the storm. It had been Shay's luck that lightning had not struck during those few seconds.

He burst into the hallway and was able to reach out for the man who, too late, had attempted to flee. He pulled him round, clamping a hand over the man's mouth, then ramming the barrel of the gun beneath his captive's wire-rimmed spectacles so that they rose off his nose, the weapon hard against his closed eyelid.

48 BLOOD RITES

The Arab was murmuring an intonation that was breathless, his excitement conveyed through the wire which vibrated against Halloran's throat. Daoud watched the figures at the altar, fretful that he was unable to join them, but chanting the incantations learned from the cuneiform writings, so that he was at least part of the ceremony.

A breeze swept down from the corridor above, bending the candle flames as it swirled around the underground chamber, ruffling the light so that shadows danced and weaved as though they also belonged to the rite.

At the stone slab that served as an altar, Felix Kline, aware that his strength was fading, his will weakening with it, urged Khayed to hurry. Tissue was breaking from him, falling onto the robe he wore, onto the open body lying below on the stone. He could feel fresh lesions forming, the flesh ulcerating and rupturing beneath his clothing, skin weeping pus, dribbling wetness. The pain was intense, as though every joint in his body was on fire, and his scalp was tightening around the skull, splitting apart as it shrank. This agony was like never before, and it was the significance of that which frightened Kline more than anything else. The torments of his sleep, the panic that had lingered afterwards, the sense of deep foreboding—these were feelings he had not experienced since discovering the hidden tomb so many years before. Why now, O Lord? Have I failed you in some way? Acre you failing me, Bel-Marduk?

The questions were silent, his spoken invocations uninterrupted, for those ancient words were important to the ritual, their tonal values an inducing cadence for affinity between the psyche and the spiritual realms.

Khayed's hands were bloodied beyond the wrists as he pulled at the sliced sides of the body to expose Monk's innards. The bodyguard's eyelids fluttered as life dwindled, receding within him so that it could expand outwards through another dimension. The Arab tugged at Monk's exposed sternum, bending the ribs upwards, then pushed sweating organs down towards the gut, reaching for the heart and dragging it clear, stretching arteries and breaking veins until the feebly pulsing organ was revealed. All a familiar and well-practised ritual.

Kline took the other heart, the old shrivelled husk that represented—that was—the existence of his deity. With one hand he lifted this shell, while with the other he reached for Cora's wrist. She was too numbed to resist, incomprehension still misted in her eyes.

But when Kline plunged both their hands into the gaping wound, the dried, withered thing held between them, she whimpered. When he settled the remnant organ against the fresh, bleeding one, using their hands as a vice, she screamed.

Cora felt her whole self being drawn down into the huge open wound, blood spurting along her arm, her hand disappeared into the quagmire. And it was the ancient petrified heart that sucked her in.

Kline was lost in a delirium of sensations, a euphoric rebirth without trauma, a vigour beginning to pulsate through him. All this ceased for him when the girl pulled her hand free, bringing with it the parasite heart.

Cora held the relic in her bloody grasp and stared loathingly at it for but a moment. Turning away, she cast it from her, a violent and sudden movement that neither Kline nor Khayed could prevent.

The brittle shell scudded across the stone floor and came to rest in a puddle of blackened water.

Now it was Kline who screamed, a piercing cry that echoed around the walls of the chamber.

And it was Halloran who took his chance.

Daoud's attention was on the dark, blood-soaked mound lying in the water only a few yards away, his grip loosened on the wooden handles of the garotte. Halloran, half-kneeling below the Arab, swiftly brought the point of his elbow up into the other man's groin. Daoud hissed, releasing one of the handles to clutch at himself, the wire cutting across Halloran's throat. The operative grabbed the Arab's ankle and pulled, sending his opponent crashing onto his back.

Despite the pain, Daoud kicked out at Halloran, toppling him as he tried to rise.

They came up together, but tears blurred the Arab's vision. Halloran's stiffened fingers jabbed at the front of Daoud's neck, striking for the thyroid cartilage. If his balance had allowed a greater force to the blow, the Arab would have been killed instantly; as it was, Daoud crouched over his knees, choking and gasping. Halloran half-rose, turning as he did so, ready to launch himself at the Arab's companions.

