Necroscope: Avengers

by Brian Lumley

  “Is it that obvious?” said Trask.

  “The telepathy?”

  “No, the other thing.”

  “Ah, yes—very!” said the Premier.

  “Well, then,” said Trask, uncomfortably. “And now let’s get to what’s not so obvious. What exactly is going on, Gustav? And what, if anything, have you brought with you? Only please don’t tell me you’ve brought trouble, because right now I have plenty of my own…”

  9

  Turchin’s Trade-Off. the Sleeping…and the Undead?

  STILL ON HIS FEET, TRASK SAID, “FIRST LET’S GET things back on line.” Shouting down the long, echoing corridor, he called for Paul Garvey to reactivate his office. And closing the door and seating himself face-to-face with Turchin across his huge desk, he said, “There, and now we can be more comfortable.”

  Then, as grilles in the skirting boards began blowing warm air, and various small lights flickered into life on the office equipment, he took out another glass from a desk drawer, topped up the Russian Premier’s drink (while wondering if he still was or would be the Premier), and poured a double for himself. And: “Okay,” he finally said, “now I can hear you out.”

  “I take it I am not being recorded?” Turchin was still very nervous.

  “Almost everything is in this place,” Trask told him, pressing a key on a small console. “But now we’re not, no.”

  “Good!” said Turchin. “Next—and in the event things don’t work out—can you guarantee me safe haven?”

  “Political asylum?” Trask raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see a problem with that. On the other hand, the ‘if things don’t work out’ bit tells me you don’t intend to stay here, not if you can help it. So obviously you have plans. But before we get to that…who knows you’re here?”

  “Your Minister,” said the other at once. “And you, and your people. I’m supposed to be attending another Earth Year Conference in Paris. It starts tomorrow, and my talk is scheduled for the day after that—which means that in about thirty-six hours’ time people will begin to wonder where I am.”

  “How did you get away from your, er, minders?” In Australia Trask had experienced some small problems in getting to see the Premier in private, so his defection should have been even more difficult.

  “After that little diversion you created in Australia,” the other answered, “causing those ex-KGB ‘security men’ to lose me, I took the opportunity to accuse them of gross incompetence and sacked them. I still command—or should I say commanded—that much power at least. As for my new ‘minders,’ as you call them: I contrived to choose them from among my own people.”

  “The Opposition?”

  Turchin shrugged. “Let’s call them minor talents, shall we? Tomorrow night they will announce my disappearance and in their turn apply for political asylum in France.”

  “So…it will take your opponents back home some time to figure out where you’ve gone.”

  “That’s part of the plan, yes.”

  Trask shook his head. “You really are the fox, aren’t you? But I won’t ask you the details of how you got here; I’ll just take Millie’s word for it that your route was circuitous.”

  “And tiring—and very boring!” said Turchin. “But take it from me, if I left any trail at all it won’t be an easy one to follow. Oh, they will trace me eventually, but I think it will take several days.”

  “And then they’ll want to know why we’re hiding you,” said Trask. “Why we’re protecting you, and what from. Or far worse, they’ll want to know why we’ve coerced or kidnapped you. So in offering you political asylum, we could be about to initiate a major international incident.”

  “You are covered,” Turchin said at once. “For if our plans fail, then I shall announce my own defection—on television, the BBC, if you like. But on the other hand, if we succeed—”

  “—We?” said Trask. “And our plans?”

  “I would not have come to you if there was any way I could do it by myself!” Turchin threw up his hands. “But it seems you have a short memory, Ben. Out in Australia, didn’t you give me to understand that if I helped you, you would help me? Well, I tried to help you, and for my trouble got a man killed by that slimy drug-runnning dog Castellano in Sicily! Also, I promised to discover what I could about the current situation in Perchorsk—and I have done so. In short, I’ve attended to my part of our agreement in full. Indeed, when you see what I have done you’ll agree I have more than fulfilled my commitment. All very well, but now I need your help. You should remember, Ben Trask, that I could have done as Suvorov did. And knowing the dangers, I would have stood far more chance of success. Instead I chose to go along with you and Nathan, and protect Sunside/Starside! You should remember these things.”

