Black Butterfly

by Mark Gatiss

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going in alone.’

  Whitley Bey stared at me. ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Bollocks, man,’ tutted the big fellow. ‘Why, you’ve no idea what kind of a set-up they’ve got in there. And we know that blackie lad’s out to get you.’

  I patted the reassuring bulk of the Steyr in its shoulder-holster. ‘We need information,’ I said. Detailed information. And for that, stealth is the best weapon. I used to be pretty good at this lark. Give me an hour and then come in all guns blazing. Deal?’

  He shrugged. ‘All right, hinnie. But listen, I’ve got some equipment you might find useful. You get your head down and some of me lads’ll pop it round later.’

  ‘Equipment?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He shook his great head, setting his earrings jangling but then clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Your funeral, sparrow-shanks. But you’re the boss.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, smiling. ‘I am.’

  Dusk was settling over the city like sleep, casting long purple shadows. A velvet-gentle night wind caught the call to prayer and took its siren wail across the rooftops of ’Stamboul. We drove up the Istiklal Caddesi towards the malodorous fish market. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so done up. But I knew I had to press on–to the neglected park in the Beyoglu district of which Whitley had spoken.

  The fort-like entrance was a strange, disquieting sort of place; its brown bricks flat as Biblical loaves; the ragged walls serrated like teeth. Under an archway sat an old man in a filthy smock, staring ahead with incurious brown eyes. Behind him, the tumbled walls led into the abandoned park, the trees nothing but clumps of blackness in the dying light.

  Whitley and I got out of the car and I glanced up. Kestrels were wheeling in the indigo sky, keening, cheeping.

  ‘My lads’ll be here in one hour,’ said Whitley softly. ‘Then we come in, all right?’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ I said, then moved swiftly towards the track that led up to the entrance. Swirling dust sprang up around me like a company of ghosts. Keeping well away from the sentinel in the archway, I pressed myself close to the wall and crept round until I found a narrow, glassless window. Cautiously, I clambered up onto the stone sill and squeezed myself through, conscious of my aching muscles and the bruises I’d sustained at the Hagia Sophia. Beyond was blackness but I resisted the urge to spark up my lighter, instead taking a few moments for my eyes to adjust.

  The interior of the fort was little more than rubble. There were patches of a mosaic floor and rather beautiful Islamic carvings over a few of the shattered doorways. I glanced down to see a pale yellow scorpion executing tiny, mincing steps over my shoe. I kicked it away and, keeping low, headed across the rocky debris towards the back of the structure.

  Trees that twisted like unset limbs formed an arched opening to the woodland, rather like a stage set. I passed through and, almost at once, silence swamped me.

  I moved on, the ground thick with pine needles, and unseen burrs whipping at my trousers. The air was heavy with the dank, mossy smell of the forest. Branches whipped at my face and every step was hard work. With no clear pathway and devilishly uneven ground, I was constantly ducking under overhanging branches and, in the blackness, barking my shins on long-fallen, moss-swaddled trunks.

  Suddenly, I emerged into a clearing. Starkly lit by arc lamps, there stood a complex of steel buildings, enclosed on all sides by high wire mesh. The glass that made up almost half the structure gave the place a cool, restrained glamour. There were huge tanks, like gasometers, dotted around the perimeter, each labelled with a skull and crossbones. As I watched, automatic steel doors shushed open and figures in white laboratory coats glided in and out.

  Creeping carefully through nettles that stood as tall as my thigh, I made my way towards the perimeter fence. Almost at once, a fat uniformed guard rounded the corner, a muscular Doberman straining on a tight lead before him. The hound gazed about, its master doing likewise until both were swallowed up in the darkness as the sweeping beam of the searchlight passed by. I looked at the hands of my Girard Perregaux watch. Fifteen minutes of my precious hour had already gone.

  Time to employ Whitley Bey’s equipment! I unbuckled my belt, and, using the tiny hacksaw blade concealed within, made short work of the fence. I cut three sides of a large square and then kicked at the wire until it bent right back. Seconds later, I was through. Pushing the mesh back into place, I raced to the nearest wall and flattened myself against it just in time, as the searchlight illuminated the path where I’d stood. Shuffling along, I came to a small, barred window and, cupping my hands around my eyes, strained to peer within. The room beyond was in darkness, but I began to make out sheeted shapes. Just chairs and tables. I moved on until, around the next corner, I found what I was looking for. A large truck was parked outside, its rear end open and a forklift busily unloading large pallets.

