Magic Lantern

by Des Sheridan

  Chapter 45

  Nantes, France, 29 October 2014

  ‘Where are you?’ Robert Grainger asked down the line.

  ‘In Nantes. With professional friends,’ Teresa replied. She was relieved to hear his voice as she had her forces all lined up and didn’t want to play Old King Cole. She was flying by the seat of her pants, relying on personal contacts and operating well off the grid. Her career would be on the line as a result, but she didn’t give a damn. She had to help Tara Ruane and the girl. Relief was audible in Robert’s tone as well.

  ‘Thank goodness for that. It will be the day after tomorrow – at night. A celebration of something called Samhain.’

  ‘Samhain? Now that I have heard of.’

  ‘Yes, home territory for you Irish, I am told. But this is no “let’s pretend” party. It is the real thing. Likely to be vicious and nasty so come equipped.’

  ‘I see. And you?’ As always she asked questions. That way you got information.

  ‘We have that aspect covered,’ Robert replied evenly. She realised he was levelling with her.

  ‘Good. Much easier than my having to go through French channels. Any idea where?’

  ‘Yes, but no names,’ Robert replied and rattled off the grid reference instead. ‘We need to be careful; I don’t want us to alert them. If we do they will spirit the captives away. We have to let the opposition assemble freely.’

  Teresa was silent a moment then spoke.

  ‘Yes, that makes sense. Robert. We need to meet and plan the deployment together, time is so short! I have had conversations as you suggested and I can guarantee your and Tara’s safety from being detained. It will be sub rosa as you requested. The British and French and Interpol are working with me and have all signed up as well. They are running out of patience with your busy little enemies. Leaving too much debris after them. Best for all concerned that this is resolved off piste.’

  ‘Good. I can suggest a location for us to meet this afternoon. We have done some preliminary recce work, very discreetly of course. I will bring you up to speed.’

  The tone of Robert’s voice sounded more relaxed. He is starting to trust me she noted with satisfaction.

  ‘Tell me where.’

  Part V: La Roche aux Fées

  Chapter 46

  Essé, France, 31 October 2014, 18:25

  The sound of heels clattering hard on the wooden treads of the stairs to the basement told Tara that they had company. She heard a key turn in the lock and Kirsten, pushing the door inwards, appeared. Pascal’s girlfriend got straight to the point, her habitually pleasant-looking face at odds with her brusque tone.

  ‘It is time for you both to showered and get dressed. Tonight we have a party. Here are the new clothes for you to wear.’

  The clothes she deposited on the bed were unusual - large loose-fitting smocks, like costumes for an historical play. Tara’s was beige in colour, beautifully embroidered with a heavier gold-coloured woollen yarn, in a curving Celtic motif, at the hem and cuffs. Aoife’s couldn’t have been simpler; it was pure white and devoid of any trace of decoration. Like a shroud, thought Tara, her gut wrenching. She glanced at her watch. It was almost four o’clock. Soon night would fall and then, she felt sure, it would be time. It would happen tonight. Destiny in an unsought form was closing in fast. Sheer panic gripped and inspired her simultaneously.

  As Kirsten turned to leave, Tara grabbed her captor around the neck with one arm, and used her other arm to grasp one of the woman’s arms, with all the force she could summon up, jamming it behind her back. For a few seconds she had the upper hand and thought she could knock the woman out by banging her head against the wall. But Kirsten, she was about to discover, had martial arts training and just shrugged her off, slipping from her grasp. Kirsten grabbed hold of one of Tara’s breasts and finding the nipple through her bra pinched hard. Tara fell to her knees, pain cascading around her nervous system. Kirsten appeared unruffled and, although anger flashed in her eyes, her manner remained icily detached.

  ‘Keep up this stupid resistance, you fucking cunt and next time I will hurt you properly. And as one bitch to another, never underestimate me. Pascal is the only thing keeping me from carving that pretty face of yours up. For now! He loses interest, you know, eventually and passes people over to me. Then I can do what I like!’

