Magic Lantern

by Des Sheridan

  ‘Ah bon, now we all move, come on, fast walk!’

  The man speaking was dressed in dark green and brown camouflage fatigues and carried a short sub-machine gun. Later Tara would find out that this was Paul Bonnet, a senior field officer in the French Secret Service. Right now she didn’t care who he was. He was on her and Aoife’s side and she felt very glad that he was there and heavily armed. A wave of warmth passed over her: Robert had found them and saved them.

  Turning to Alain, she asked anxiously, ‘Robert?’

  Alain nodded his head towards La Roche. ‘La bas,’ was his reply. Tara didn’t understand the words but their meaning was plain enough. A tremor of anxiety passed through Tara, a cold shudder of fear that Robert was in mortal danger. Seeing this, Paul spoke again, quietly but firmly.

  ‘Come on, we go now, for the child’s sake, s’il vous plait , Madame. Je vous en pris. Robert would want you away now.’

  Tara nodded and the party resumed its trek away from La Roche aux Fées. They were walking now, at a brisk pace, each step taking them further away from the nightmare unfolding below.

  Chapter 59

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:58

  Robert was astonished and relieved when Tara and Aoife headed for the tomb. He had been desperately worried they would just break and run at random. He knew that there were too many hostile individuals in the immediate area. They wouldn’t have stood a chance and would have been mown down. It was odd, though, thought Robert. It was a very counter-intuitive action for Tara to take – to choose to go back into the claustrophobic tomb. What’s more, their flight had seemed to unfold almost in slow motion and no one made any effort to interfere. As they vanished Robert broke cover and chased after them, of necessity heading close to the tumult near Pascal. He could hear the woman who had stood on the tomb screaming nearby and some dreadful mêlée seemed to be unfolding. This provided the distraction Robert needed and he continued unhindered towards the tomb, grateful not to be sucked into the bedlam.

  He entered and zigzagged his way at high speed into the main chamber, which appeared empty. Then the beam from his torch caught a shadow moving in a corner and, raising the light, his eyes locked briefly on a man’s face. He recognised him as Jean, the MEP that he had seen in mug shots at Arz. He fired, but a second too late, and the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the stones. The man had vanished through the gap!

  Chapter 60

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 31 October 2014, 23:58

  Kirsten, seizing her moment of triumph, leapt down from the tomb and joined Morten who was completing his task of butchery with grim relish, blow after blow reducing Pascal’s corpse to a gory pulp. The power of the Mórríoghain ripped through her. It was utterly glorious, an unrestrained surge of female essence and dominance in all its raw intensity – creative, bloody, menstrual, life-giving and life-taking and overwhelmingly all-powerful. Instinctively, she knew exactly what to do next and dived in on the cadaver, her hands plunging into the carcase and feeding her hungry mouth on the warm raw flesh and fresh flowing hot blood. Let the Triple Goddess reign again!

  ‘The Triple Goddess will be fed! The Mórríoghain reigns sovereign over the world of mortals! Consume the sacred food and imbibe the life blood – the sacrificial bounty!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. Within seconds her followers swarmed around to revel alongside her in the gruesome repast.

  But not all the assembly had switched allegiance so easily. A cohort of Pascal’s supporters, recovering from their shock, moved in and tried to pull the others off their fallen leader. The two sides fell instantly into combat. As Kirsten gave the order to her followers to open fire, shots sounded and bodies hit the ground. No one knew what was happening in the darkness. Then a voice penetrated the sacred madness, pulling her out of bloodlust to the edge of sanity.

  ‘Tu chienne!’

  Kirsten, mouth splattered with her late lover’s blood and gore, spun around to confront her mortal enemy. The zombie-faced creature stood barely a metre away aiming a revolver at her. Kirsten tried to remember how to speak, struggled for the right words.

  ‘So, Kirsten. Everything is changed, is it? The Mórríoghain is here. Don’t tell me - we can be on the same side now? You? The Triple Goddess? I don’t think so!’ Freya spat the words at her rival contemptuously. ‘Take it from me. You are not worthy. You don’t even come close. You came from nothing - now, return to nothing!’

