Worse, Fitz now had to assume that Hope was in possession of the laptop containing Anthony Abbott’s book manuscript. With any luck the blithering fool had at least had the good sense to encrypt the document, in which case Hope wouldn’t be able to access it – otherwise, it could spell disaster. Fitz also faced other perplexing mysteries, such as the baffling issue of Grace Kirk’s current whereabouts, and the matter of who else had been working with Hope and Wolf to rescue her. That Hope must have called in reinforcements was an easy conclusion to draw, since not even a man of his abilities could be in two places at once. It couldn’t have been any of his associates in France: their movements were strictly monitored and there’d been no indication of their crossing over to the UK.
Or could Fitz be mistaken? Had he been fooled again?
Fitz hated not knowing the answers to these questions. Just one thing was clear to him: with Hope and Wolf on the loose and apparently hellbent on revenge, nobody was safe. ‘And that damned sister of his,’ he reflected bitterly. ‘Should have grabbed her when we had the chance.’ It was almost certainly too late now for such pre-emptive actions. His master plan was fast unravelling.
With all these concerns weighing on his mind Fitz had been pressuring his Grand Master to call off this meeting of the Order, but the stubborn old geezer wouldn’t hear of it. ‘This is a special night in honour of an extraordinary man,’ Van Brakel had kept insisting. ‘What would my teacher and mentor have thought of me, if he had known I would bolt like a coward at the first sign of adversity?’
Fitz understood Van Brakel’s reluctance. The old man was dying. This might be his last chance to attend the annual event honouring the founding of their secret society by the great Crowley. Likewise, Van Brakel was also aware of what was on Fitz’s mind. As the younger man stood by his throne watching the room and deep in thought, the Grand Master placed a wizened hand on Fitz’s arm and smiled, showing crooked grey teeth that looked like little fangs. ‘Have no fear, my friend,’ he said in his croaky voice. ‘We are on the winning side. Nobody can touch us.’
Words of encouragement, to be sure – but all the same, at the last minute Fitz had laid on extra security for the evening: the VIP delegates at Karswell Hall would be protected by a crack team of twelve armed close protection specialists, all former CID and intelligence operatives, all lower-ranking club members sworn to uphold the secrets of the Order. Some of them had been recently recalled from Scotland, after the botched attempt to snatch Grace Kirk. Fitz had also taken additional precautions to get himself and the old man out of there fast, if anything were to happen. The security team leader was Fitz’s close associate, Turnbull. Spotting him hovering discreetly over by the entrance, Fitz asked to be excused for a moment, and threaded his way through the crowd to talk to him.
‘How are we doing?’ Fitz asked Turnbull.
‘Got a couple of cameras down in sector five. I sent a couple of the boys down there to check, but it’s nothing. Probably just a malfunction.’
Sector 5 was in the woods, towards the edge of the estate. ‘Get it fixed,’ Fitz said.
‘I’ll take care of it. Apart from that, we’re solid. Everyone’s here. Ready when you are.’
‘Let me see the list,’ Fitz said, and Turnbull took out a tablet device to show him. The checkpoint guards logged the number of each access pass onto a computer, which automatically flagged up if anyone was missing. Anthony Abbott was showing up as absent, not unexpectedly, but everyone else had checked in as normal. Fitz was so extremely thorough in his preparations that he’d memorised all fifty-four passcodes and could match them to the names of the invitees. For instance, number 386752FH was Sir Eustace Shaw of the Foreign Office; that number 482415YR was Commander Sandy Applewood, the current head of MI5’s anti-terror task force; and that number 907568XV was the MP Tristan Dudley, who’d provided the offering for their last event.
… Wait a minute.
Fitz turned and scanned the room again. He frowned. Rechecked the list.
‘Are you sure this is correct?’ he asked Turnbull.
‘Yes. Is something wrong?’
‘According to this record, access pass number 907568XV was logged into the checkpoint at 11.09 p.m. That’s twenty-seven minutes ago.’
Turnbull scrutinised the list. ‘Copy that. But what’s the problem with it?’