Cora had sunk down against the altar, blood from the open body above spilling over the edge to stain the shoulders of her white robe. Kline was stumbling around the stone slab, one hand against it for support, the other stretched out, fingers spread, as though reaching for the relic lying in the wetness of the floor some distance away. Khayed's gaze was fixed on his choking lover. Rage burned when it shifted to Halloran. Khayed lifted the long and broad chopping knife.

But others had entered the chamber.

Janusz Palusinski, whom Kline had ordered to investigate the earlier sound of gunfire, had returned. A man in a rain-drenched anorak gripped the Pole's collar from behind; in his free hand was a revolver pointing at Palusinski's head.

Danny Shay was dismayed by what confronted him in the gloomy, candle-lit room. Dismayed, then fiercely angry. There were robed figures below him, one wielding a long, bloodstained knife, another in black wearing a hideous mask of some kind. There was a girl resting against a stone slab, her legs exposed, blood soaking her clothing. And the stone resembled an altar, and on that altar—oh dear God in Heaven !—there was a mutilated body, blood pumping from it like red springwater. There were moving shadows, dark alcoves that might have hidden others involved in this atrocity. Shay thumbed back the hammer of the .38.

And then his eyes came to rest on the man he had been seeking.

'Halloran!' he yelled.

The operative looked up towards the top of the stairway, as did the others in the chamber. Khayed became still, while Kline leaned heavily against the stone, a wildness in his eyes. Cora barely reacted, for the moment too disorientated to care.

The man with the gun shoved Palusinski away from him, and the Pole staggered down a few steps before cowering against the wall, folding himself up so that he was small, a poor attempt to make himself invisible. The weapon came around to point at Halloran.

'You've given the Organisation a lot of grief, man,' Shay said.

Halloran straightened slightly, his body remaining tensed. The man above him had spoken with a thick, southern-Irish accent and a hint of the truth began to dawn in Halloran's mind.

'You killed three good men, Halloran. Valuable men to the Cause, they were. Shot 'em before they had a chance. You should have known we'd find you, you must have realised the IRA would never stand for that!' Halloran was stunned. So it was he who had been the target all along. This bastard had tortured Dieter Stuhr to find him...

The man on the stairway felt uneasy with the strange smile that had appeared on Halloran's face.

Shay spoke to cover his own inexplicable fear. 'There'll be three Provos, good an' true, smiling in Heaven this night,' he said, raising the .38 so that it was aimed directly at Halloran.

'There's no such place for killers,' the man below said, and his voice was mild, the lilt of Irish there as if he'd not been gone too long from the ould country.

'That you'd be knowing yourself,' Shay replied. 'God only knows what Divil's worship you're involved in here. Ask His forgiveness, if you've a mind to, an' do it now.' Thunder rumbled as his finger curled against the revolver's trigger.

'Liam!' Cora screamed, and just for an instant the gunman was distracted.

That was all the time that Halloran needed to make a grab for the collapsed Arab.

The gun roared deafeningly in the confines of the underground room, but Halloran had already hoisted up the Arab to use as a shield. Daoud shuddered as the bullet struck his forehead and lodged inside. The operative fought to control the twitching body, his hands beneath the dead man's shoulders, holding him upright. The second bullet entered Daoud's stomach, and the third went through his side. Halloran felt this last one nick his hip as it emerged and, although most of its force was spent, the shock was enough to make him drop his cover.

More screams filled the air, but these were from Khayed who had witnessed the slaying of his lover. He ran towards the stairs, the long blade raised high, a continuous screech now rising from deep inside his throat.

Shay was obliged to turn to meet the attack, and he was hardly aware of the person who had led him to this ungodly place brushing past. Palusinski was too afraid for his own life to tackle the gunman; he made for the safety of the corridor at the top of the stairs.

Khayed was almost on the bottom step when Shay fired the gun at him. A hole appeared in the Arab's chest, its edges immediately spreading blood. He staggered backwards, his arms waving as if for balance, then came forward once more, his face not contorted with pain but with outrage. He reached the second step and seemed to sense he would never get close to the one who had killed his beloved Youssef.

The huge knife was already leaving his hand as the next bullet tore away his throat.

Shay fell back against the stairs, the blade imbedded at an angle in his stomach, the heavy anorak he wore no protection at all. His vision was already beginning to dim as he turned his head towards the man below, his target, the Irishman turned traitor whom he and his group had been sent to assassinate as an example to others of how the Organisation always avenged themselves. His hand wavered as he raised the Webley .38, for the weapon was suddenly very heavy, almost too heavy to lift.