  With that chilling threat she pushed Tara away and exited the room, closing the door with a resounding slam and locking it after her.

  Aoife rushed over. ‘Tara, are you OK? Why are these people so horrible to us?’

  Recalling the torture that Shay had endured, Tara knew that odds on she and Aoife must be facing a similar fate. From what Aoife had told her, so far they had looked after her niece well, only hurting her superficially to secure basic compliance. She calculated this meant they wouldn’t hurt the child - until they were ready to kill her. Recalling what Pascal had said in the wood, and sensing the gathering pace of readiness around them, she felt sure that would be in the next few hours. It was time to talk to Aoife, to prepare her. She straightened herself up and took hold of Aoife’s hands, brushing her hair away from her face tenderly and looking her niece in the eye.

  ‘They are nasty and unhappy people, Aoife. They are damaged in the head and can’t act in a normal, loving way. Don’t trust any of them and later on, when we go upstairs, focus all your attention on one thing only - finding an opportunity to run for it. It will be dark out there and that will help you a lot. And once you go, you must keep going. You must run as though your life depends on it. It will be dark and that will help a lot. I know what a great runner you are when you get going. Remember that race at the Sligo Open Sports Day?’

  Aoife’s eyes lit up proudly at the recollection. She had won by five lengths.

  ‘Well I want you to run like you did that day. Don’t stop, just keep ducking and weaving and hiding until you drop somewhere safe. Where you are sure they can’t find you. And if you are not certain about that, don’t stop, run on further. Do you understand? Promise me!’

  ‘I promise, Tara, but what about you? I can’t just leave you!’

  ‘Oh yes, you can. You must! Forget about me. I will create a diversion and that is when you must find your chance to escape. You will know it because I will do something dramatic, something that will make them focus on me and forget about you. OK?’

  The child nodded, although a bit hesitantly, so Tara continued.

  ‘Once you have gone I will be fine. Robert has promised to come and rescue me. He is busy planning that now.’ She hoped that her tone sounded convincingly calm and confident. ‘But we have to get you away first, because there will probably be shooting and we don’t want you in the way of harm. Do you understand? Now tell me what is going to happen and what you must do.’

  Aoife had been listening well. She recounted their plan perfectly. Tara pulled her closer and embraced her. She could feel the child’s slight frame and pulsing heartbeat, and had an inkling of what it must be like to really love a child with all your heart. What a shame that it takes such extreme circumstances to give me this insight, she thought, recalling how self-centred her lifestyle had been hitherto. Before Aoife’s disappearance children were to be enjoyed in small doses as far as she and Newton had been concerned. They might have had a child at some point but it would have been like moving to a larger condo - part of evolving their image for an admiring world. Like acquiring a new accessory, she thought.

  Now she saw things in a very different light. In recent days she had reason to re-examine her obligations to Aoife and her former self seemed a stranger to her now. The really unexpected thing was how comfortable Tara felt with her decision to put herself alongside Aoife. Of course the thought of the consequences terrified her, but her heart was fully at peace with her choice. She had never acted in this way before, never put the interests of another above her own in a matter of real substance. But since her visit to Taizé she had not wavered. Aoife’s interests must ta
ke precedence over her own and with that firmness of resolve came an unexpected calm.

  ‘Everything will be fine, Aoife. We will say a prayer now to God who will look after us. Then we will get ready quickly - best not to annoy Kirsten again tonight.’

  She reflected on how dark and dangerous a force Pascal’s girlfriend was. Kirsten was not just his hanger-on – she was a violent and unpredictable fury in her own right. They needed to be very wary of her.

  Chapter 47

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 21:25

  The troop threaded its way across the French countryside, each person carefully following the one in front at a distance of a yard or so apart. The relief in the landscape was subdued, comprising low, broad undulating hills that were heavily cropped in large fields using modern mechanised equipment. Small thickets remained as testaments of a time when woodland was much more prevalent, and their destination was one such covert. Nico led the group, followed by Robert, with others bringing up the rear.