  A man with a clipboard was supervising. As well as the regulation lab coat, he was sporting a kind of gas-mask, presumably as defence against whatever toxic substance was contained in the tanks. In the stark striplighting from the loading bay beyond, the eye-holes were a queasy green colour and the mask itself semi-transparent. Still, I thought grimly, it would suit my purpose.

  Now all I had to do was to attract the chap’s attention. I rapidly considered my options–everything from hooting like an owl to rolling coins towards him–when the decision was taken out of my hands. The forklift suddenly gave an unhealthy sort of rattle, stalled and rolled backwards, upsetting the pallet that was balanced on the twin prongs and scattering what looked like aspirin pills all over the dusty yard.

  Pills! Was this ‘Black Butterfly’?

  The gas-masked supervisor immediately threw up his hands in horror. He wrenched open the forklift’s cabin door and berated the driver in a stream of incomprehensible oaths. The driver, fat and also masked, wearing a too-tight T-shirt, shrugged and muttered and swore back, clearly believing the accident to be no fault of his.

  The supervisor sighed heavily, stepped back into the shadows to make a note on his clipboard and then made a high, surprised gurgling sound as my arm snaked round his neck and squeezed him into unconsciousness. In moments, I reappeared, holding the clipboard and adjusting the mask over my white hair. I made a rude gesture to the forklift driver, and then I was through the door, eager to put as much distance between myself and the harsh light of the exterior.

  I found myself in a warm, inevitably white corridor. A series of rectangular windows was inset in the wall and appeared to look down onto rooms below, like the viewing galleries of an operating theatre. The corridor terminated in a set of stairs.

  I moved towards the first of the windows, the gas-mask tasting foul and rubbery, but then a low beeping sound close by warned me that another of the steel doors was about to open. I rapidly pressed myself into a recessed alcove in which stood some hideous specimen of modern sculpture, all wire and bronze. Two white-coated men strode past, their steps soft and noiseless in white moccasins.

  I waited a moment, then crossed back to the window, ripping off the gas-mask so I could see more clearly. The room below was bathed in a purplish light, banks of machinery in a wide crescent taking up most of the space, along with some kind of viewing screen. On it was projected a huge map of the world, various cities ringed in yellow. In the curious light, everything showed up with weird vividness, as though the whole room were submerged in a lagoon.

  Puzzling over what this could mean, I stole further along the corridor. Soon I reached another window. I kept close to the wall, all too aware of the pearly light bleeding up from below, edged to the side and risked a peek down.

  Stretched out on a padded table lay a male form, naked save for his white underwear. His hip-bones showed over the waistband, prominent as razor-shells. The arms and legs were long and brown, the soles of the feet much paler.

  A white-coated figure in a surgical mask hovered at the head-end of the table, then sudd
enly stepped back, like a painter from a canvas, as though admiring his handiwork.

  And revealed, lying there, eyes closed and hair plastered to his sweat-soaked forehead like a raven’s wing, was Kingdom Kum.

  .11.

  DÉTENTE

  The boy resembled the Descended Christ. A Regnault, perhaps, the crisp white underwear in place of a loincloth.

  Tick-tock, baby. Tick-tock.

  My mind buzzed. What the hell was going on?

  The masked figure returned to Kum’s prone form. He held something in his hand. Some instrument of torture, I imagined, but the angle of the plate glass and the glare of the huge surgical lamps conspired to obscure it from my view.

  I gazed down at the youth, noticing the tiny handful of wiry hairs scattered over the hard, flat pads of his chest muscles. In my mind, conflicting thoughts tumbled over one another. He’d been in at the death of Vyvyan Hooplah. Then, on the train, he’d tried unsuccessfully to warn me off. Finally, he’d shot dead Whitley’s contact in the Hagia Sophia. So what had he done to displease his masters? Why was he lying there, presumably about to suffer some unspeakable agony?

