The Isis Covenant

by Douglas, James

  ‘Okay, but I’ll go in first. I’ve done this kind of stuff before. OTC and the Brecons, and all that. We don’t know what’s on the other side of this wall, so when we go over, we stay together and we protect each other’s backs. We follow the line of the drive towards the main house. Once we get there we’ll have a better idea of where we go next. All right so far?’

  For answer she cocked the pistol and jogged towards the wall. Thick foliage barred the way and by the time they reached it they were soaked. Jamie ran his hands along the top of the wall, checking for glass or razor wire, but there was none. He hauled himself up by the arms and straightened out, belly down along the top, keeping the lowest possible profile, before allowing himself to drop on the other side. Danny followed his example and they hunkered down in the shadow of the wall to get their bearings. The driveway to the house was off to their right, to their left was an open patch that seemed to be some kind of neglected garden. In front of them, covering the direct route to the house, was an orchard of ancient gnarled apple trees whose roots were hidden beneath the rough knee-high grass that carpeted the entire area.

  Jamie led the way, leopard-crawling through the wet foliage. He’d felt a thrill of fear when he’d seen the warning sign. No one would willingly go up against the kind of dog Paul Dornberger was likely to keep about the premises. But now he was here it gave him a certain amount of reassurance. If Dornberger was relying on dogs it meant he wasn’t relying on anything else, like the kind of motion-sensor equipment Bernie Hartmann had thought would protect him. It also made it unlikely that the long grass hid the kind of iron-jawed man trap that his imagination told him was sitting beneath every blade. He stopped and sniffed the air. Nothing; but that was what he would have expected. The weather was another bonus because not only would it hamper the dogs’ sense of smell it would affect their hearing. With just a little luck they would make the house undetected. A peel of thunder was followed a few seconds later by a flash of lightning that turned the trees into an army of enormous, skeletal witches with twisted, grasping arms and long curling fingers, and he felt a shiver that was connected with some childhood memory. Babes in the Wood? Fantasia? He knew he would make quicker progress on his feet, with probably just as little, or as much, chance of being seen, but somewhere close by was Paul Dornberger and he was armed and dangerous and he could shoot the fleas off an itching hound. Why the hell did he think that? He tried to force the stupid thought back where it came from, but it was as if letting it loose had drawn them to him. Through the rain two enormous, hulking, four-legged figures padded into view a few yards ahead of him. He froze, but they lumbered to a stop and their red eyes fixed on him. It couldn’t have been worse. Rottweilers. Devil dogs. Black-and-tan giants with broad shoulders and thick necks and jaws that were designed to crush a wolf’s skull with a single bite. A low growl confirmed that he’d been detected, but they must have been trained not to bark because the following rush was swift and silent. The first was almost on him when something zipped past his ear like a turbo-charged wasp and the lead attacker’s head snapped back and it somersaulted backwards as if it had run into a steel wire. But there was no stopping the second and before he could bring up his pistol its teeth clamped on his arm and threatened to rip it from his shoulder, shaking its head and using its powerful neck muscles. The only thing that saved him was the padded jacket Danny had given him; even then he felt the tips of those savage fangs raking the flesh of his arm. It was like wrestling with a crocodile and the way things were going there would only be one winner. He smashed his free fist into the beast’s muzzle in a vain bid to force it off, but it seemed to grow stronger. His vision was beginning to blur when, in a moment of slow motion, he saw its eyes widen and its skull expand until the back of its head exploded in a spray of scarlet and white. With a convulsive shudder the Rottweiler went still, its enormous weight pinning him to the ground. A dark figure appeared from behind and heaved it clear.

  ‘Can’t lie about here all day, Jamie Saintclair, there’s work to be done.’

  Jamie rose to his feet on shaking legs. He checked the pistol to make sure the magazine hadn’t been dislodged and the familiar actions slowed his heart rate to a point where the organ wasn’t going to explode. It was almost dark now and despite the storm to the east he could see a silver glow in the sky he knew was the first rays of the moon. Time was running out for Dmitri Samsonov.

