The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

“No one knows the secret of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence. They work with the diseased but never fall sick. They move among criminals but never fall victim. They surround themselves with sinners but never fall from Grace. These women appear blessed. Good fortune favours them. Some say they emanate some manner of mediumistic defence. Others say that God protects them. All I know is that I wish I was one of them, and I would have given anything to have had them with me during the dark days of the Crimean War.”

—NURSE FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

Hours passed. The prisoners alternated between short naps and watching as Crowley’s people tended to their wounds, loaded their weapons, packed away equipment, and prepared to move.

Swinburne said to Burton, “How can Crowley possibly take the Sagittarius?”

“You’re forgetting,” Burton replied, “even if Detective Inspector Slaughter’s raid on the Enochians’ clubhouse has succeeded, there were only twenty or so members in it, which—if Trounce got his figures right—leaves well over a hundred unaccounted for.”

“Ah, a sizeable raiding party.”

“Exactly, and the airfield isn’t expecting an attack. With Crowley’s ability to quash gunfire, they could wrest control of the ship before anyone realises what’s happening.” Burton rubbed his aching arm. “The Orpheus has been fitted with weapons but it wouldn’t stand a chance against that battleship.”

“Confound it!” the poet cursed. “We have to get out of here!”

“We still have hope,” Burton noted.

“In what form?” came the dubious reply.

“Sadhvi Raghavendra.”

However, four more hours went by before Burton was able to speak to the Sister of Noble Benevolence. She had slept for a period before reappearing at the far end of the passage, only to then vanish into the tunnel that led to the Effra. After an agonising wait, he saw her return to the catacomb. Many more minutes dragged by before she moved close enough for him to attract her attention.

He clicked his fingers.

She glanced at him, then strode over to a tangle of wire, picked it up, and started to unravel and coil it, giving the appearance of industriousness while edging closer to the cells, turning her ear to the explorer.

“Sadhvi,” he whispered, “are you familiar with the hidden passage that connects to the catacomb beneath the Episcopal chapel?”

She gave a barely perceptible nod.

“You have to escape through it and make your way to Battersea Power Station. Warn Isambard Kingdom Brunel of Crowley’s plan.”

“I don’t know his plan,” she breathed. “There’s a bomb. I have no idea what he intends to do with it.”

“I believe he’ll transport it through the Effra tunnel to the river’s outlet beside Vauxhall Bridge. From there, he’ll take it along the bank of the Thames to the Royal Navy Air Service Station. He and his people will attack the airfield and seize the Sagittarius. They’ll use the ship to drop the bomb on Green Park. Tell Brunel and Detective Inspector Trounce to ambush the Enochians at the bridge.”

Sadhvi nodded. “I’ll try.”

“We’ll cause a rumpus so you can get away while the attention is on us.”

At the far end of the passage, Crowley suddenly stretched, uncrossed his legs, and slid from the table.

“Good!” he announced. “I feel stronger.”

Raghavendra moved away from the prisoners.

“Galton, report!” Crowley snapped.

“It’s dawn, Master. We’re almost ready to move. Our fellows will be gathering.”

“We have a few minutes to spare?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Mr. Burke, you have my permission to proceed. Gather around, please, everybody.”

Damien Burke’s naturally woebegone features twisted into a wicked smile. He picked up a six-foot length of finger-thick cable, approached the prisoners, took keys from his pocket, and unlocked the gate to the left of Burton and Honesty’s cell.

Crowley and his people formed a semicircle halfway along the central catacomb, leaving a wide cleared space between them and the cells.

Swinburne screeched, “Get off me, you brute!”

Burke reappeared, dragging the poet by his long scarlet hair. He shoved him forward, sending him staggering into the middle of what, to Burton, was starting to look unpleasantly similar to an Indian fight pit.

“Mr. Swinburne,” Crowley announced. “You rather irritated me earlier and you also have the misfortune of being one of Sir Richard Francis Burton’s truest friends. He values you highly.”

“Nonsense!” Swinburne responded. “He hasn’t known me for more than a few days.”

Crowley laughed, revealing small, pointed teeth. His big, slanted, black eyes gleamed. He opened his long, muscular arms wide and declaimed:

But him we hailed from afar or near

As boldest born of the bravest here

And loved as brightest of souls that eyed

Life, time, and death with unchangeful cheer,

A wider soul than the world was wide,

Whose praise made love of him one with pride,

What part has death or has time in him,

Who rode life’s lists as a god might ride?