  The lad lay completely still, leather straps binding him tightly to the operating table. Was he already unconscious, I wondered, or merely sleeping?

  The answer came out of the blue as his heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open. In a vain attempt to secure anonymity, I fumbled for my gas-mask. Too late. Kingdom Kum’s almond eyes focused on me, and a befuddled frown of recognition passed across his face.

  Now what?

  I swore softly to myself as I saw him nodding upwards in my direction. His torturer span round, and he too became aware of my silvery head bobbing at the window.

  Rooted to the spot, I watched as the white-coated man strode across to a console on the far side of the room. Leaning over, he flicked a small red switch. In the corridor, a Tannoy system crackled into life.

  ‘Kemal?’ came the technician’s voice, his heavy accent distorted further by the microphone. ‘Where the hell have you been? Stop gawping and get yourself down here, will you? This one is tough.’

  I weighed up my options. If I made a run for it, the torturer would become suspicious and no doubt alert others. On the other hand, I’d come seeking information. I would see what I could discover! So, fastening the straps on the gas-mask and hoping that, with my face obscured, I could somehow pass for the missing Kemal, I made my way down the stairs.

  By the time I entered the operating theatre, the white-coated torturer had returned to the captive Kingdom Kum. ‘Now,’ he hissed at the semi-naked youth, ‘you will start talking. You will die, of course. How quickly and how painlessly, my friend, is entirely your decision.’

  Kingdom Kum remained silent.

  The torturer chuckled menacingly. ‘So you are the tough guy, yes? Like in the John Wayne pictures, yes? Well, we shall see how long that lasts.’

  White-coat paused and glanced over at me. ‘What’s the matter with you today, Kemal? Must I do everything myself? Oh, and take your gas-mask off, you coward. There’s nothing dangerous in here.’ He resumed his appraisal of Kingdom Kum. ‘Well, apart from me, that is.’

  Silently, I made my way over, and stood just behind the torturer’s right shoulder.

  Kum turned his head towards me and stared intently into my face. Then slowly, insolently, he spoke to White-coat. ‘I’m telling you nothing, baby. But your friend here–if he asks nicely, can find out everything I know about Black Butterfly.’

  What strange game was this? Was he bargaining for his life?

  Then things happened very quickly. Turning to face me properly for the first time, a look of confusion crossed the torturer’s face.

  ‘Hey,’ he accused. ‘You’re not—’

  I lashed out with my fist, catching the fellow under the chin. He was flung against the wall and crumpled into a white heap. He reached into his coat for a gun but I was instantly on top of him, pummelling him into unconsciousness with rapid blows from my balled fists.

  From the operating table came a soft chuckle. ‘Man,’ said Kingdom Kum, ‘you’ve still got it.’

  ‘All right, my friend,’ I snapped. ‘Now would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

  ‘I said you had to ask nicely, Mr Box,’ grinned the youth.

  I aimed the Steyr at his face. ‘This is as nice as I’m feeling right now,’ I hissed. ‘Talk.’

  Kum shook his head. ‘No time. We have to get out of here fast.’

  I snorted with derision. ‘So now you’re expecting me to help you escape?’

  ‘Come on, baby. You saw the mess I was in. You honestly think I’d be strapped to this thing if I was working for these goons? Believe me, we have to leave, and we can help each other do it.’

  Every instinct within me protested and yet, moments later, I had released Kingdom Kum’s shackles. Old Boxy getting soft, you might think, eh? Well, not so fast. I wasn’t taking any chances. Now, I may be a fool for a pretty face, but this was not the time to let my guard down.

  ‘Warily, I released Kingdom Kum’s shackles and then watched as he struggled into his torturer’s clothes. Soon the two of us were walking swiftly from the operating theatre, gas-masks firmly in place, the Steyr in the small of the youth’s back.

  In the corridor, we passed no one apart from a sweating technician rushing in the opposite direction–presumably the tardy Kemal. I intended to get the two of us out of there pronto, and meet up with Whitley Bey and his men in the forest. My ‘hostage’, however, had other ideas. He pulled up abruptly outside a white door marked No Entry.

  ‘We need to go in here,’ he told me.

  ‘That way’s forbidden,’ I said.