  Danny slipped easily through the trees and he ran to catch her up just as another flash of lightning illuminated the house properly for the first time. It was big, ugly and ramshackle, probably Victorian or earlier, with missing slates and peeling woodwork; neglected like the rest of the estate. The path through the trees brought them towards it at an angle, but half a dozen darkened windows covered their approach and any one of them could have Dornberger behind it watching their every move. Danny knelt at the base of the last crooked apple tree before the open ground of the driveway and Jamie crouched beside her. Together they studied the lower floor, looking for the best way to get inside.

  Eventually, he put his mouth to Danny’s ear. ‘Stay here. I have an idea.’ He slipped away into the darkness and reappeared after a minute or so with a rusting piece of metal. It was about two feet long, a narrow bar with hooks protruding at intervals; something that might have been made to string barbed wire, but had probably been used to support peas in the garden.

  He led her to a small ground-floor window that looked as if it might provide light for a cloakroom. Fortunately, whoever owned the house had resisted the urge to improve its rustic charms by installing double glazing. The windows were old-fashioned sash and case affairs with cracked woodwork and layers of peeling paint. He put the end of the iron plate into the narrow space between the window and the sill. He had to use all his weight to prise the window upwards and it gave a crack like a small-calibre rifle as the thick seal of generations of paint surrendered to the assault.

  Fisher winced at the sound, but she pushed him aside and silently squirmed through the gap he’d created. He followed her and for a few moments they stood in the pitch darkness listening to the sound of their own breathing until a flash illuminated their surroundings. It was fortunate they hadn’t moved far from the window, because the small room was strewn with a domestic minefield of discarded household equipment. An old wooden ironing board blocked the way to the door, surrounded by boxes, a standard lamp and a collection of paint tins. Warily, they picked their way through the debris. Fisher groped for the door handle and eased it open. Beyond the door the house was in darkness, but in the gloom it was just possible to make out a wood-panelled hallway and stairs. They eased their way through into the hall, Fisher leading the way with her pistol held two-handed in front of her. Jamie gave an involuntary shiver. A permanent chill hung in the air as if the occupants preferred to live their lives without the benefit of warmth. Danny signalled that she was going to check a room off to her left and waved him on. He moved slowly, planting one foot at a time and feeling his way forward over the bare floorboards. The hall took a dogleg and as he turned the corner a giant figure loomed out of the darkness in front of him. The gun came up automatically and his finger tightened on the trigger. He was within a whisker of firing when the hooded attacker of his imagination transformed into an enormous stuffed bear with yellowing fangs and tiny obsidian eyes. Shaking, he lowered the pistol and stood for a moment, the surge of adrenalin draining away and leaving his body limp. All it needed was a few marching suits of fucking armour and they’d be starring in a nightmare version of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Just for a second he felt the urge to scream out loud.

  Someone else beat him to it.

  He was moving before he even understood what he was hearing. At first he thought it must be Danny, caught in some awful demonic trap, but the scream was high-pitched and filled with visions of terror. A child’s scream. Dmitri. A hand clamped on his shoulder and he turned to look into a pair of wild, staring eyes. Danny’s face was twisted into a grimace of
desperation.

  ‘Stay still,’ she hissed. ‘We have to know where it came from!’

  He shook his head, uncertain at first. Then some radar in his head clicked into operation and he knew. He pointed at the floor. The sound was from somewhere below. He signalled to her to check one side of the hall for the entrance to the basement, while he took the other. It didn’t take long. One of the panels set into the side of the stair proved to be a door that led to a dank stairway. The stairs spiralled downwards and with Jamie in the lead they moved into the narrow passage.

  At the bottom, they came to another door, identified by a thin frame of bright artificial light. Jamie’s hand reached for the handle and Danny whispered in his ear: ‘I’ll be right behind you, Sherlock. Give ’em hell.’

  He threw the door open and they froze. Was this some kind of hallucination?