Once again he aimed the gun at Halloran.

49 RETURN TO THE DEATH HUT

'We can't waste any more time with this one,' Mather remarked. 'Find another point of entry?' his operative suggested, looking up from his kneeling position against the porch wall.

'No need,' Mather replied, raising a hand to the other two Shield men running towards them. He went to meet them, keeping out of sight of the main doors inside the porch from where the gunman held them at bay. He tightened his coat collar around his neck against the drenching rain.

'In the mood for target practice, Georgie?' he asked when the two men reached him.

'Always, sir,' came the answer, as all three moved in close to be heard over the storm. 'What's the problem?'

'We're being refused admittance. You see the Mercedes parked in line with the porch? You'll have a clear view of the house doorway from the rear passenger seat, or at least you can see some of it in the darkness—our friend appears to have switched off some lights. The vehicle's ours, so use your spare key if it's locked.'

'How much damage?'

'Just hit the bugger.' Mather limped away, followed by the second operative who crouched low and used the Mercedes as a screen to reach the opposite side of the porch. The man named Georgie doubled over also, going to the car and trying the doorhandle. Halloran must have left it in one hell of a rush, he thought, when he discovered the doors were unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. Georgie switched on the system, then crawled over to the backseat and pressed the button to lower the passenger window.

lie raised the Browning, keeping it clear of the rain that spattered in, and waited.

He watched as the operative with Mather crawled on his belly into the tunnel, keeping to the shadow of one wall. The Planner reached inside with his cane to tap the floor, hoping to attract the attention of their quarry.

It worked. Georgie squeezed the Browning's trigger as flame flashed from the doorway ahead. All he heard was the bark of his own weapon, but he assumed Phil, inside the porch, had fired at the same time, aiming slightly left of the gunflash. They waited a few seconds then, as lightning seared and thunder shook the sky, he saw Mather rush inside, Phil rising to accompany him to the doorway. He bundled out of the car, taking up position on the opposite side of the porch to his other colleague, their weapons pointing inwards at the entrance.

Mather pushed the door back further and flicked the Armalite away from the motionless gunman with his cane. Soft light from an open door across the spacious hall and from the landing above lit the area and Mather breathed a sigh of relief when he ascertained that no one else guarded the main doors. Rushing forward like that so soon after the enemy was hit had been a calculated risk, but it had saved some time.

Mather pointed at the slumped figure with his cane. 'Check him, then send one of the others after me while you search upstairs.' He was already limping across the hall making for the lit doorway as he gave the orders.

He entered a corridor at the end of which was a door swaying with the draught that blew in from outside, rain puddling the floor beneath it. He hurried forward glancing into other open doorways as he passed.

From ahead, Mather thought he heard a scuffling.

Palusinski came out into the courtyard, the pounding rain welcome on his face and head, even though huge droplets spattered his glasses and distorted his vision. Lightning pearled everything before him, dazzling him through the water-spots on his lenses so that he blinked rapidly. Whipping off the spectacles, the movement accompanied by a peal of thunder, he hurried across the flagstones. The Pole had no desire to find his way through Kline's private rooms in order to reach the main doors of the house: this way was more direct and the sooner he was away from the madness inside Neatly the better he would like it. His own acute sense of survival told him some kind of reckoning was at hand for Kline moj Pan, oh Lord and Master!—and he, Janusz Palusinski, did not want to be around for the consequences.

But as he passed the centre fountain, a burning liquid sprayed his face.

When he stopped to brush at the stinging with his hand, he felt a stickiness on his cheek. He could feel it eating into his skin. He peered short-sightedly at the fountain and there seemed to be shapes contorting from the stonework, rising from the brimming basin, writhing among the ornamentation.

Palusinski uttered a startled cry and began to back away. Gowno! This couldn't be! The fountain was a dead thing, defunct, slimed and blocked, an extinct spring! Yet he could discern a bubbling outflow catching reflections from window lights around the yard. And liquid dribbled sluggishly from the carved spouts which, in their decay, resembled gargoyles. And these monsters themselves were moving, twisting as if to tear themselves free from the stonework, hatching from wombs of masonry, spitting their bile of burning substance, the whole structure gushing unnatural life.

Palusinski slipped as he turned to run, his knees smacking sickeningly against the flagstones. His spectacles flew from his grasp, one lens cobwebbing fine cracks as it struck.