  Using night-vision goggles, they followed the field boundaries and hedgerows to try to evade detection. Simultaneously two other groups, from different starting points, closed in on La Roche aux Fées. Each group comprised five people and was mixed in terms of nationality. One was led by Teresa Flanagan who, Robert noted, was kitted out in figure-hugging field kit which could certainly not be described as dowdy. It turned out that she had good mastery of French and confidently took charge of her troop, which included two English SIS colleagues. The third and final group - which included Alain - was led by Paul Bonnet from the DCRI, the French counter-terrorism unit.

  Their earlier surveillance of La Roche had found that access to the area was limited to a few small roads. All of the immediate vicinity was part of the Thorigne Estate, which belonged to the aristocratic Montreuil family who, through careful purchases over many years, had managed to reacquire much of their pre-Revolutionary holdings. A single road ran close by the site and had been shut by the Estate, ostensibly because of a fallen tree. Both approaches were closed off by four-by-four vehicles placed diagonally across the road and keepers, armed with rifles and shotguns, were in attendance to make sure no one got through. DCRI observation also confirmed that a large party of guests had assembled at a nearby hunting lodge on the Estate. Nico had established that the Tourist Information Centre for La Roche, located only a few hundred yards from the tomb, opened from April to September and had therefore been closed for some weeks.

  The groups approaching La Roche kept in contact using single earpieces and small microphones fitted to their lapels. As Robert’s group drew near to its destination, the sound of chanting could be heard and he saw lights flickering. They were walking straight into the heart of danger but that was what Robert was trained to do. His mood was one of excited anticipation. Tara and Aoife must surely be here and that made it the right place for him to be. His destiny was interleaved with Tara’s, of that he was sure. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. The dream had been sent to bring him here. This was his chance to save them.

  Chapter 48

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014; 22:10

  Pascal felt the first caress of a stiffening breeze touch his cheek and rustle his cloak. He was dressed in Celtic fashion, wearing a tunic over a pair of breeches. His woollen cloak was dyed purple and sprinkled with gold dust. A pair of fine handmade leather sandals adorned his feet. He had hoped that the elements would intrude more forcefully on the event as that would intensify the sensory experience for his guests. Nothing like a bit of thunder for added drama, he thought, but as night approached the weather looked set fair and that was that.

  The adrenaline was already pulsing through his veins. Tonight would be the culmination of ten years’ careful planning and hard graft. Tonight he would become King of the Tuath, the tribe of followers that he had gathered around him. There were over eighty people present for the ceremony, and through the ritual, he would seal them in direct personal fealty to him. He touched the pure gold replica torc around his neck. One day he would wear the genuine article, he promised himself.

  The overcast sky ensured that, as the light faded, darkness fell rapidly over La Roche aux Fées. Three large fumigating torches were lit and their blaze illuminated the magnificent setting and conveyed the scent of pine cones into the night air, an aromatic token that acknowledged the power of nature. Kirsten had put great effort into getting the mix of herbs right, she had told him. In addition to pine, there was mullein to purge the location, ash for psychic connectivity to the otherworld, and wormwood for divinatory success. Pascal knew these essences would heighten the spiritual readiness of his guests and seep into the very fabric of the earth and air, opening up these elements at molecular level to the influence of the Otherworld.

  The assembled guests, dressed in Celtic attire, already ringed the imposing entrance to the megalithic sepulchre, ready for the ceremonies to begin. Their conversational buzz in the air added to a sense of excited anticipation. Pascal had been careful to raise expectations with rumours that tonight would feature much more than the usual symbolist ceremonial. His plan was to pile up the drama in a series of set pieces designed to impress and then escalate the situation to a new level entirely. The assembly was a community rich in wealth, talent, intelligence and ambition, not to mention ruthlessness and avarice. After tonight they would be his shock troops for the struggle ahead.

