by Brian Lumley
“Oh, aye, sir—ah kin do they things, certainly. Er, friends o’ yours, these gentlemen?”
“No,” Garrison/Koenig smiled, shaking his head. “No, not friends. I would expect you to tell me before you let them in here. I would very much appreciate that. It would be well worth your trouble.”
“Consider it done, sir!” the attendant cried. “Ye’ll no be bothered, ah’ll see tae that.”
“Danke Schön,” smiled Garrison/Koenig. “I’m sure you’ll do your best.”
Under the Merc’s dashboard the Mafia bug continued to send out its silent signals, and less than a mile away the black saloon nosed slowly through the city’s streets, returning along its own tracks, covering the distance between…
“CHARON!” SIR HARRY’S VOICE WAS SHARPER THAN THE ALBINO HAD ever heard it. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?” Gubwa cursed to himself, wishing the man had chosen a more opportune time to call him. He himself did not know quite “what was going on,” not right now. “Why, what do you mean, Sir Harry?”
“You know damn well what I mean! Garrison’s gone missing, the Maler woman too. His servants got in touch with their local police. I found out from ‘upstairs.’ He wants an answer. Now what do I tell him?”
Gubwa relaxed a little. This was something he could handle. “Tell him nothing,” he said. “Or if you must, tell him that Garrison is as good as dead.”
“Explain.”
“The Mafia are after him.”
“Oh?”
“Revenge for Vicenti, among other things.”
“Vicenti? That was Garrison?”
“He engineered it, yes.”
Silence for a moment, then: “And Stone? What of him? He took the Maler woman and disappeared.”
“Yes, and they will stay disappeared—always.” Gubwa waited, smiled at the suddenly silent telephone in his hand. He could tell from Sir Harry’s inability to frame another question that the man was stumped. “You wanted MI6 tied in with this, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, now you have it. Obviously Stone was on the Cosa Nostra payroll. That’s what will be thought. He took the woman as Mafia bait for Garrison. All part of a feud between Garrison and the Mafia. For proof we have the Blacks and their bombing of Garrison’s plane. And Vicenti, of course—and then the ‘suicide’ of the Blacks, which will now plainly be seen as the work of the Mafia, covering up the Garrison connection.”
“Yes, yes, I see most of that. But Stone working for the Mafia—that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?”
“Do you think for a moment that MI6 is any clearer than your own outfit?” Gubwa laughed. “Well, maybe they are—but they too have their dirty washing, I assure you. Listen, how does this sound: Stone’s body will be found in the river, weighted down, and there will be sufficient evidence hidden on it to clean the Mafia right out once and for all. Because you’ll have advance knowledge, your branch will shine. You will make yourself directly responsible for any investigations. The very foundations of MI6 will be shaken apart. Now, how does that sound?”
Again the silence, then: “That sounds…fine. And when does all of this happen?”
“It is happening.”
“Now? But you said six weeks!”
“I said a maximum of six weeks. I underestimated myself, that’s all. It has worked itself out sooner—and without complications. By tonight Garrison should be dead, and by first light tomorrow you’ll know where to start looking for Stone’s body.”
“Jesus!” Sir Harry’s voice was a hiss. “That means I have things to do, and time is short.”
“Then let’s stop wasting time,” said Gubwa. “I’m quite busy too, you know.”
“Very well, but let’s get one thing straight. It’s important that I know the very minute Garrison’s dead. I can’t be seen to act before the fact, but I will need to move pretty fast. Do you see any problems?”
“None at all. And you shall know Garrison is dead one minute after I myself know it. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes, good man. But, Charon?”
“Yes?”
“I’d give my right arm to know how you’ve managed all this.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would,” Gubwa laughed again. “But that’s a secret!”
Replacing the telephone, Gubwa found himself tempted to read Sir Harry’s mind. He decided against it. Right now the man’s thoughts must be in utter chaos; he’d make little of them. It was just that he felt a sort of niggling suspicion in the back of his own mind, like a bad taste at the back of one’s throat. Sir Harry was, had always been, a man to watch. But Gubwa was tired and there was still much to do. Better to save his talents for now, hold them in reserve against a time in the very near future when their use might prove all-important.