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “That was rather good, though horribly recited. Not yours, obviously.”

“No, Mr. Swinburne, not mine. Yours. You will write it in 1890. It is entitled ‘On the Death of Richard Burton.’ You see—you shall become very good friends indeed.”

Swinburne turned to face Burton and raised his eyebrows.

Burton gave a slight shake of the head, as if to say: Don’t provoke him!

“So,” Crowley said, “much as it pains me to do so—for I admire you greatly—I shall hurt you in order to hurt him. And perhaps in future you will think twice before mocking me.”

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Swinburne replied.

Burke lifted the cable, whirled it around his head, and cracked it onto the poet’s back. It tore through Swinburne’s jacket and sent him to his knees.

“Ow!” he cried out. “Bloody hell! Ha ha! Yes!”

Burke pulled back his makeshift whip and sliced it down again. It slapped across Swinburne’s shoulders, shredding his outer garments.

“Argh! He he he! Ooh! I say! Golly, that smarts!”

Thomas Honesty moved to Burton’s side and gripped the bars of the locked gate. They watched grimly as Burke set about the poet, his lash striking again and again. Swinburne hopped and skipped about. He fell and got up, fell and got up, all the time squealing and crying out as his clothes and skin were flayed.

“By God!” Honesty groaned. “How can he stand it?”

“Yow!” Swinburne screeched. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Eek!”

“He’s enjoying it,” Burton murmured. He saw Sadhvi Raghavendra surreptitiously backing out of the semicircle.

“Enjoying? Are you mad?”

“His brain doesn’t function as a normal man’s. He feels pain as pleasure.”

“Yikes!” Swinburne yelled. “Ha ha ha! Blimey!”

“Pleasure?”

Sadhvi slipped into a side corridor and was gone.

“Yes, Mr. Honesty. He’s in raptures. Look at him.”

Swinburne was laughing hysterically, tears of unbridled joy streaming down his cheeks.

“More!” he shrieked. “Put your back into it, old thing!”

Burke snarled and slashed. The cable wound around Swinburne’s waist then fell away, taking a strip of his shirt with it.

“Stings!” he squawked, and, turning around, pushed down his trousers and showed his buttocks to Burke. “Tally-ho, old chap! Let loose! Swish! Swish!”

Burke obliged, flying into such a rage that the slashing cable became almost invisible to the eye.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

“Yaaah! Ooh ooh ooh, yes! Ouch! Ouch! Ha ha!”

Uttering a yell of frustration, Burke sprang forward, took Swinburne by what remained of his collar, yanked him around, and shoved him hard toward the coffin bay in which Burton was held. The poet crashed against the gate and clutched at the bars. He looked at the explorer, winked, grinned, and said, “My hat, Richard, what a dose he’s giving me!”

The cable smacked across his back.

“Oof! Yow! Has Sadhvi got away?”

“Yes. Go for his eyes, Algy. He’s dangerous. We need him out of the picture.”

Crack!

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I’ll see—”

Crack!

“Ha ha ha! What I—”

Crack!

“Aaah! Eek! Oh oh! Can do!”

Crack!

The poet staggered back from the gate. The whip slapped against his shoulder blades and curled around his chest. He immediately raised his arms and pirouetted, winding the cable around himself and dancing closer to his assailant. Furiously, Burke jerked at the line, trying to yank it away from the poet. Swinburne timed it perfectly—just as Burke pulled, he jumped. Their combined strength sent him leaping high. His knees impacted against Burke’s shoulders and as the thug lost balance and went down beneath him, Swinburne fell on top with his thumbs over the man’s eyes and his full weight behind them.

Burke’s howl of agony shattered the spell, and as Swinburne rolled away from him, everyone started moving. One of the Enochians drew a pistol. Crowley snatched it from his hand, paced forward, and smacked the weapon into the poet’s mop of hair. It clunked against Swinburne’s skull and he went limp.

The Trans-Temporal Man straightened and looked down at Burke, who was writhing on the ground emitting scream after scream with his hands clamped to his face and blood welling between the fingers.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Burke, you’re no use to me at all in that state.” He pointed the pistol, shot Burke through the heart, then turned to Galton and said, “Put Swinburne back in the cell. I’ll deal with him at my leisure. It’s time to get going.”

The unconscious poet was returned to the bay beside Burton’s. A few minutes later, the Enochians locked Darwin and Lister into another before gathering at the tunnel mouth and filing out through it. They didn’t appear to notice Raghavendra’s absence.