  “Calm down,” Trask told him. “I haven’t forgotten. I’m just calculating the odds before I place my bet, that’s all. And the odds are good. Let’s face it, with all the border disputes, the anarchy, the infighting between various Moscow mob ‘families,’ which amounts almost to war on the streets, and the rest of the problems you have in Russia right now, merely political shenanigans can’t mean all that much. Why, your enemies may not even notice you’ve gone missing!” And then, realizing how that must have sounded: “I simply mean that—”

  “I know what you mean,” Turchin cut in. “That I’m not even a figurehead anymore, merely a puppet. And there are plenty of other toy Premiers-in-waiting just looking for the opportunity to jump onto the strings. Yes, and you are right. So if I can’t be important in Russia—if I can’t help guide my homeland into true and lasting democracy—then let me be of assistance here. Believe me, Ben, if you want to close the Perchorsk Gate—and close it forever, so that it can’t be reopened—you need me. And if we can do it my way, according to my plan, then I’ll be able to go home in triumph with all the political, er, ‘shenanigans’ behind me.”

  “I do want to close the Perchorsk Gate,” said Trask. “Yes, I desperately want to close it, and for good. Even though it’s like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted…”

  “The horse?” said Turchin. “Bolted? Explain.”

  “Okay,” said Trask, “now listen. You already know what I’ve been doing; you know my problem. You know about all three problems, because I told you about them in Australia. But you don’t know what’s gone on since then, and how bad things have got. So what if I were to tell you that all of the troubles you’ve left back home don’t hold a candle to the real threat? And then suppose I told you that it’s no longer a mere threat but a reality, and that it’s happening right here and now?”

  Turchin gulped at his drink, stared hard at Trask and said, “It is? Here and now? A plague of vampires, capable of creating monsters such as those that once invaded Perchorsk?”

  “Eventually they could, definitely,” said Trask. “And it’s more than likely they will—once they’ve created sufficient of their own kind!”

  Now Turchin gasped, and said, “But what are you saying? Are you telling me they’ve come out in the open? Are you saying…they’re recruiting?”

  “Oh, they’ve been recruiting ever since they first got here,” Trask answered. “But always covertly, in secret, in hiding. A gradual, stealthy, very insidious infiltration. But that was then and this is now. Now…it’s as if they don’t care who knows about them! And in a way it’s my fault, or E-Branch’s.”

  “Your fault?” Turchin frowned.

  And Trask nodded. “You see, we’ve been too successful.”

  “I don’t follow you.” Turchin was plainly lost. “How could you be too successful?”

  “By destroying everything they’ve been working for,” Trask told him. “By taking everything away from them, until now they have nothing left to lose.”

  “And you have done that?”

  Then, briefly, Trask explained about Malinari’s, Vavara’s, and Szwart’s fungus gardens—how they’d been destroyed, first in Australia, then on the Greek island of Kra
ssos, and finally in a forgotten subterranean vault under London. “Except we may have discovered the London garden just a little too late,” he finished off.

  And yet again: “Explain,” said Turchin, attentive as never before.

  And Trask told him about the strange new malady in London, perhaps in the world, and also what he feared it might be.

  Then, after a moment’s dumbfounded silence, “But…is it under control? I mean, can you contain it?” Turchin’s face was very pale now.

  “What are you thinking?” Trask said. “That perhaps you’ve jumped out of the frying pan into the fire?”

  “No!” Turchin shook his head, and continued, “Give me some credit, Ben. My thoughts don’t always revolve about myself. But frying pans and fires? Huh! Actually, I was thinking about this entire world going up in flames!”

  “My thoughts precisely,” Trask nodded. “Which might explain my coldness, and why I’ve been less than the perfect host.”

  “Indeed,” said the other, quietly.