That was Charon Gubwa’s third error and probably his biggest. His first had been when he became interested in Garrison in the first place. His second had been to interfere, in any degree, with Vicki Maler. But this one? This failure to follow up his own instinctive hunch in respect of Sir Harry’s immediate intentions…this was the beginning of the end.
For at the other end of the now dead line Sir Harry’s thoughts were anything but chaotic. They were crystal clear, as they’d rarely been in many a year. Gubwa had offered him two pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, but he was aiming at three.
Garrison was one, because he had already been given that contract. The London-based Mafia came next, because crushing them would fuel his rocket to fame and a position of even greater power. And Charon Gubwa himself, he was the third pot. Partly because he was a loaded pistol at Sir Harry’s head—but mainly for the fun of it…
Chapter 18
Johnnie Fong relocated the black saloon about the same time that Ramon de Medici, Fatso Facello and Toni Murelli came to the conclusion that indeed Garrison was parked up and hiding in the multi-story. Their detector had indicated that he was stationary and close at hand, and the car park seemed the only likely place.
The Chinaman parked in a side street close by, got out of his car and watched what was going on from a safe distance. He kept himself out of sight, however, as Gubwa had ordered, which made the actual mechanics of the affair a little vague to him. What actually happened was this.
De Medici had driven up and stopped on the road opposite the entrance to the car park but without actually entering the drive-in lane. In effect he had blocked off both the drive-in and -out lanes. Then Murelli and Facello had got out of the car, ducked under the barrier and gone to the booth. De Medici had watched from the driving seat of the car. Words had passed between Facello and the tubby attendant where he sat in his booth. For a little while the latter seemed a bit garrulous, waving his arms and reddening up a little, but he’d quietened down when Facello had gone into the booth with him. Murelli had then turned and given de Medici the thumbs-up, had disappeared up the ramp with his gun out and ready. Garrison had done them a favor; they couldn’t have picked a better place for a hit if they’d chosen it themselves!
Garrison/Koenig was parked four floors up, almost directly above the entrance. He had finished his coffee and sandwiches the best part of an hour ago. It was time to move on. Except…there was something not quite right.
Too quiet, and Suzy strangely nervous where she sat in the back of the car.
Traffic sounds from below, but subdued somehow. Seagulls wheeling round Edinburgh Castle, their plaintive cries carrying on a breeze off the sea. A beautiful day—but the Koenig-facet was thinking his bad thoughts, and Suzy’s restlessness must have a meaning.
Up on the castle ramparts they fired the One o’Clock gun.
Garrison/Koenig’s head jerked round, eyes staring, his mind awash in psychic awareness. There was a flicker of movement in the Merc’s rearview mirror. Toni Murelli had appeared up the entrance ramp, was crouching there, waving a gun in front of him, peering in the car park’s dusty haze. Strong sunlight outside and gloom within. Murelli’s eyes weren
’t quite accustomed yet.
He saw the Merc; its front doors were wide open, sticking out like comic ears. Creeping closer, Murelli saw the thermos flask still steaming where it stood on the front passenger seat. Empty sandwich wrappers lay opened out beside it. Murelli grinned. That’s right, Garrison, baby, he thought. Take it easy. Have a break.
Murelli was half behind the car, creeping up on its left. Now he could see that the driver’s seat leaned back, in the half-recline position. His grin grew wider. He straightened up a little, covered the last three paces quickly, gripped the wrist of his gun-hand and thrust both hands into the car. His finger began to tighten on the trigger—but in the next second his grin slipped right off his face.
Garrison/Koenig stepped out from behind a massive square concrete support column and kicked the door of the car shut on Murelli’s wrists. At the same time Suzy snarled and darted her head forward from the back of the car, snapping at the gunman’s hands. Her deadly fangs ground together where they met through the bones of his right wrist.