Aleister Crowley approached Burton and with a cruel smile said, “I forgot to tell you, Isabel was perfectly delicious. How are you bearing up without her?”

Burton stared at him silently for a moment, then said, “She and I once talked about how we’d like to be laid to rest. We settled on a mausoleum. I now realise my post-mortem circumstances will be quite different.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I shall spend eternity in hell with my hands clamped around your throat.”

Crowley laughed. “After what I intend for you, that is quite probable. I’m going to work my way through all those you hold dear, Burton. Swinburne first, then Monckton Milnes, Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, Edward Brabrooke—oh, I know them all. You’ll watch them die slowly and painfully until your life is desolate.” He clapped his hands. “But such amusements are for tomorrow. First I have a couple of parliaments and royal families to kill. Wait here. I’ll return for you. Perhaps we can lunch together.”

He turned away and walked toward the tunnel.

“Why, Crowley?” Burton shouted after him. “Why me?”

The Trans-Temporal Man looked back, blinked his unnerving eyes, and deliberated for a moment before answering. “In truth? Because you’re the only person I fear.”

He departed.

Burton slammed his hands against the gate. “Damn him! Damn him!”

He heard a crash from Krishnamurthy and Bhatti’s cell.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to kick my way out,” Bhatti called. “Unsuccessfully. All I’ve managed to do is hurt my blasted foot. For the love of God, do we have to remain here with no idea of what’s happening?”

Burton signalled to Honesty and they put their shoulders to the gate. The heavy wrought iron didn’t budge. The explorer spat an oath and began to examine every inch of the cell. He looked for loose bricks, for a removable flagstone, for a means to lever the barrier from its hinges; he found nothing.

Swinburne groaned.

A voice hissed, “Are they all gone?”

“Trounce!” Burton exclaimed. “Is that you? Yes, we’re alone. How did you find us?”

Detective Inspector Trounce stepped into view, a revolver in his hand. Eliphas Levi and Montague Penniforth followed behind him.

“We waited at the power station,” the policeman said. “When you didn’t return, we came looking for you. We’d just descended into the other catacomb when Sister Raghavendra appeared. She’s gone on to warn Brunel. Is it true? There’s a bomb?”

“It’s true. Get us out of here.”

“Here, let me, guv’nor,” Penniforth rumbled. He stepped forward, gripped the gate near its hinges, put a foot against the wall, and heaved. While he pulled, Burton and Honesty pushed, and after a few seconds of straining, the gate suddenly gave, its hinges breaking free of the brickwork in an explosion of red dust.

The giant cabbie applied himself to the other cells, and in short order all the prisoners were liberated.

“Mon Dieu!” Levi cried out upon seeing Swinburne, who emerged a ragged and bloody mess.

“It’s all right, monsieur,” the poet said. “I’m stinging all over, but it’s perfectly delicious.” He reached up and gingerly felt a large lump on his head. “Apart from this.”

“And you, Monsieur Honesty?” the Frenchman asked. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Regaining some strength,” Honesty answered.

“Très bon! Your weakness is to be expected, but Perdurabo, he possess you only for a few days. You will soon recover, I think.”

“We have to get to the power station at once,” Burton said.

Krishnamurthy addressed Trounce and Levi, “If you don’t mind loaning Bhatti and me your revolvers, sirs, we’ll set off back along the Effra. While you attack the Enochians from the front, we’ll surprise them from the rear.”

The police officer and occultist handed over their weapons and ammunition. Krishnamurthy and Bhatti saluted, said, “Good luck all,” and departed.

“We’ll leave Darwin and Lister,” Burton said, looking at the scientist and surgeon, who were sitting blank-eyed in a cell. “They’re still under Crowley’s mesmeric spell but have obviously played their part for the moment, else he wouldn’t have left them here. We’ll send someone to pick them up.”

He led the remaining group to the secret passage and through to the other catacomb. As they proceeded, Trounce explained, “The violence and hysteria in the Cauldron are out of hand. We managed to prevent the rioters from marching westward but they won’t be contained for another night. The whole city is threatened. As for the less infuriated residents, we’ve evacuated thousands. They’re all scared to death.”

“There are many strigoi morti,” Levi added. “You are correct about Vincent Sneed, who destroy Big Ben. He is one. I stake and behead him. But your boy, Bram, he have nearly a hundred more reports of un-dead. At night, the East End is their place of hunting. In day, they sleep in the cellars and dark places. How we destroy them all, je ne sais pas. It seem impossible.”