‘907568XV is Tristan Dudley. If he checked in nearly half an hour ago, where is he?’ Fitz knew Dudley’s psychology very well. The man craved the attention of his peers. If he was inside the building at all, he would normally have been at the heart of the crowd, basking in their praise and adulation.
Turnbull looked around the room, frowning too. ‘You’re right. I can’t see him.’
‘Have your men check the bathrooms,’ Fitz said. ‘He may have been taken ill.’
Turnbull had a tiny radio mic attached to a curly wire that disappeared down his shirt collar. While he passed the instruction to his men, Fitz went among the crowd and asked a couple of people if they’d seen Dudley that evening. Neither of them had.
Fitz hurried from the room. In the corridor outside he took out his phone and dialled a secret number. Each Brother of the Order was issued a mobile that he was instructed to keep with him at all times. As a rule, if his masters were to call him on it, he must respond. To fail to do so was regarded as a kind of heresy.
No reply. Tristan Dudley was a deeply trusted member, whose willingness to sacrifice his only child as an offering only underlined his loyalty and bound him more tightly to the Order. If he wasn’t answering his phone, something really was wrong.
Just then, Turnbull came out and joined Fitz in the corridor. ‘His Bentley’s in the car park but there’s no sign of him in the bathrooms, or anywhere else.’
Fitz said, ‘He always travels with the same two bodyguards. Call the lodge house and ask to speak to them. They might know something.’
Turnbull nodded. ‘I’ll get right on it.’
Fitz paced impatiently while Turnbull talked to the lodge house.
‘No, I don’t know their bloody names,’ Turnbull was telling the person he’d got through to. ‘Just get them on the phone, will you? It’s important.’ Silence for a moment as they waited. Then the voice came back on the line and Turnbull said, ‘What do you mean, they’re not there? They have to be. The car’s there.’
‘What?’ Fitz demanded.
Turnbull ended the call. ‘Nobody’s seen them either. I don’t understand. If Dudley’s not here and neither are his driver or bodyguards, then who was driving the bleedin’ car?’
Fitz glowered at his head of security. The alarm bells were jangling inside his head, just as they’d done with Abbott but twice as loudly. Something was up. He thought about the apparent security camera malfunction in the grounds. What if it was more than that? His instinct was telling him that they had serious trouble. And there was only one conclusion he could come up with.
‘We’re under attack.’
Chapter 57
Time was pressing on for Fitz. In a few minutes the gong would ring to invite the members to retire to their dressing rooms and prepare for the night’s ceremonies. As Turnbull marshalled his security team and rushed off to comb the entire house and grounds for the suspected intruders, Fitz hurried back inside the members’ lounge to voice his concerns to Bartholomew Van Brakel.
The old man was still sitting quietly in his throne, finishing his glass of champagne. Nobody else in the crowded room had any idea of the developing crisis, and Fitz meant to keep it that way. He bent close to Van Brakel’s ear, keeping his voice down so as not to cause mayhem among fifty public figures, statesmen and pillars of the nation who would take to their heels and flee like antelopes at the first threat to their safety. It wasn’t his concern for their peace of mind that prompted his discretion; on the contrary, if his fears were correct their rush to escape would only precipitate an attack and reduce his own and the Grand Master’s chances of getting out of here in time.
>
‘Sir, we may have a problem.’
The old man’s dry, lizard-like lips tightened into a thin line as Fitz told him about Dudley’s peculiar absence. Van Brakel replied, ‘Call him.’
‘I have. He’s not replying. Sir, I’m deeply concerned and I think we should take heed of this warning. We must leave, now.’
But the old man shook his wrinkled skull of a head. ‘You’re overreacting. The evening must proceed as planned. If anything is amiss, the security team will take care of it. And if our Brother is found guilty of irregular behaviour, he will be punished according to our rules.’
That wasn’t good enough for Fitz. ‘It’s my job to protect you in an emergency, sir.’
‘What emergency? Nothing is happening. Surely you can’t expect me to miss this event for no good reason.’
‘I’m very sorry, but I must insist. I’m getting you out of here as fast as possible.’