  She pulled the trigger and seconds later Kirsten’s head exploded, blood and gristle and brain flung over those standing near.

  ‘Good work, Freya. The king-slaying, treacherous bitch got what she deserved.’

  Erik’s voice cracked from a mix of shock at his beloved Leader’s demise and satisfaction at seeing Kirsten fall. But Freya’s voice was steady.

  ‘Erik, get your men to surround us. We need to get out of this alive. It is down to you and me now. We are taking over.’

  Chapter 61

  La Roche aux Fées, France, 1 November 2014, 00:03

  Without hesitation, Robert followed Le Vache, throwing himself low through the opening in the stones of the tomb wall and landing with a rolling action. He twisted to lie flat on his stomach, hands outstretched with his gun pointing forward as he scanned the darkness with alert eyes. The area was perfectly still and quiet, a haven compared to the mayhem that he could hear unfolding around the corner. The turf was cool beneath his body. Pulling his night vision goggles over his eyes, he made out a small group of people running along the edge of the nearby hill. The small stature of a child was a giveaway, and joy soared in Robert’s heart. They were safe! They were escaping with Paul’s party.

  The soldier’s discipline reasserted itself instantly. Time for priority two. Scanning around slowly, through more than one hundred and eighty degrees, he eventually located his quarry, a moving blur of glowing warmth standing out against the light green background provided by the image intensifier. The man was in a copse of trees, moving rapidly away from the site - a desperate man in a hurry. Robert reckoned the runner had already gained two minutes during the time that he had been obliged to find his bearings.

  He shot upright and crashed after his quarry, his knees pumping as he pounded his way noisily into the wood and through the vegetation. Suddenly the man cut out of cover and headed across a field. Robert pursued him. The fleeing man was carrying a large hold-all over one shoulder and it was slowing him down. Robert knew he was steadily gaining ground. At that moment the figure passed through a field gate in a tall hedgerow and disappeared. The sound of a large rotary motor filled the darkness – a helicopter was in the vicinity!

  It took Robert a minute or so to make the opening and swinging over it, he saw his quarry bee-lining towards the helicopter that was hovering close to ground level, its rotors roaring. As he neared it the man crouched and slowed down, struggling forward against the air turbulence from the machine. A hand reached out from the side door of the machine towards the running figure. Seeing there was no time to lose Robert raised his gun and fired off three shots in close succession. The man jolted, his body arching as he tried to climb aboard the craft. Instead he fell back, but without the hold-all, which disappeared into the body of the craft!

  The chopper suddenly tilted sharply and rose rapidly into the sky, gaining altitude fast. Robert loosed a further round of shots, and the clang of metal on metal told him he had hit home. But there was no welcome explosion, no sudden loss of direction or altitude. The helicopter made good its escape upwards into the night sky and, as Robert watched and cursed, it began to fade from view.

  His chest heaving from the exertion of the chase, Robert slowly approached the body on the ground carefully holding his gun outstretched, ready to fire. The man had fallen in the stubble of the cropped field and lay on his back, clutching at the exit wound in his chest, blood pouring through his fingers.

  ‘Au secours! Aidez moi monsiuer. Je suis blessé mal.’

  His eyes fearful, he look
ed imploringly at Robert, like the frightened injured animal he was. Robert looked at him dispassionately and thought of what this man must have seen, must have taken part in, and what he had condoned. What, ten minutes ago, he was prepared to go along with in Aoife’s case. His finger tightened on the trigger, then hesitated. There could be no taking Jean into custody for further questioning. Robert’s own insistence that the operation be sub rosa ensured that. He would have to interrogate him here. Leaning down he found that the injured man had lost consciousness. Robert raised the MEP’s body slightly but this caused a fresh surge of blood to pour out through the clothes. He slapped the man on the face to try and rouse him, but it was hopeless. Still the blood oozed out and it dawned on Robert that he was cradling a corpse. Angrily, he shoved the body back on the ground and struck the turf twice viciously with his gun hand in frustration. He then rose and turned, and began a slow trudge towards his next destination, cursing himself for letting them – whoever they were - escape with the Triskell.