Murelli’s scream and the dull plop of his silenced weapon came simultaneously. Garrison/Koenig leaned his weight on the door kicked Murelli in the groin where he flopped against the car. The gunman blew the rest of his air out in one great gasp. His gun fell from nerveless, ravaged fingers inside the car. Suzy had severed two of his fingers and was working on the rest. Garrison/Koenig let the door fly open, grabbed Murelli and waltzed him away, half-supporting, half-propelling him. He waltzed him towards the concrete balcony. Murelli, in agony and scared witless, saw it coming and made one last desperate effort. He whirled a bloody, torn fist at Garrison/Koenig’s head. Cold-eyed, Garrison/Koenig ducked, grabbed the other’s knees, lifted and pushed.
For a moment Murelli seemed suspended in air beyond the balcony. His white face puffed in and out, like that of some strange fish slowly sinking from view in bright water. And he was gone without ever mustering the sought-for scream. His body smashed down in front of the black saloon like one hundred and seventy-five pounds of lead.
For long seconds de Medici simply sat at the wheel of his car paralyzed, staring. His window was down and he had heard the sickening crunch as Murelli hit. Finally he gunned the engine, began to back away from Murelli’s body—and at the same time heard the roar of the Merc’s powerful motor as Garrison/Koenig’s car came careening like some great silver beast down the out-ramp. Sparks flew where its metal sides jostled the ramp’s low concrete wall.
Garrison/Koenig saw the bonnet of the saloon pulling back. He saw, too, Fatso Facello where he stood ashen-faced in the booth. There was no sign of the tubby Scot, but that probably would not have made a deal of difference. A grenade dangled by its ring from Garrison/Koenig’s grinning teeth, its weight rolling a little on his chin. The metallic chink! was lost as he armed the grenade and tossed it into the booth. Then the Merc’s nose crashed into the front couple of inches of the saloon and slammed it out of the way. At the same time Garrison/Koenig wrenched the wheel over, so that the combined action had the effect of throwing the Merc round the bend and into the street, its wheels skidding in Toni Murelli’s blood. Then, tires screaming and throwing out smoke, the big car rocked on its springs as it hurtled away up the street.
In his rearview Garrison/Koenig saw Facello leap from the booth, the fat man’s arms and legs an impossible blur of movement. Then—
The booth disappeared in a lick of white fire and smoke and deafening detonation. Facello was picked up, all eighteen stone of him, and tossed over the roof of the saloon. The blast blew in the saloon’s nearside windows. That was as much as Garrison/Koenig saw, for in the next moment he was round a corner and applying his brakes, slowing down as he moved into a stream of traffic and picked up signs that aimed him towards the Forth Bridge.
He had killed one of them, possibly two, and with any luck the saloon would be out of commission. He must hope so. That would only leave the little yellow man to worry about, and Garrison/Koenig wasn’t really the worrying type…
He did wonder momentarily what had become of the tubby car park attendant; he couldn’t know that he had already been dead, knifed through the heart, in the bottom of the booth when the grenade exploded, and that a ten pound note was now flapping in the updraft on the concrete base of the car park’s first-floor level, stuck there with blood and a little gristle.
It was only later, on the wide approach road to the bridge, when Garrison/Koenig stopped to examine the surprisingly small amount of damage to the Mercedes, that he thought of those powers he had neglected to use in his confrontation with the Mafia. He had known he had them, certainly, but their use had barely crossed his mind. Why take a machine-gun to swat a fly? And of course the power was not limitless; the well was rapidly running dry. Perhaps he had simply been saving what little was left.
What the hell…it wouldn’t have been the same anyway.
AT A LITTLE BEFORE 3:00 P.M. JOHNNIE FONG REPORTED BY TELEPHONE to Charon Gubwa, telling him all that had happened since his last report, especially detailing the incident at the car park. He phoned in from a garage high on a winding road overlooking a Grampian hamlet. Down there, at a second garage on the far side of the village, Garrison’s Mercedes was undergoing a cursory inspection. On the nearside of the patchwork of lanes, fields, church and houses, the Mafia saloon sat at the side of the road with no movements visible. All of this Fong had seen through his binoculars.
“I do not know, Charon,” he said, “how they got back on to his trail, but they did. And I, of course, simply followed them. Now, however, I am obliged to stay well back for even if Garrison does not know I am here, it is very likely that they do.”