Leaving Van Brakel sitting there fuming, Fitz sought out another senior member who’d been with them for many years. ‘Brother, a matter has arisen that requires the Grand Master’s urgent attention elsewhere. Can I ask you to take over as acting Master of Ceremonies for tonight?’
The member looked delighted. ‘Why, certainly, Brother. I’d be absolutely honoured.’
Fitz thanked him and hastened back to Van Brakel. With great reluctance the old man allowed himself to be coaxed from his throne and led out of a side door. Short of beating Fitz over the head with his cane there was nothing he could do to resist. ‘I’m sure this is completely unnecessary,’ he was muttering.
‘Trust me, it’s necessary.’
As Fitz and his mentor made their exit, the ceremonial gong sounded and the acting Master of Ceremonies announced: ‘Brothers, the time has come for you to prepare. The ceremony is due to begin shortly.’
The members quickly finished their drinks and proceeded to the dressing rooms to change into their garb. A whole section of the building was devoted to row upon row of private cubicles, each containing a personal locker where the initiate kept his long, black hooded ceremonial robe, the bird-beaked mask that covered his expressions of delighted blood-lust during the ritual, and any other personal effects he chose to store there. Some of the members liked to snort a little cocaine or methamphetamine, to enhance their enjoyment of the evening still further. Do as thou wilt, their founder would have said approvingly.
Soon afterwards, the robed and masked crowd emerged from the house. The long line of dark figures moved in solemn procession down the moonlit lawn towards the lakeside, where they assembled in orderly fashion and silently waited for the ritual to begin. Across the water, the wooded island was all in darkness. When the first flash of fire lit up the trees, the chanting echoed across the lake.
The night was about to begin in earnest.
‘Where are we going?’ wheezed Bartholomew Van Brakel as Fitz hurriedly ushered him through the corridors and passageways. They were making slow progress. Karswell Hall was built on a grand scale, and the old man couldn’t move fast enough. His cane tapped and scratched on the floor as he hobbled along, and his breathing was laboured. It wasn’t just his liver that was failing. Every organ of his worn-out old body was gradually breaking down. He frequently had to pause for breath, forcing Fitz to bite his tongue in frustration and wait for him to move on again. They should have been out of here already.
‘We need to make for the rear exit,’ Fitz said as Van Brakel stopped yet again to catch his breath. ‘It’s just a short walk from there to the meadow at the back of the house.’
Van Brakel spluttered a moment longer, and gasped, ‘I can’t go that far. Do you want me to collapse and die?’
‘Please, sir, you must try.’
‘This is ridiculous. The car is closer. Why aren’t we going back to the car?’
Fitz carried a spare set of keys to the Rolls and could have opted to make their escape that way. He replied, ‘Too dangerous, sir. People like these might easily plant a bomb inside your car, or ambush us as we drive out of the gates. They could just be waiting to shoot us before we even got in.’
But Fitz had already anticipated every possible scenario and wouldn’t have come here without an alternative means of escape. While he gave the old man a moment to rest he pulled out his phone and hit a preset number. ‘Salter? This is Saunders. You’re needed. Get over here now.’
Salter was the name of the helicopter pilot Fitz had drafted in to evacuate him and the Grand Master in the event of an emergency. The plan was a compromise. The chopper should ideally have been stationed here at the house, but Fitz had been concerned about causing anxiety among the other members and having to face a lot of difficult questions, if it all turned out to be a false alarm. Instead, Salter had instructions to remain on standby with his Bell 206 at a nearby airfield just a few minutes away, ready to fly in and pick them up at a moment’s notice. The flat meadow behind Karswell Hall provided the perfect landing zone, for a skilled pilot who could avoid the treetops on one side and the electricity pylons that bisected the field on the other.
‘I’m on my way,’ Salter said.