  Chapter 62

  La Roche Aux Fées, France, 1 November 2014, 01:16

  An hour or so had elapsed by the time an exhausted Robert arrived at the rendezvous point which was roughly two miles away from La Roche aux Fées. Although he and the teams were still in radio contact they were keeping communications to a minimum. They didn’t want to be a recordable presence on the airwaves if it could be avoided. Nico came forward to greet him and confirmed that Tara and Aoife were well on their way to a safe house. Apart from that he seemed to Robert to be very subdued. Approaching the cars, Robert found Teresa, Paul and the others, in equally sombre mood.

  Teresa said simply, shaking her head, ‘We are one man down. Gerard - the young French fella - hardly more than a boy. Such a waste!’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Robert asked.

  Nico took up the story, his voice tense. ‘Once Tara and Aoife were safe and you confirmed the Triskell had been removed, we started to withdraw – as agreed. The two factions were still fighting each other and guns were being used. God only knows what else was going down. I have never seen anything like it. I never want to see such things again. As for Gerard, unfortunately, he got caught in the cross fire. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it’s a relief he died cleanly, at any rate. If he – if he had been caught up by – I can’t think about it. I saw at least eight bodies, including Pascal and the woman in purple, and the same number seriously injured. We retrieved Gerard’s body then got the hell out.’

  Robert knew that Gerard had been an exceptionally amiable young man and they had all liked him. He caught a slight crack in Nico’s voice. He wondered if he and the young man had become close. He knew that his friend, that most quintessentially machismo Italian in most respects, sometimes seemed to have a weak spot for handsome young men.

  Nico continued, ‘Something truly apocalyptic was taking place. It was like the coming of hell on earth. The woman,’ he said slowly, and then, ‘the blood and flesh on her face.’

  Nico turned his and for seconds Robert had the dreadful sense that his friend was struggling with tears. But instead Nico said only, ‘We have secured our objectives and we said we would pull out. So let’s do it.’ They had to melt into the night, Robert knew. That would help keep the entire effort off the books and any security services involvement could be plausibly denied. Then it was as though Nico had never flinched as he spoke again steadily.

  ‘Their friends who run the Estate will clear up the mess and get rid of the bodies. Neither side will want publicity. Too many prominent guests for that.’

  ‘They won’t get away entirely free,’ added Paul. ‘We saw and photographed many faces and we will identify those we can.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There are some frames I might like to lose, with your agreement. Nobody would believe such carnage took place. Let’s keep it simple. Edit the record. We have been monitoring car licence numbers arriving over the last few days. And we will watch them from now on. Their cover is broken.’

  They all nodded. Robert wanted to bury the fleeting images he had seen so deep in his imagination that they would never rise up to the surface. They would all pretend that there had simply been a shoot-out between contending greedy factions. He drew a deep breath. Now it was his turn to explain what had happened to the Triskell and that he had shot Jean La Vache.

  ‘Was there any ID on the helicopter?’ Paul asked when he had finished.

  ‘Yes, it had EC120 on its flank carried the number FR7YD – there was more, but I couldn’t get the rest.’

  ‘I think it may be enough, mon ami. I will see what I can find out about it’, said Paul, pulling out his mobile phone. ‘I suggest that we take you to Tara now. There is nothing more for us to do here and it is quite a distance.’

  Robert nodded. He hugged Teresa, adding, ‘Thank you so much. And pass on my condolences on to Alain and his friends.’ Then he and Nico embraced briefly without words and he climbed up into Paul’s four-by-four. Both men were quiet throughout the journey. It was a blessing to be silent, to find reassurance in the everyday sounds of gear changes and the throbbing of the vehicle’s engine as it negotiated the road conditions. It was an even greater blessing that Tara and Aoife had not perished in the chaos. He wondered if they would ever talk about it, the upwelling of some rampaging, pagan energy, overwhelmingly bent upon causing destruction.