  “As for containing it,” Trask went on, “that’s not going to be my problem. It’s already in hand—or so I’m informed by my higher authority—and I’m to continue tracking down our three invaders. So even if your defection works out to be a temporary one, still it’s come at a bad time. I could have used your help, Gustav. With your agents as colleagues or even ‘comrades’—no longer The Opposition—they could have come in very useful.”

  “You can still count on my help,” said Turchin. “My people have been working on it ever since we, er, joined forces in Australia. As I said: I’ve kept my word. My espers are not without their resources—which I set up for them a long time ago—and they will be able to pass on information. Well, as long as I am here to receive it in person, that is.”

  “Then what more can I say?” said Trask. “Except that you’re very welcome.”

  “Good!” said Turchin. “And now, if you’ve finished bringing me up to date, I think it’s time I explained my plan.”

  “Okay,” said Trask. “Let’s hear it. Best to have all of our cards on the table.”

  Turchin nodded and steepled his hands in front of his chin. A moment’s thought, and then he began:

  “I’m sure you’ll remember the trouble we had with Chechnya twelve years ago, when poor old Boris Yeltsin was in power?”

  “Of course I do,” said Trask. “The Western world gave Russia a hard time because of its heavy-handedness.”

  “Yes, but as I recall Russia was no more heavy-handed than NATO in Kosovo,” Turchin replied. Then, waving a hand dismissively, “Anyway, please let’s not argue about it. The point is, the Chechens have never forgiven us. And less than a fortnight ago there was a Chechen raid on one of our missile sites…oh, yes, we’ve retained a few. One of my agents—I suppose you’d call him the Russian equivalent of your Mr. Chung—is nuclear-sensitive on a worldwide scale, and when he became aware of a weapon or lethal amount of weapons-grade uranium on an unscheduled move across the Russian countryside—specifically toward Moscow—that was when I had my people step in. To cut a long story short, I prevented a raggle-taggle Chechen suicide squad from trying to destroy Moscow!

  “Heads might have rolled in the military, but I kept quiet about it for two reasons. One: panic among the civilian population, and two: I had my own idea how this bomb might be used. Er, need I say more on that point?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Trask. “Even a small nuclear explosion inside the Perchorsk complex would be enough to bring down a million tons of rock. And if that won’t block the Gate, then nothing will.”

  “Correct,” said Turchin. “And so I gave back the missile’s casing and engine but secreted the actual warhead away until I could devise a means of smuggling it into Perchorsk. Naturally, the Major in charge of the site—more properly a dump—was delighted to accept my suggestion that the purloined missile had never been equipped with a warhead in the first place; it was either that, or—”

  “—His would be one of the heads doing the rolling,” said Trask.

  “Indeed. And between us we kept the whole business hushed up.”

  “Where is this warhead now?” Trask enquired. “And for that matter, if we could get it into Perchorsk, how would we arm it? Obviously it was designed for an aerial delivery system.”

  “As to where it is: don’t ask,” said the other. “Even with your talent you probably still wouldn’t believe me. And I have already seen to its conversion. Even now—or especially now—there are plenty of out-of-work scientists in Russia who will do almost anything to avoid starvation. As for getting the bomb into the Perchorsk complex…” The Premier looked at Trask in a certain way, his eyes narrowed, his manner conspiratorial. “But nothing is impossible, eh, Ben? Where there’s a will there’s a way, eh? A will or a skill, whatever?”

  “Meaning?” said Trask, knowing perfectly well what Turchin meant—that even a job like that wouldn’t pose much of a problem for a man who could access the most inaccessible places at will, someone such as a Necroscope, for instance—but unwilling to reveal anything unnecessarily this early in the game.

  “Meaning—” Turchin frowned and glanced away for a moment, then narrowed his eyes more yet and said, “meaning exactly what I said. That if one wants it badly enough, one can usually find the means to an end. To any end. But for now, let it suffice to say that I don’t think it will be a problem—or rather that I hope it won’t be a problem—and leave it at that.”