They emerged into the vaults, passed Solomon, who was lying handcuffed on the floor—“I’ll send a constable for you,” Trounce promised—climbed the stairs to the church, and ran out into the morning rain, which was falling steadily from a leaden sky.

“Our rotorchairs are at the cemetery entrance,” the detective stated. “I told Sister Raghavendra to take one. There’s not enough left for all of us.”

“I’ll find one o’ me mates what’s in the business of cabbyin’,” Penniforth said. “I’ll get to the station in a jiffy. Anyways, I much prefers wheels to wings.” He touched the brim of his cloth cap and raced away.

“We have our machines parked nearby,” Burton said. “Mr. Honesty, you come with us. You and Algy are slightly built. His rotorchair will bear you both.”

The party split in two, and ten minutes later four rotorchairs soared above the rainclouds and sped northward.

It was early and cold and Burton had no recollection of his last full night’s sleep. Every part of him hurt: bones aching; flesh bruised; emotions savagely suppressed. He still hadn’t properly grieved. Isabel’s death was like a knife that couldn’t be removed lest the blood start flowing. It stabbed him through the heart but he would not—must not—acknowledge the damage. Not yet.

Don’t think of Isabel.

Don’t think of William Stroyan.

Don’t think of John Steinhaueser.

Think only of Aleister Crowley—of killing him.

Ahead, the tips of the four towers of Battersea Power Station poked out of the clouds. Burton sent his flying machine down into the wet shroud. The rain drummed against him. He plunged out of the vapour. To his left, the bulk of the Sagittarius humped up from the airfield. Visibility was poor, but as far as he could make out, there weren’t many people around it. If Crowley had an army of a hundred, he could hijack the battleship with ease.

Drawing to a halt above the power station’s quadrangle, the explorer eased his machine to the ground. As its rotors slowed to a stop, the other chairs descended, Swinburne’s slamming down heavily thanks to its additional weight.

The men ran to the entrance and were met by Daniel Gooch.

“Sister Raghavendra has told us what’s what,” he said. “We’ve gathered our forces—about fifty men. Come and arm yourselves.”

“El Yezdi?” Burton asked as they stepped into the immense workshop.

“Fading fast. I’m afraid these are his final hours, Sir Richard. Do you want to see him?”

The explorer hesitated then said, “There’s no time.”

A technician approached and handed him a Beaumont–Adams revolver and box of bullets. Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Honesty received the same.

“Are you up to it?” Burton asked the groundsman.

Honesty’s grey eyes took on a steely glint. “Fit for retribution.”

“Good man. And you, Algy? You look all in.”

The poet jerked his limbs restlessly and objected, “Not a bit of it. Don’t let the blood and ragged clothing fool you. I’m up for a scrap. Like Honesty here, I have a score to settle.”

“We all do.” Burton turned as clanking footsteps approached. Isambard Kingdom Brunel chimed a greeting. Each of the brass man’s six arms had a large multi-barrelled weapon bolted to it. He held one up and clanged, “Invented by one of our American associates, Doctor Richard Gatling. It loads automatically and has a very rapid rate of fire. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Brunel said to Gooch, “Have the men gather at the gates. On the double, please, Daniel.”

“We’ll head east along Riverside Walk,” Burton said. “It’s the most sheltered route between here and the mouth of the Effra.”

“You think that’s the way Crowley and his people will come?” Trounce asked.

“I can’t imagine them strolling along Nine Elms Lane.”

The policeman grunted his agreement.

Brunel’s DOGS, all armed, streamed from the building. The mechanical engineer led Burton’s party out to join them.

Burton addressed the little army. “We’re facing enemies of the Empire, gentlemen. Don’t hesitate to shoot to kill.”

From behind him, a voice said, “You mean lady and gentlemen.”

He turned to find Sister Raghavendra outfitted in men’s clothing and holding a revolver in each hand.

“You’ve played your part splendidly, Sadhvi—and thank you—but this next isn’t for you.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “My mistake. I’ll remain here, then. Perhaps I can knit you a scarf or embroider a doily or two while you’re fighting the insane tyrant who mesmerised me and forced me to assist him.”

Swinburne giggled and said, “Madam, may I declare my everlasting love?”

She ignored the poet. “Are you going to be a brute and stand here arguing, Richard, or shall we get on with it?”