  In the cellar of his dilapidated English country house, Max Dornberger had created a replica of an Egyptian temple. Statues of jackal-headed Anubis and Horus, the hawk god, flanked the doorway. The floor was of paved sandstone and on the far side four steps led up to a carved throne set between two pillars. Each of the four walls was covered by marvellous multi-coloured friezes depicting more god-like figures conducting their hunts and holding court. The temple was empty.

  In the silence, they could hear a muffled droning sound, as if someone was reciting a mantra.

  ‘There must be another room.’ Danny’s urgent whisper brought Jamie out his reverie.

  They searched the walls for a second door, but there was none.

  ‘Look again. It has to be here,’ he said. ‘Dornberger is close.’

  A tablet with two figures etched upon it caught his eye. The woman with the horned crown and the sun disc kneeling before a Pharaoh dressed all in white with green features.

  ‘Isis and Osiris,’ Danny whispered.

  The woman’s eye was the stylized symbol that had brought them here: a dark pupil on a white background, with the distinctive red tear in its corner. Without thinking, Jamie reached up and pushed the centre. Immediately the entire panel swung inwards.

  XLV

  PAUL DORNBERGER WATCHED in disbelief as the door to the killing chamber swung open. His mind rebelled at what he was seeing. No man could enter this room except himself or his father, or those who would soon be dead. The recitation that had been passed down the ages was almost complete, the Crown and the Eye had been reunited and through the opening in the ceiling, so cunningly concealed from outside, the thin sliver of a sickle moon was just coming into view. Only the final, irrevocable act was required to complete the ceremony.

  Beside him, Max Dornberger lay on a rough trestle bed, clinging to life with every harsh breath. The doctors believed Paul had brought him here to die, but the opposite was the case. Tonight he would fulfil the quest of a lifetime. It did not matter how many had died to make it happen. All that mattered was that the Crown of Isis should live again through the one who had been chosen.

  The Crown sat on the bed in front of his father. Dmitri Samsonov, his dark eyes wide with terror, was a tiny figure strapped into the chair that had shaped Paul Dornberger’s life, his head forced back, the taut white flesh of his throat ready for the sacrificial knife.

  In one swift movement, Dornberger picked up the pistol at his side, aimed and fired. The first person through the door gave a sharp cry and dropped to the tiled floor. The second shot missed its intended target, but by good fortune it smashed the gun from the man in the doorway’s hand and with a cry of pain the figure stepped back out of the line of fire.

  Dornberger recognized the woman writhing on the floor. He was tempted to finish her, but a glance at the opening above told him he had to hurry. Time was running out. He had minutes to complete the ceremony, no more. Keeping the gun on the doorway he resumed the litany of the ritual.

  Jamie watched helplessly as Danny tried ineffectually to stem the bleeding from the gunshot wound high in her breast. His right hand vibrated like a tuning fork from the impact of the bullet that had knocked the pistol from his fingers. He had only got the briefest glimpse of what was happening inside the cellar, but it was enough. The chair with the boy held in its straps and tethers, sitting above the kind of enamel run-off you would see in an abattoir, told its own terrible story. His first instinct was to rush Dornberger, but he knew that was the tactic of despair. The man would shoot him down before he took three paces and afterwards he would kill Dmitri Samsonov and Danny Fisher. Time. He needed time to think.

  ‘It’s finished, Dornberger. Let the boy go. Whatever happens now your father is going to die. Nobody but you believes that mumbo-jumbo about the Crown, but even if it did work all it would mean is he’ll spend whatever is left of his life in prison. Did you know that your father’s name isn’t even Dornberger, Paul? Did he ever tell you that he’s actually a piece of Nazi scum called Bodo Ritter; a man who slaughtered more than twenty thousand innocent Jewish men, women and children? Bodo Ritter is something I’d wipe off my shoe, but there’s hope for you, Paul,’ he lied. ‘Being brought up in this madhouse there must be a chance that you can plead insanity.’