“Then stay back,” Gubwa ordered at once, “until after they have dealt with him. He must be weakening rapidly, Johnnie, for knowing they are there he should by now have disposed of them. He has powers, this Garrison, but they are leaking out of him like rats deserting a sinking ship. Still, I prefer not to take any chances. As to how the Mafia picked up his trail again: his car is bugged and they are carrying a tracking device…But tell me, what reason do you think he has for running north?”
“I think he is a fool, Charon. Brave, but a fool. The country grows wilder, the day wears on. His car has long been losing power. Perhaps the blast and collision caused it, I don’t know. But I think that with the fall of night they must surely close in and kill him. If I had a rifle, I myself could kill all of them without ever being seen.”
“No!” Gubwa snapped. “Through you he might yet find a way to strike at me. You must simply observe all that occurs. Observe and report.”
“As you will, Charon. But for now I think I might get ahead of them. They are off the main road. I can go straight through the village and on into the mountains. Perhaps I can find a high place, watch and wait for them.”
“Do it,” Gubwa agreed. “I will give you one hour. Do not let yourself be seen. In one hour exactly I shall come to you, to your mind. In this I shall be at risk, you realize that?”
“You will be safe, Charon, I swear it.”
“Good! You are a faithful servant, Johnnie.”
“I love only you, Charon…”
WHEN THREE OF GUBWA’S SOLDIERS CAME FOR VICKI AND STONE, both of them felt that this must be the end of the line. Stone could be of little use to the albino now, and under hypnotism Vicki had already surrendered all she had to offer by way of information. Stone might have made a fight of it (Gubwa’s influence over him had only extended to the completion of his task) but he wasn’t given the ghost of a chance. The three men, dressed in the Castle’s uniform, were armed and very efficient. They quickly tied the captives into wheelchairs, and while two of them pushed, the third followed up the rear, a machine-gun cradled in his arms.
They were taken to the Command Center, where Gubwa had his own reasons for wanting them present during the coming hours. And in keeping with his nature, Gubwa’s reasons were anything but pleasant.
The huge albino wore only a dressing g
own and slippers, marking comfort as essential to any use of his powers as might become necessary. His face was lined but not yet haggard despite lack of sleep, and his captives saw that there was a sort of wildness about him now: that eager, barely controlled air of anticipation, the hysteria of mind and spirit which invariably marks the egomaniac or otherwise manic personality under pressure or in time of crisis.
“My dear Miss Maler,” he opened, having sent his soldiers away, “and Mr. Stone, of course,” he nodded an exaggerated welcome. “And doubtless you’re both wondering just why I’ve had you brought here.”
“Not really,” said Stone drily. “Since we’re the only human beings in the place, naturally you’d want to talk to somebody. It must get hellish lonely amongst the freaks you call your servants and the zombies you use for guards!”
Gubwa smiled indulgently. “Not at all, Mr. Stone, on the contrary. I, too, am a ‘freak,’ remember? And as for my ‘zombies’: no general ever knew the obedience my word commands. Haven’t you experienced that for yourself?” He let that sink in.
“But…I didn’t bring you here for the sake of mere banter, however amusing.”
“So let’s not banter, Mr. Gubwa,” said Vicki, finding a little iron to stiffen her voice. “Just why are we here?”
He stared at her and the false geniality slipped slowly from his gray-mottled face. His eyes became pink pinpoints. “Fire in your glance, Miss Maler. Fire in your heart. Admirable emotion. Enjoy its heat, for you’ll soon be cold as these steel walls.”
“We expected nothing more, Gubwa,” Stone snarled. “We just wondered if it would be sooner or later, that’s all.”
“For the young lady, sooner,” the albino answered. “If what she has already told me and what she believes is true.”
“Richard!” Vicki at once gasped.
“Yes, your man Garrison,” Gubwa nodded gravely. “You told me that when he dies, you die. It struck me not long ago that this would be an admirable test: to have you here in sight, at the moment he dies. He will die, you see, in the very near future. I have seen to that.”