The explorer gave a slight smile then turned and shouted, “Let’s go!”

The crowd filed through the gates and crossed the waste ground, moving along a rough path that led down to Riverside Walk. Here, they headed to the right, passing the Southwark and Vauxhall waterworks.

Even in the rain, the stench of the river was dreadful. “By Jove!” Trounce grumbled. “We have to get the Cauldron under control if only so Bazalgette can finish digging through it. The sooner his sewer system starts operating, the better.”

An idea flirted at the periphery of Burton’s mind then eluded him.

Too tired. Can’t even think straight.

They crossed a small dock at the side of a flour mill and continued on past a pottery, a coal wharf, a row of saw mills, and a brewery. When they reached Brunswick Wharf, Gooch pointed one of his mechanical arms at a large edifice beyond which, made vague by the downpour, Vauxhall Bridge could be seen extending across the choppy Thames. “That’s the Belmont Candle Factory.”

Eliphas Levi murmured, “Mouvement, messieurs.”

Burton squinted through the rain. “Men. Standing at a doorway. Not many.”

“I’ll go,” Brunel said. “They can’t harm me.”

He raised his Gatling guns and strode forward, his metal feet thudding on the wood of the platform that extended from the wharf and along the river-facing side of the factory. In his bell-like tones, he shouted, “Vacate the area, please. Your lives are at risk. Leave at once.”

The many windows of the building suddenly flew open, guns poked out, and a hail of bullets clanged against him, sending sparks flying. The men standing outside the factory ran into it.

“Enochians!” Swinburne yelled. “An ambuscade!” He ducked into cover, took aim, and returned fire.

Brunel aimed his six weapons and let loose. His guns roared, flames shooting from the barrels, and the building’s facade spat thick clouds of dust and glass as his bullets gouged across it, ruining brickwork and shattering windows.

While the enemy was thus distracted, Burton and his fellows took shelter, positioning themselves behind crates, barrels, and the equipment used to offload cargo vessels.

Brunel’s guns whirred to silence. “Give yourselves up. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.”

Faintly, they heard someone shout, “Hold your fire!”

Silence fell. They waited.

“What are they up to?” Trounce muttered.

“We’re sending someone out to parley,” an Enochian yelled.

“This feels rather too easy,” Burton muttered. “But let’s hear what they have to say.”

A door opened and a man stepped out. He held a white handkerchief aloft and walked toward Brunel, who levelled his guns at him and warned, “No sudden moves, if you please.”

“That’s Count Sobieski,” Burton observed. “Did Slaughter raid the Enochians’ club, Trounce?”

“He did. He got Kenealy and sixteen of his fanatics, and found old Brundleweed and his family being held captive in one of the upstairs rooms.”

“Hmm. Some got away, then; Sobieski among them.”

The count stopped just in front of Brunel and said, “Withdraw. We’ll allow you to go in peace.”

“You don’t appear to understand,” Brunel clanged. “It is you who are trapped.”

“It’s true. Those guns of yours have us pinned down.”

“Then you understand you have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Sobieski said. “We can surrender, or we can get rid of you.”

“You will find the former easy, the latter very difficult.”

“Do you think so?”

Sobieski lowered the handkerchief and raised his other hand. There was something in it. Burton jumped to his feet and yelled, “Brunel, it’s a trick!”

The count pressed down his thumb. He exploded. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was thrown high into the air. Bits of him were ripped away. He cartwheeled out over the Thames, trailing flames and smoke behind him, hit the water, and sank like a stone.

Guns started blazing from the factory windows. Bullets chewed into the wood of the wharf, ploughing up splinters. Three of the DOGS were hit; two killed outright, the third clutching his neck and coughing blood.

“Return fire!” Gooch bellowed.

Burton dived back into cover, aimed his revolver, and started shooting.

For the next fifteen minutes, the battle raged, a constant barrage of bullets hitting the wharf and the factory, the noise deafening, the air filling with smoke despite the continuing rain.

Burton glanced to his right at Sister Raghavendra. She was standing, with a revolver in each hand, in plain view of the enemy, blazing away and seemingly oblivious to the bullets that zipped past her. As he’d done many times before, he marvelled at her courage and her luck.

“Stalemate!” Trounce observed. “But we only have to keep them holed-up in there for another ninety minutes or so and the win will be ours. The ceremony will be over.”