  The litany ended and Jamie heard a muffled cry. He risked a frantic glance round the door. Dornberger had laid the gun down, but now the knife was in his right hand, the razor edge against Dmitri Samsonov’s cringing flesh. Jamie could see the veins pulsing in the exposed neck and he flinched at the thought of the slaughter that was about to occur unless he could find a way to stop it.

  ‘The only thing that is finished is you, Saintclair,’ Paul Dornberger’s voice was eerily calm. ‘What my father is or was means nothing. He created me in his own image to be capable of any act or make any sacrifice to restore the Crown and the Eye. Can you imagine how many have sat in this chair to make this day happen? How much pain this room has seen. Soon you will experience it, as I have done. Once the ceremony is complete, unless you surrender yourself I will shoot your mysterious companion to pieces. Naturally I will aim to cause her the maximum of suffering. Could you stand that Saintclair? Watching her squirm with a bullet in her guts. Hearing her scream for her life as the blood spurts from a severed artery. I do not think so. And when you are in the chair, we will discuss how you managed to discover the whereabouts of Berndt Hartmann and how you found your way here.’

  ‘Keep him talking,’ Danny hissed.

  That was going to be easier said than done. Paul Dornberger kept glancing up at the opening in the roof. Jamie realized that the killer was operating to some timetable dictated by what he was seeing there and that might be measured in seconds. Even as he watched, Max Dornberger made a feeble movement towards the Crown, but the son nudged it away from his clutching fingers. Jamie closed his eyes. Think.

  He stepped into the room. ‘You don’t have to do this, Paul. You have a mind of your own. I can imagine what happened to you here: what that man did to you and what he made you do. But it can stop, now. The Crown of Isis is stained in blood. But you have the power to make it clean again. End it here and you regain whatever honour your family ever had. End it here and you can be clean again.’ Was there some kind of reaction? A hint of hesitation? ‘We’re all brothers under the skin, Paul. End it now and you can join the brotherhood of mankind again.’ As pleas for mercy went, it was trite and hackneyed, but it was all he had. He gathered himself to commit suicide when it was rejected.

  But trite or not, the words – a word – had triggered some kind of chain reaction in Paul Dornberger’s brain. For a few precious seconds he forgot the sickle moon as the many deaths he had carried out here swam through his brain. The faces appeared one after the other, dozens of them, united in their terror and their hopelessness. But one face in particular, a face that had eluded him for a quarter of a century, suddenly created a freeze-frame image that caught and stayed. A boy’s face, dull and trusting. An idiot, his father had said, as he handed Paul the knife, good for nothing but practice. His brother’s face.

  With a growl, he knocked
the old man’s hands away from the Crown and picked the golden treasure off the bed.

  ‘It is not for you, old man. It was never for you.’

  With his free hand he lifted the Crown of Isis towards his own head, the diamond glittering in the artificial light. Dmitri screamed again as he felt the increasing pressure of the knife at his throat. Jamie knew he had only one chance. Somehow Danny Fisher managed to push the pistol that had been trapped beneath her towards him and he made a dive for it. He had no time to aim. As his right hand closed over the weapon’s butt he raised it and fired allowing instinct and experience to take over.

  Dornberger had raised the Crown level with his face and there was a frozen millisecond before the bullet struck its target. The Eye of Isis shattered into a million pieces and the copper-jacketed slug continued on its course. The last thing Paul Dornberger saw was a blinding flash of light before the bullet took him directly between the eyes. Max Dornberger’s eyelids snapped open and he lurched upright on the bed with the cry of a man being dragged down into the seventh pit of hell. The shadow was already upon him, and as Jamie watched it grew ever darker. In a matter of seconds, the man who had begun life as Bodo Ritter aged fifty years and with a final shriek he fell back dead.

  Jamie lay exhausted for a few moments beside Danny Fisher’s prone body before he remembered she might be bleeding to death. When he turned to help, her eyes were shining fever bright with agony and shock. A cursory examination showed she’d been hit in the fleshy part just below the angle of her right breast and shoulder. He realized with relief that it probably looked and felt worse than it was, not that she’d appreciate that for a while. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wadded it over the wound beneath her jacket.