Fitz told him to hurry, and ended the call. The old man had recovered his breath and seemed able to keep moving on. They passed the open doorway to a room that was filled with antique furniture covered in white drapes, like weird ghosts in the semi-darkness. The window had a view across the moonlit lawn in front of the house, with the lake and island beyond. ‘Look,’ Van Brakel said, pointing and hobbling over to peer through the dusty pane. Fitz wanted to grab him and keep moving, but you didn’t disrespect the Grand Master that way. Following Van Brakel to the window he could see the robed procession of their Brothers parading from the house and slowly advancing down towards the lakeside.
‘You’re a fool, Fitzroy,’ the old man muttered. ‘I’m missing this for nothing.’
‘Sir, please. We need to hurry, if we’re going to meet the chopper when it lands.’
Van Brakel snapped, ‘We’re perfectly safe here. If I can’t attend my own event, then at least let me watch for a minute. That’s an order, do you hear?’
Fitz had no choice but to wait. He looked at his watch and stared up at the sky, as though he could somehow will the helicopter to arrive more quickly. Van Brakel went on watching as the procession of their Brothers assembled at the lakeside.
And now the ritual began, following the same familiar course it had for many years. It was so beautiful to their eyes. As the chanting of the initiates echoed across the lake the island was all lit up by stabs of flame and great clouds of coloured smoke rose up into the night sky. The great effigy of the god Thoth loomed out of the swirling smoke. At his feet appeared the blood-crimson figure of the High Priest, who faced the spectators across the lake with his arms raised high above his horned head, the ceremonial dagger glittering in one hand and his sceptre in the other.
Then, to the fervent chanting of the initiates, the High Priest’s robed assistants emerged from the smoky shadows with tonight’s sacrificial offering. She was darker than the last one, clad in the traditional white dress that would soon be drenched red. Though only a few days had passed since the ritual slaughtering of Annie Dudley, the crowd could not get enough of innocent blood. Every time they gathered here to drink in this spectacle and feel at one with the Dark Forces, it was as intoxicating as the very first.
The chants and invocations went on: words whose meaning only the initiated could comprehend, rising in pitch as the climactic moment drew nearer; here and there a fevered cry of Hail Thoth! or Ave domine inferni! Salvete, fratres in Satanas! Once more, the offering was dragged to the foot of the altar, her arms pulled wide and lashed to the iron rings set into the stone. Once more, the mighty Thoth looked on as his servant stepped towards the helpless victim. The High Priest’s dagger was a tongue of fire that danced and swished through the smoky night air. The crowd was possessed, transported by a state of orgiastic delirium. Wanting her blood. Wanting to taste it, feel its
warmth on their skin.
Now at last the moment of ultimate satisfaction had come. The High Priest raised his blade, ready to make the first cut. And then the victim’s white dress was painted in a spray of red. A howl of elation came from the crowd. It all happened too fast for them to realise that the knife hadn’t touched her. Or that the blood spray that spattered her clothing wasn’t her own.
A fraction of a second after the bullet blew the High Priest’s brains out, the sound of the silenced rifle shot was little more than a dull thump from across the lake. His knees buckled under him and the unused dagger dropped from his hand. His horned headdress had split in half and his skull had been hollowed out like a canoe.
The frenzied baying of the crowd turned into a collective cry of shock.
Then, into total panic.
Chapter 58
The second muted gunshot followed instants later. One of the High Priest’s assistants was standing there paralysed with shock over the corpse when the high-velocity bullet punched through his chest and turned the contents of his thoracic cavity to pulp. He was only halfway to the ground when a third bullet struck the neck of the other assistant as he tried to bolt for the cover of the trees. His lifeless body went tumbling into the shadows.
Three for three, fired off just as fast as Tuesday Fletcher could work the bolt on the .338 Remington and plant the scope crosshairs on his targets from just over two hundred metres away, the other side of the lake where he and Reaper were hunkered down among the bushes. In a sniper’s world timing is everything – and being the artist that he was, Tuesday’s timing had been perfect.
And now the Pandemonium Club was about to earn its name, in a literal sense. Yelling and screaming, they broke their orderly line along the edge of the lakeside and scattered in panic. Several of them tripped over their robes, stumbled and went sprawling to the grass. A few of the more sprightly ones made a dash towards the safety of the house.
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