  “As you wish,” said Trask, keeping a poker face and hiding his pleasure at the fact that Turchin looked more than a little perplexed and wrong-footed now. “And anyway, we need to get on. So is that it? Your plan? To get this bomb of yours into Perchorsk and detonate it there? I can see how that would solve one of my—one of our—major problems, but I still don’t see how it will get you reinstated and strengthen your power base back home.”

  “Leave that to me,” said Turchin. “As long as it’s done on my mark, believe me, all of my personal problems will be solved. My position will be unshakable, and détente will reach heights never before realized. Which will be of benefit to both of us personally, and most certainly to our countries, our world.”

  Trask nodded, and said, “That’s assuming our countries and our world are still ours.”

  “I understand,” said the other. “But at least no more vampires will be coming through the Perchorsk Gate.”

  “Nor the Gate in Romania,” said Trask, “which was blocked when Malinari and the others came through.”

  “And that will leave our hands free to deal with the invaders who are already here,” said Turchin. “With them and with whatever they’ve spawned here. We’ll make that our priority.”

  “It’s already been my priority for some three years now,” Trask answered. “And will continue to be until I—” (he came close to saying, “until I’ve had my revenge,” but caught himself and said,) “—until I’m finished with them.”

  “Then I think we are all done here,” said Turchin. “Except I have brought you a small gift.” He took out and opened up an old-fashioned silver cigarette case with a spring clip holding in place twenty cardboard-tube-tipped Russian cigarettes, then held it out over the desk toward Trask.

  “I don’t smoke,” said Trask.

  “Nor do I,” said Turchin. “Well, not these filthy things.” With which he spilled the cigarettes into a wastebasket. “Not now that I can get some of your excellent British and American varieties.” And then he pulled on the clip to remove the wafer-thin, scrolled silver plate in the tray of the box. And there, coiled in that secret place like so many pubic hairs, lay roll upon roll of microfilm. And carefully replacing the plate, he snapped the case shut and passed it across the desk to Trask.

  Trask raised a querying eyebrow. And:

  “The Perchorsk schematics,” said Turchin. “That place is a vast underground complex, a veritable maze. I’m sure that when the time comes to go in, you wouldn’t want to lose anyone down
there. Especially not with an atom bomb ticking off its countdown, eh?”

  Standing up, Trask put the case in his pocket. “My people will be arriving shortly,” he said. “I’ll need to talk to them before letting them get a few hours’ sleep. Or maybe Millie was right and I should leave it till morning. They’ve had a fairly stressful time and need a break…and so do I. And after all, there’s very little we can do tonight.”

  Pressing an intercom button on his console, he said, “Paul, I take it you’ve arranged accommodation for our guest?”

  “I’ll meet you in the corridor,” Garvey’s voice came back.

  As they left his office, Trask took Turchin’s arm and said, “Just one other thing. You said we’d have to wait to deploy the bomb ‘on your mark.’ Can you say why, and when that will be?”

  “Shortly,” said the Russian Premier, ex-Premier, or Premier-in-Waiting, whichever. “Believe me, I, too, am eager to see this thing finished. But ask yourself this: what use to spring a rat trap if the rats are not inside it?”

  Again Trask raised an eyebrow, but Turchin put a finger to his lips and said, “Ask no more questions, my friend. My plans are laid, and it would do you no good to know any more. In the Kremlin we have a saying, ‘Ignorance is innocence, while knowledge is culpability.’”

  “We have the same saying,” Trask replied, “but it comes out a lot less obliquely than yours and from a very different viewpoint. ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’”

  “Precisely,” said Turchin, and for a brief moment his dark, intelligent eyes glinted as brightly as ever they had in former and perhaps better times. A brightness cold as the cutting edge of a razor, that boded ill for somebody or bodies…

  Along with Paul Garvey, Trask saw Turchin to his room—nothing less than a hotel room, because E-Branch HQ occupied the entire top floor of what had once been an hotel—and saw him settled in. “In the morning,” he said, “we’ll make sure you’ve got some of your favourite booze and whatever else you need to make your stay comfortable.”