“Blast it, chaps! Something is very wrong about all of this,” Swinburne objected stridently. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. Where is Crowley? Why are we able to use our weapons when he can so easily prevent their functioning?”

“Might Krishnamurthy and Bhatti have him cornered in the tunnel?” Trounce mused.

“I’m going to find out,” Burton said. “Are you with me, Algy?”

“Of course I am!”

“Keep them busy,” Burton said to Trounce and Gooch.

Gesturing for Swinburne to follow, he ran the length of the wharf and along the side of a warehouse until he emerged onto Wandsworth Road, where a crowd had gathered. Five constables immediately pounced on the two men and tried to tear the pistols from their hands. Burton remembered that Crowley had emptied his pockets, and his identity card was back in the catacombs.

“Stop!” he yelled. “We’re with the police! Detective Inspector Trounce! Slaughter! J. D. Pepperwick!”

“Pepperwick?” one of the policemen said. “I know him. Who are you? What’s going on? Who’s shooting?”

“I’m Burton. Sir Richard Francis Burton. Keep these people back, Constable—?”

“Sergeant, sir. Piper.”

“Detective Inspector Trounce is on the wharf, Piper. He’s leading an assault against a group of men who’re intent on bombing the ceremony in Green Park.”

“The devil you say! A bomb?”

“Can you spare one of your fellows? We’re out to nab their leader.”

“I’ll come myself.” Piper turned to the other policemen and barked, “Tamworth, you’re with me. Lampwick, Carlyle, Patterson, you keep this crowd back, is that understood?”

He received a saluted response.

“Lead on,” he said to Burton.

Following the road, they skirted the front of the factory to the corner of Vauxhall Bridge. Here a set of concrete steps led down to the riverside and the outlet of the Effra. They found another gun battle raging there—Krishnamurthy and Bhatti, crouched behind a bulwark, were exchanging shots with men in the building.

Burton, Swinburne, and the policemen stayed low and ran to the two Indians.

Bhatti, bleeding profusely from a furrow on the side of his head, said, “Hello, fellows! They’re stubborn blighters! How many men do you have? Enough to rush the place?”

“They have double our number,” Burton answered. “But if we hold them in there, their plan is scuppered. Have you seen Crowley?”

“No sign of the hound. Is he with them?”

Burton frowned and turned to Swinburne. “You’re right, Algy. Something is badly amiss.”

He flinched as a bullet whined past his ear. Krishnamurthy returned fire before muttering, “I’m low on ammunition.”

Sergeant Piper addressed Constable Tamworth. “I’ll not tolerate a blessed shooting match on my beat. Run to the station, lad, and round up everyone you can. We’ll get into that building, forlorn hope or no.”

Tamworth took to his heels. Bullets drilled into the ground behind him.

“Modus operandi,” Swinburne murmured.

Burton looked at him. “Pardon?”

“Modus operandi. Crowley’s every move, right from the start—the murder of your friend Stroyan—has been undertaken in the context of your existence.”

“He said he was scared of me.”

“Yet he steadfastly refuses to kill you. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because by disposing of you, he’d rid himself of the cause of his fear but not of the emotion itself. It isn’t enough for him. Fear has such a power. He wants to conquer it. Take control of it. Turn it into a strength. That is why you must live. That is why he must have you at his feet. Only then can the Supreme Man feel truly supreme.”

Burton recalled Doctor Monroe’s theory concerning Oliphant’s obsession with rats.

“Crowley is blinkered,” Swinburne went on. “He can only think to counter his greatest fear with your greatest fear.”

“By God!” Burton whispered. “He’s still underground.”

“Yes.”

Krishnamurthy shook his head. “We walked the complete length of the tunnel, Mr. Swinburne. There was no sign of the bomb or of Crowley. Wherever he is, he’s not by the Effra.”

“There are other tunnels.”

What had been lurking at the back of Burton’s mind suddenly blossomed into comprehension. He punched his palm, shouted, “Bismillah!” then looked at Sergeant Piper, and—acting on impulse—pointed at the whistle hanging around the policeman’s neck and barked, “Give me that!”

“What?” the policeman asked, puzzled.

“Your whistle, man! Now!”

Piper pulled the chain over his head and handed it to the explorer.

Burton took Swinburne by the arm and drew him toward the road, shouting back to the others, “Stay put! Keep them immobilised!”

“What are you doing?” Bhatti shouted after him.

“Saving the bloody Empire!” Burton yelled. “If it’s not too late!”