The Pole scrabbled away on hands and knees, too much in haste to search for his broken glasses, and too afraid to look back at the quivering fountain. He sobbed when something touched his leg, a curling caress that somehow scorched even though there was no firmness, no strength in its grip. He pushed himself up, moving forward all the time, blundering towards the open doorway on the other side of the courtyard where light was shining outwards.

He blinked away wetness. There was someone else in the corridor, limping towards him. Palusinski reacted instinctively and with his natural sense of self-preservation. He drew out the metal bar he always carried inside his coat and launched himself at the advancing figure.

Mather noted the crazed wildness in the other man's eyes, and saw light catching the shiny weapon being raised, ready to strike. He came to a halt and pointed his cane at the bald man's chest.

Palusinski sneered at the other's ineffectual weapon, realising there was nothing to fear in this old man confronting him, the only real terror being out there in the courtyard and the underground chamber he had just left. He grabbed the end of the cane and pulled it towards himself, sure that it would be easy to wrench it from the frail grasp. The metal bar had reached its zenith, was trembling in his hand, ready to plunge downwards against the man's skull. He barely heard the faint click.

Mather had pressed the tiny button in the cane's handle and the wooden casing slid from the long, slender blade, his would-be assailant unsheathing the sword himself. The Shield Planner took no chances, for he could see the murder in this wildman's eyes.

He lunged forward, the sword piercing the bald man's chest, melting through, entering his heart and still not stopping.

Palusinski looked in surprise at the other man. The pain only came when the sword was swiftly withdrawn.

He sank to the floor, a casual gesture as if he merely wanted to rest for a moment. Janusz Palusinski lay down and, as his mind wandered towards death, he felt he was among other recumbent bodies. He was no longer inside the corridor of the house, but in the dimly lit but a long, long way from there, and a long time ago.

Those skeletal forms around him were sitting up and grinning their welcome, for they had been waiting many years. One even crawled over to touch the young Janusz's face with bony fingers. Janusz lay there, unable to move, and he wondered why unseen hands were pulling at his clothing. And he wondered why there was no pain when teeth gnawed into his plump belly.

No, there was no pain at all.

Just the nightmare that he knew would go on forever . . .

50 SHADOWS AND IMAGININGS

Halloran remained perfectly still, staring up into the eyes of the dying gunman.

The weapon wavered in the air, trying to home in on its target. But the exertion was too much, and too late. Danny Shay rolled onto his side to make one last determined effort, but the gun was far too heavy for someone with only seconds to live. For a moment his arm hung over the stairway, the weapon loose in his grip. Then Shay's eyes closed and he knew he would never open them again.

'Dear God . . .' he began, the plea cut short when even his voice lost its strength.

He toppled from the stairs onto the damp floor, his landing relaxed, for he was already dead.

Wind tearing in from the passageway above ruffled Halloran's hair. The light stirred, juddered, many of the candle flames snuffed by the breeze so that shadows stole forward from the alcoves. The ancient worshippers watched on, stone eyes dispassionate. And there seemed to be other onlookers within those darkened arches, but these were forms of no substance, observers that could never be defined by light for they were of the imagination even though they existed outside the mind. Halloran was intensely aware of their watching.

He turned towards the altar where the bloated corpse continued to pump blood. Cora had moved away, her shoulders soaked a deep red; she looked imploringly at Halloran, as if silently begging him to take her away from this madness. When she saw the coldness in him, Cora became inert.

Halloran would not allow emotion to hold sway. Not for the moment. He was confused, uncertain of his feelings for Cora. She had touched him, made him vulnerable once more. And naturally, he had paid the price. He told himself she was an innocent used by someone who existed only for corruption. Yet . . . the thought persisted . . . yet there had to have been some part of her that was susceptible.

'Don't dare to judge me, Liam She spoke quietly, but with defiance. 'Not you, not someone like you.' He understood her meaning.

Thunder rumbled through the passageway, the sound spreading out into the chamber, seeming to tremble the walls. Dust sifted down from the ceiling to congeal in the puddles on the floor.

And in one small slick of black water lay the dried husk that was an embalmed heart.

And those unseen but fearfully imagined forms were emerging from the alcoves.

Halloran sensed their movement at first and only when he looked did they take on a nebulous kind of reality. These were as the things from the lake, and they shuffled forward, eager to embrace. Because they were of him, the creatures mere reflections of the dark side of his inner self, manifestations of his own frailty, his own corruption. Hadn't Kline, himself, explained that to him?