  Looking around he was satisfied it was time to start. He nodded to Erik who picked up a large hammer and struck a huge gong. Leaping up onto the large altar stone which lay before the tomb, Pascal commenced proceedings, calling out in a commanding voice,

  ‘Welcome, my friends, to the summer’s end! Let us bow to the West, where the slain sun of summer has been laid to rest.’

  He pointed with outstretched arm to the cavernous pit of the tomb entrance and bellowed,

  ‘Come to us Cernunnos, herald of the dying year and lead us in our ceremony.’

  A figure slowly emerged from inside the womb of the tomb, a monstrous apparition. Pascal heard the sharp intake of breath from the crowd. The man’s hair was dark and wild and bordered his face, culminating in a ragged pointed beard. A pair of blackened cavernous eyes took in the assembly. Ashen white, his face was streaked by rivulets of blood. The apparition moved to stand under the large oak tree near the tomb and took up position between a large cauldron, swinging on a pivot over a fire, and the fully-assembled Triskell, which was elevated on a wooden stand, about waist high. Two small golden torcs dangled from the huge pair of antler horns that seemed to grow out from Cernunnos’ shoulders. When he spoke, it was in a commanding tenor voice and highly accented English.

  ‘Hail to Pascal, our wise leader. Tonight he will lead you to new heights of Celtic insight and divination.’

  Pascal raised two hands in greeting and replied.

  ‘Welcome, Lord of the Hunt. Tonight also I promise that you will take one soul amongst our midst with you when you return to the Otherworld! The Hunter will have his blood sacrifice!’

  At these words a hushed silence fell across the crowd. He knew they needed no explanation of his words – there would be a human sacrifice! He watched the faces in the crowd, looking out for signs of individuals cringing back. The weak-willed could not be relied on and would need purging from his following. A ripple of approval from the assembly then built up into a roar. This was the blood lust he wanted, he thought, exulting in the response.

  Chapter 49

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 22:30

  Drawing closer to the megalith, Robert felt his mouth dry up and his muscles become taut, as the imminence of combat roused his senses to full alert. Nico, ahead of him, indicated downward with his hands and, falling on his stomach, crawled painstakingly forward across the damp grass. Following his example, Robert pulled up behind his friend, who had stopped at the foot of a hedge and was positioned at ground level, half hidden under a hawthorn bush. Turning onto his back
and sidling backwards, Nico signalled Robert to look through the gap in the vegetation.

  Through the foliage, Robert could discern the unmistakable outline of the megalithic chamber, just as it had appeared to him in his dream, but lit by the orange flickering light of burning torches. He felt afresh that strange sensation of the tomb just squatting there, waiting for something to come along that it might prey on, as though it were some organic worm-like monster that would suddenly move and, casting away its mantle of soil, rise up from the ground and devour its victim.

  His heart skipped a further beat as, in the gloom, he discerned the ghastly creature of his dreams, Cernunnos, with his arms raised to the sky, like a devil incarnate. Switching his gaze he peered into the assembly and soon located Pascal. The man, dressed in a deep amethyst robe, was standing next to a very slim small woman, with jet black hair, dressed in a tight-fitting gold robe. In between the two Robert recognised Tara. A visceral anger gripped him to see her held captive, his body clenching as instinctively he braced to attack, but his training kicked in, reminding him that the first priority was to assess the situation and not act on impulse. But it was easier said than done. He looked at Tara and his love for her stoked his fury afresh. His pulse rate pounding, he struggled to bring himself back under control. Finally reason prevailed. He was here to deliver Tara and Aoife to safety, not get himself killed through foolhardiness.

  Despite the extremity of the situation, Robert was exhilarated to have located Tara so quickly, and have the opportunity of rescuing her. He would use the best skills he had - his soldiering experience - or die in the attempt.

  Suddenly, and for the first time, the sound of Pascal’s voice filled his ears. It was a rich baritone voice, deep and strong: the voice of a primeval force to be reckoned with.

  ‘Welcome, Lord of the Hunt. Tonight also I promise that you will take one soul amongst our midst with you when you return to the Otherworld! The Hunter will have his blood sacrifice!’