  Kingdom Kum grinned. ‘Like all the best things.’

  My suspicions were raised instantly. ‘Why do we need to go in there?’

  The youth pushed his unruly fringe from his eyes. ‘I know you have no reason to trust me, baby—’

  ‘None at all, Mr Kum. None at all.’

  He regarded me with his inky eyes. ‘Look, there’s something I need to take from here. You have three options. Either you go now and let me get it on my own. Or you come with me and we help each other get out of here alive.’

  ‘That’s only two.’

  ‘The third option is you shoot me. ’Cos I’m not leaving without it.’ His flippancy had deserted him and there was a glint of the steel I’d witnessed on the train.

  ‘All right,’ I sighed. ‘We’ll do it your way, but cross me and I’ll kill you. Baby.’

  The boy giggled and pressed his hand to his throat. ‘Thanks, toots. You’re a doll.’

  Stealthily, he pushed open the door, and we found ourselves in a darkened, rather airless room. To our left, the wall was composed entirely of narrow drawers such as might contain seed specimens.

  ‘They’re moving out,’ Kum told me enigmatically. ‘The work here is pretty much done.’

  ‘What work?’ I asked quietly.

  But the boy didn’t answer, just slipped noiselessly into the shadows and began rooting through the drawers. Each one whispered open to his touch. After the harsh white light of the corridor, my senses took a while to adjust. The room wasn’t quite as empty as it had first appeared but was in a pretty chaotic state. Scattered across wooden surfaces was a variety of scientific instruments: microscope slides, Petri dishes, syringes and all manner of other stuff I couldn’t identify.

  Kingdom Kum was still busy at the bank of white drawers. I was making my way over towards the instruments when I became aware of a strange sound: a gentle drumming. A fluttering, beating noise, barely perceptible at first, but increasing in volume as I neared the far wall. Then I realised that the wall behind the laboratory work benches was actually thick, velvety drapes.

  Curious, I dragged them back and let out a long, slow breath. Revealed was a vast butterfly enclosure, a lepidopterium, I suppose: its thousands of black inhabitants colliding against one another in that stuffy, crowd
ed environment. Particles of dust hung like pollen in the air.

  I peered through the clear glass. They were large creatures, and their fat, hairy bodies made my skin crawl.

  ‘Pretty, huh?’ came the murmur of Kingdom Kum from across the other side of the lab.

  ‘Les papillons noirs?’

  ‘Properly speaking, hun, papilio obscurus,’ he whispered. ‘But the high-school lecture can wait. If you’re done there, I’ve got what I need.’ He held up a slim glass tube before my face, and rattled the contents.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  Kingdom Kum laughed his flutey laugh and waggled a finger at me. ‘Naughty, baby. No questions. Not now.’

  Seconds later, we were back in the corridor. I gestured with the gun towards the exit door. Then the cotton wool silence was ripped apart by the scream of a klaxon.

  I glanced at my watch. The hour was more than up. Whitley Bey’s men had arrived! Distantly, I heard the thrumthrum of machine-gun fire.

  There was a sudden clatter of feet and two white-coated men came haring down the corridor. They boggled at us and then one reached for his pistol. I swung round and shot him through the heart. As he slumped to the tiled floor, I brought my gas-mask smartly round and smashed the other one across the face. He was instantly out cold.

  Then the two of us raced through the doors.

  Outside, the air was alive with smoky scents.

  I tore off the lab coat. My black suit would provide an infinitely more useful camouflage in the forest. Kingdom Kum kept his on, shivering a little in his hastily thrown-on ensemble.

  I found the hole in the fence that I’d cut on my way in, and once again bashed it down. We scuttled through: first the boy and then myself. Keeping low, we put on some speed and made for the safety of the forest.

  After five minutes of running, I was exhausted.

  ‘Hang on,’ I gasped. ‘Give me a moment.’

  Kingdom Kum nodded and I sank back against the gnarled bark of a tree, slowing my breathing. The sweeping arc of light from the clinic silhouetted the slender trees, turning them into prison bars. I reached into my trousers and pulled out another of Whitley Bey’s little miracles–a sachet of rehydration fluid, one of several sewn into the lining below my belt.