He felt weakened. He staggered as if struck. He spun round.

More of these creations of the subconscious were slipping from between the statues, winding their way through, advancing on him. Yet each time he focused on one, it became formless, a swirling, vaporous nullity. His mind seemed squeezed, as though invisible tentacles had insinuated themselves into the orifices of his body, clogging them, sliding inwards to capture his thoughts.

He clapped his hands against his temples, shaking his head to free himself of these tenuous intruders. He twisted, bent under their weight. Cora was trying to reach him, but something had hold of her, something not visible that tore at her robe, exposing her shoulders, her breasts that were smeared with blood. She was screaming as she struggled, but he could not hear her.

Halloran stumbled forward, desperate to help her, wanting that more than anything else, heedless of his own plight, the invasion of his own body. But it was useless. He was being dragged down by these seeping infiltrators who sought their own origins.

He could not hear her screams. But he could hear Kline's laughter.

Its cracked sound mocked him, tormented, as Kline overwhelmed him with imaginings, the thoughts swelling with alt the badness that had been drawn into that underground room, the malignancy that had dwelled inside the dead men, released now by someone who acted as instigator and catalyst, someone who knew the ancient secrets of the Cabala, who understood their potency. Felix Kline . . .

Where was he? Where was Kline?

Where else but inside your head? came the silent reply.

'That can't be,' denied Halloran aloud, his hands over his ears as though they could cut out the sly voice that was, indeed, inside his head.

Oh, but it can. A familiar snigger. I can be anywhere. Didn't I demonstrate that the first time we met?

'I can stop you!' You can? Please try. A good-humoured invitation.

Halloran's legs buckled as white-hot irons pressed against the back of his eyeballs.

There. Painful? I can do more than that. You deserve to suffer more.

Halloran looked up from his kneeling position. Kline was standing a short distance away, facing him, eyes closed, scarlet hands tight against his own head. A head whose skin was all but gone, the flesh that had been beneath exposed and livid. He was unsteady as shadows that were something more than shadows writhed around him. Kline's mouth was open, an agonised grimace.

'It's too late!' Halloran managed to shout. 'You're weak. Your power isn't the same.' And as he said the words, Halloran felt the slightest easing of pressure, the merest cooling of the fire. Pain immediately came back to him.

You're so wrong, Halloran, whispered the insidious voice inside his head. My only problem is whether I finish you quickly or take my time, enjoy myself a little.

But there was a gasp, a sound only in Halloran's mind. Kline was reeling, his hands leaving blotches of scraped flesh as they ran down his face.

'Halloran!' A piercing scream, and from Kline's lips.

The psychic's eyes opened, blackness filling them. They rested on Halloran's. 'I can hurt you,' Kline rasped. 'I can make your heart seize up with the horrors I'll show you.' His eyes closed once more and the snigger was back inside Halloran's mind.

Nightmares began to form, and gargoyles drifted from them. But these were tangible, on the outside of his thoughts, for when they touched him their fingernails were like razor blades, and he could smell the stench of their breath, dank and foul, like old sea caves where mammoth creatures of the deep had been abandoned by the tide to die. They clung to him and their lips -not lips, they had no such things as lips—their openings pressed against his face to kiss.

He felt the aching in his arms. The tightening of his chest, as fear began to win through. No! They were in his mind—in Kline's mind! They couldn't hurt him!

But they could.

For where they touched him, so they drew out his life. He could feel living beings inside his veins, blocking the flow, expanding so that they burst the tubes and his life's liquid poured uselessly into the cavities of his body. He sagged, slumped on his haunches, and he acknowledged Kline's assertion that he could coax a victim's mind to murder its own host. Halloran was unable to resist, the images of Kline's creation were too strong, too real! His forehead bowed to the wet stone floor.

This time the roar was not thunder.

It jolted Halloran into awareness. A confusion of senses muddling his brain, a bedlam of emotions causing him to cry out. Now the worst of his pain was from his hip where the bullet that had passed through the Arab had scraped his own flesh. Blood there was soaking his torn jacket. And the soreness around his throat was a relief rather than a discomfort, for it was, like the throbbing pain in his side, an indication of true reality.

Halloran opened his eyes and looked up. The monsters had fled. The shadows were but shadows.

Kline was lying on the floor and there was no movement from him.

Halloran pushed himself to his feet and stood for a while, his body bent forward, hands resting against his legs, waiting far his strength to return. He searched for Cora.