  It took almost two hours before they arrived at the safe house as they followed a myriad of small roads that traversed the salt marshes towards La Baule. Paul was evidently taking no chances, getting the two rescued captives well out of the theatre of combat. Had anyone followed them it would have been obvious to him as he used such a circuitous route.

  They finally arrived at a red-bricked detached nineteenth-century dwelling on the edge of the small town of Guérande. It was a sizeable house surrounded by high walls and Robert was leaping from the car almost before it swung to a halt before a fine porch. He felt the gravel beneath his feet and inhaled the sea air, taking in the saltiness as the cold night air refreshed his senses, reminding him that the natural world was clean and innocent by contrast with the world made by men. He strode rapidly to the hall door and, once inside, crossed a large parquet-floored hall and was ushered straight to the sitting room where Paul had told him he would find Tara. She was waiting there, sitting in a large Empire style armchair, which dwarfed her somewhat. Around her much of the furniture was still draped in white dust sheets, making her presence there seem all the more anomalous. She wore ill-fitting clothes, which someone had evidently found for her, and rose to her feet as he entered. They folded at once into each other’s arms. She murmured quietly that Aoife was fine. She had been sedated by a doctor and put to bed. But that comment apart this was not a moment for talking. Words were not sufficient to encompass what had happened and what had been so narrowly avoided. This was a time for just holding each other.

  Part VI: Gavrinis

  Chapter 63

  Guérande, France, 1 November 2014, 08:31

  Robert rolled over and awoke, wondering for a second where he was. The fine Egyptian cotton sheets were deliciously smooth and cool. The bedroom was palatial in size and, as with the living room, the furniture was mostly covered by white dust sheets. Morning light was filtering in around the edges of the window drapes. Tara stood by the large window that looked out over the sea. Her hair was wet, and a short white towel wrapped around her revealed smooth thighs that invited his gaze. The window was twice her height and was ajar, the pale inner lace curtains billowing about her body. Robert felt a surge of reassurance at seeing her there and almost had to pinch himself to be convinced that she was not an illusion.

  Glancing at his watch he saw it was past eight. He joined her by the window and found that the house directly overlooked a long, broad stony beach. It was a grey morning, sea and sky merging in an Impressionist blur somewhere out in the Bay of Biscay. A movement closer to hand caught his eye and he noticed that, in a corner of the garden under some apple tr
ees, a plain clothes guard was patrolling, cigarette in hand. It was reassuring to know they were under protection. He had Paul to thank for that. Robert wrapped his arms about Tara, nestling his head on her shoulder.

  Later in the morning Teresa and Paul turned up as Robert and Tara were finishing a simple continental breakfast in the kitchen. Robert noticed that neither had changed their clothes - they had evidently been at work all night. Paul, sitting at the table and sniffing appreciatively the cup of fresh black coffee that Tara offered him, reported on their researches. They had traced the helicopter. It was on hire from a small company based at Nantes airport.

  ‘On hire for a week to a M. Martin Landry,’ Paul continued. ‘A harmless man, a lawyer, recently retained by a certain Evrard de Waverin-Looz, based in Brussels. Pascal’s father, in other words.’

  ‘His father?’ Tara exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘Yes Tara, Pascal’s father is one of the richest men in Europe. He leads a group of companies that operate loosely as a consortium, called the Wallonian Circle, and are involved in lots of profitable and innovative industries - petrochemicals, desalination processes, biodiesel plantations in Africa, that sort of thing. He likes to be on the rising curve when it comes to pioneering technologies. The gossip is that he oscillated between impatience with Pascal’s fringe activities and indulgence on the basis that his son would grow out of it one of these days. We are surprised to find him so directly linked to the La Roche aux Fées incident, but based on what Robert observed, it looks like Jean le Vache must have been in Evrard’s pay. There seems little doubt he was stealing the Triskell to a pre-set plan. And it certainly doesn’t fit with what Pascal was up to. Jean was taking a big risk - there would have been no going back to Pascal after that stunt. Pascal would have killed him. And Jean must have known that.’