He found her crouched over the dead gunman, her robe in tatters around her waist, marks and bloodstains on her pale skin. In her shaking hand was the revolver, smoke still curling from its barrel. She was staring at Kline, eyes wide, her expression lifeless.

,Cora . . .' Halloran said as he staggered towards her. He knelt on one knee and took the gun from her, laying it to one side. 'I think you used his last bullet,' he told her as he gently pulled the remnants of her robe around her shoulders. She turned her face to him and apprehension filtered through the numbness.

She murmured something he didn't quite catch, but it dud not matter. He raised her to him and held her close, kissing her matted hair, his arms tight around her.

'It's done, Cora,' he assured her quietly. 'Finished. I'll get you away from this place, as far away as possible.' She sank into him and the wetness from her eyes dampened his collar. He ran a hand beneath her hair and his fingers caressed the back of her neck.

He felt her stiffen.

He heard the slithering.

Halloran turned.

Felix Kline was sliding on his belly through puddles on the floor, leaving a trail of decayed skin and blood in his wake, the raw flesh of his skinless face and hands puckered and cracked, a glistening redness oozing from lesions. Facial muscles were clearly defined in grouped ridges, and tendons stood proud on his hands, with veins stretched as bluish rivulets. His breathing came as a strained animal-like coughing as he pushed himself towards the blackened lump which rested in filthy water at the centre of the room.

He was almost there, one hand extended, quivering as it reached for the relic that once was a heart within a body, his breath becoming harsher, a drool of spittle sinking to the floor from his gaping mouth.

Three feet away from the pool in which the ancient heart lay.

Push.

Two feet away. A piteous moaning from him as his painwracked body scraped against the flagstones.

Tears as the suffering became too much to bear.

Push.

Through the wetness.

Halloran rose, softly taking away Cora's hand from his arm as she tried to cling to him.

Push.

Not far now.

Desperation gleamed in Kline's dark eyes.

A few more inches.

Push.

Nearly there.

His fingers stretched, sifting through the dirty water, almost touching the withered husk.

A shadow over him.

A lifted foot.

Kline sobbed as Halloran crushed the heart into the stone floor.

51 END OF THE STORM

Mather peered out into the courtyard.

Thank God the storm's easing, he thought. Lightning flashes were mere reflections, with thunder following long moments after as distant rumblings. The rain had lost its force, had become a pattering. He could just make out what must have been an impressive fountain in an age gone by, its structure now misshapen, worn by time. It glistened from the rain, but had no vitality of its own.

He was naturally concerned over the dead man lying behind him in the corridor. Mather realised that the man he had just killed was Janusz Palusinski, one of Kline's own bodyguards. The Planner had met Palusinski earlier that day, but the mad-eyed creature who had rushed at him in the corridor bore scant resemblance to that person: without his distinctive wireframed spectacles and because of his drenched condition and the sheer lunacy of his expression, the Pole was another character entirely.

Why the devil had the man tried to attack him? He surely must have known who the Planner was.

Unless, of course, the reason was that Palusinski was in league with the intruders, yet another traitor within the Magma organisation. There had certainly been no doubt about his murderous intent- Mather was too experienced in the ways of combat not to have recognised it. Well, the matter would be cleared up soon enough.

There was activity across the courtyard. An open door then°, vague light glowing from it. Shadows, figures. Someone -was coming through the doorway.

Mather's grip tightened on the sword-stick. He ducked back inside when he heard footsteps behind him.

One of his operatives was hurrying along the corridor. The Planner raised a finger to his lips and the operative slowed his pace, approaching quietly. He examined the bald-headed man whose chest was weeping blood.

Mather returned his attention to the two people who had stepped out into the courtyard, one of them apparently supporting the other.

'Wait there,' he instructed the operative when he recognised the couple as they made their way through the drizzle. Mather limped out to meet them, movement awkward without his cane; he quietly called Liam's name.

'Oh good Lord,' he said when he realised the state they were in.

Halloran expressed no surprise at finding Mather at Neath. In the light from the courtyard window, his face betrayed no emotion at all.

'Get her away from here,' Halloran said curtly, pressing Cora into the Planner's arms.

'What's happened, Liam?' Mather demanded to know. 'I've just been forced to kill one of Kline's bodyguards, the Polish fellow.' There was the slightest hint of a smile in Halloran's eyes. 'Trust me like you've never trusted me before,' was all he said. 'It's over now, but I want you to take Cora out of the house. Wait for me by the main gates.'

'Liam, that's -'

'Please do it.' Mather paused. 'And you?'

'There's something I have to take care of.' With that, he turned away from Mather and the girl to walk back through the soft rain to the doorway from where he and Cora had emerged.

52 THE BATTLE OVER

Halloran closed the double-doors of Neatly then strode along the gloomed porchway out into the cleansed night air. The clouds had broken up, the moon dominated. Dampness still lingered, but there was no violence left in this night. Across the lawn he could see the lake, a low-lying mist hovering over its calm surface.

He climbed wearily into the Mercedes, switching on engine and beams. He looked back at Neath once more, studying it for several moments before swinging the car around and heading up the road into the trees.

As he drove, he wondered about Felix Kline and his terrible and unique powers. He wondered about the story the psychic had told him, of the Sumerians, of Bel-Marduk, their devil-God, the Antichrist who had preceded the Christ. He wondered about the truth of it. And Halloran wondered about himself.

He thought that perhaps he understood.

They waited for him by the big iron gates, the four operatives puzzled and somewhat agitated by the abrupt ceasing of action, while Charles Mather stood with the girl, who wore one of the operatives'

jackets draped over her shoulders. Although barefooted and cold, Cora had refused to wait inside one of the cars; her eyes never left the drive leading to the house. She hadn't spoken a word since Mather had brought her away from Neatly despite his questions. Had Liam instructed her to remain silent? Mather wondered.

Cora caught her breath and Mather, too, saw the approaching lights, the car emerging from the tunnel of trees in the distance so that moonlight struck its silver bodywork. It came towards them at a leisurely pace, an indication that the danger really was past.

They watched as the Mercedes drew near, its headlights brightening the road.

But it stopped. By the lodge-house.

They saw Halloran lean out of the car window and drop something onto the ground in front of the two strange-looking guard dogs that had been prowling around their dead companions as though disorientated.

One of the animals warily came forward and began to devour whatever it was that Halloran had offered.

He watched the jackal chew on the crushed, blackened meat and waited there until the ancient heart had been swallowed completely.

Only then did Halloran start up the car again and drive onwards to the gates themselves.

He climbed out of the Mercedes and Cora took one hesitant step towards him. He raised his arms and she came all the way. Halloran pulled her tight against him.

Mather was bemused. Such a demonstrable show of emotion from his operative was unusual to say the least.

'Liam . . .' he began.

Halloran nodded at him. 'I know,' he said. The Planner wanted answers, and what could he tell him?

Halloran's tone was flat when he spoke. 'His bodyguards had turned against him. Monk, Palusinski, the two Jordanians—he'd treated them too badly. He's quite insane, you know. They finally had enough of him. None of it's clear, but I think they worked out a deal with the Provisional IRA to kidnap him. I guess they didn't want to live out their lives in servitude, and the proceeds from the ransom—or maybe just a Judas fee from the kidnappers would have ensured that they no longer had to. And they got away with it.

All except Palusinski and those two outsiders I saw you'd put down. You can alert the police, get them over here, have them watch air- and seaports.'

'Wait a minute. The IRA . . . ?'

'They were responsible for Dieter Stuhr's death. I suppose the idea was to make sure no one suspected it was an inside job, that information on the Shield cover was tortured out of our own man. Incidentally, Kline's gate-keeper was attacked by those animals back there. What's left of him is inside that lodge-house.' There was disbelief in Mather's eves, but Halloran steadily returned his gaze.

'They took Kline,' Halloran continued evenly. 'But he was badly injured. I think he'll die from his wounds.'

'We'll see if we get a ransom demand. We'll insist on having evidence that he's still alive.'

'Somehow I don't believe that'll happen.'

'Shall I get on to the police now, sir?' one of the other men asked briskly.

'Uh, yes,' replied Mather. 'Yes, I think that would be appropriate, don't you, Liam? God knows how they'll take all this shooting, but we've been in similar predicaments before. Such a dreadful thing that all our efforts failed.' Not once had he taken his eyes off Halloran.

'Let's sit in the car until the police arrive, shall we?' Mather suggested. 'Miss Redmile is shivering. And then you can tell me more, Liam. Yes, you can explain a lot more to me.' There was something chilling in Halloran's smile. He looked back at the brooding lodge-house. Then along the road that disappeared into the darkness of the smothering woods, winding its way to the house itself. To Neath.

'I'm not sure you'll understand,' Halloran said finally.

He took Cora's arm and helped her into the car.

Serpent Lights all around. Soft-hued glows.

Shadows, pretty, never still, constantly weaving their secrets.

Ah, the bliss of lying here. A fitting place, this altar. Peaceful. And no pain. Not yet.

Is this how it was for you, O Lord? Did your priests minister drugs to suppress the hurting? Or was your cask, your vessel, dead before it was entombed, your spirit trapped within to wait out the years, the centuries? Your heart had not died, I know that.

So tired, so exhausted. Sleep will be welcome. Yes, yes, even eternal sleep.

It's cold in this chamber beneath the earth. And damp. Yet why can't I shiver? Why can't I move?

Oh yes. I know why.

So finally he believed. Halloran finally accepted the truth of it all. A triumph in some ways, wouldn't you say?

But why didn't I understand that he was the one conditioned to ruin me? Why, with all my perceptive powers, didn't I realise it was Halloran who was the threat? Is that the one weakness that comes with the gift of seeing, O Lord? The vulnerable point, the blindness to one's own destiny, the unforeseeableness of one's own fate? Is that your answer to me? Quite a joke really, don't think I don't appreciate it.

Even funnier if it was something more than that. It couldn't be, could it Lord, that he came at my own invitation? Surely not. That would be nonsense, too perverse for words. Yet we enjoy perversity, don't we? Well, don't we? Constant evil can be wearing, don't you agree? But I tried, I did my best for you.

The decades were so long though, Bel-Marduk. Surely you, above all, can appreciate that? But that doesn't mean I'd close my mind to my own impending demise, does it?

Does it?

DOES IT?

No, I was happy with the task you set me. Evil for evil's sake. Harm for the sake of doing harm.

Corruption for you! Entirely for YOU!

It doesn't hurt yet. What Halloran has done to me doesn't hurt. Not yet. And it shows he believes, he believes in you! I wonder if the drugs were his idea of mercy, maybe to demonstrate he isn't as wicked as me. He seemed to understand, though, when I told him there are no absolutes, that no one—not even I—could be totally evil. Nor totally good. Yes, that appeared to make sense to him. Perhaps that was why he softened my pain with drugs, perhaps he'd already realised that.

(And was that imperfection in me my failing, O Lord? Did I fail because I was not perfectly evil? But I tried, oh I tried.) It had to be someone like him, didn't it? The other Lord, your eternal enemy, had to send someone like Halloran. Someone who could be cruel, someone who would carry it through. And someone who might seek a kind of redemption—shit, how I detest that word!

And I was the one who told him how. Should I be laughing, Bel-Marduk? Are you disappointed in me, will l be punished when I finally succumb? Or will we laugh together throughout eternity?

Ah! A twinge of pain at last! Sweet though, very sweet. I wonder which will kill me first? The loss of blood or the agony when the drugs wear off?

At least I'm not lonely here. I have my servants around me, just as you had yours in the secret sepulchre, their lives willingly given up to be with you always. But my servants were not so willing. No, they gave themselves up grudgingly. Still, their reluctant spirits are with me now. Listen how they whine.

Will I have to wait as long as you, Dark Lord, before my body is discovered? This, my own sepulchre, is well hidden, as was yours, and I don't have the strength to call others to it. In fact, I have no strength, no power, at all. I'm sure Halloran sealed the entrance well, and no one would hear me even if I could scream.

Aaaah! Hurting!

And it's darker now. Are the candles burning low? Will I be left on this altar in total darkness; unable to see, unable to move . . .

Spare me this pain, please Lord. Take me before the opiums weaken. Forgive me for failing you.

If I turn my head I can see the knife he used on me. Its blade is rich with my own blood. Isn't it funny, Lord? If I could reach it, I could use it against myself, I could hurry along my death. But see there, one of my severed arms lying in a puddle next to it? The other is probably close by. And my legs. Where are they, I wonder? It's not important.

Can there be another time for me, O Lord?

No. Of course not.

What good is my limbless form to you, with my spirit forever entombed inside, my body now my soul's own sepulchre. Say you'll forgive me!

Darker now. Becoming very dim. I can still see the eyes though, those huge unblinking eyes watching from the shadows. They'll watch over me forever, won't they?

Even when the darkness is complete, they'll still be there.

Watching . . .