He surveyed her over the rim of his tumbler. She could see thoughts churning behind those bright, penetrating blue eyes of his, affection wrestling with duty, past vying with present.
Finally he said, "I'd be a fool to try and talk you out of this. I'd be wasting my breath. Your heart's set, and frankly I pity those poor Olympians. They've mucked with the wrong lass, and they don't know what's coming. You can't expect me not to call in the discovery of a dead body, though."
"No, of course not."
"So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you ten minutes. You phoned. You sounded peculiar on the line, a bit 'off.' I came round to see you. You let me in. Then, while I was standing in the hall goggling at the corpse, you ran. Gave me the slip, scarpered out the garden way, over the fence and along the alley at the back. Wheezy, paunchy, middle-aged Prothero gave chase but there was little hope of him catching young, slim, nimble you. OK so far?"
"And why did I phone you?"
"To get me over here, to… confess to your old guv'nor, I suppose. Only, you must have had a last-minute change of heart. Took one look at me. Panicked. Fled."
"Who is the woman in the hallway?"
"A friend who you had a falling-out with, will be my assumption. Over a man. Yes?"
"Sexist but acceptable."
"You'd rather it was over a knitting pattern?"
"A man gives me reasonable motive. There'll be no clear evidential history between me and Zaina Mahmoud, though."
"You said she was a cop. Maybe that's how you two knew each other. Met and bonded at some training seminar a while back, then ended up dating the same fellow. Another cop perhaps, or a mutual friend, someone who commutes between London and — where did you say she was from? Manchester. The thing is, the why of it won't be anywhere near as significant as the fact that her body is lying in your house with your knife in her and your fingerprints all over her. That's the picture everyone'll see, that's what'll stick in people's minds, and by comparison the background details will hardly matter. Besides, crimes of passion so often are random-seeming. There's not always a direct, unambiguous trail linking one person to another. You know this."
"I do."
"So now I'm sitting here, having helped myself to a glass of your whisky, and I'm getting my breath back and also reeling because I'm stunned — stunned — by what my erstwhile protegee has done. And in ten minutes' time I'm going to finally muster up the mental wherewithal to phone Despatch and get them to send Scene of Crime over and the rest. You have ten minutes to clear the area and get on your way to wherever you're going, Sam. I'm sorry it can't be longer, but we have to make this as realistic a timeframe as we can, don't we?"
"I'm just glad you didn't ask me to punch you, so that you can say we had a scuffle and that's how I got away."
"Come now," said Prothero with a wry half-smile. "I have my manly reputation to consider. Stopped by a punch from a woman? The boyos back at the station would be ribbing me mercilessly about it for months. Mind, the way I'm feeling right now, getting hit's probably what I need to bring me to my senses."
"How about a hug instead? Would that be all right?"
They had never hugged before. He took her in his arms, tightly, and she buried her face in his jacket collar, which smelled of dry cleaning fluid and him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."
"Ah now, let's not have any of that."
"You didn't have to agree to do any of this for me. Lie for me."
"No, and I'd much rather be telling everyone the truth, because that exonerates you. But then everyone would start wondering why the Olympians targeted you and your friend, and that'd lead to some unwelcome complications. Your face is going to be on TV soon, there's nothing I can do to prevent that, and Dionysus and Aphrodite will recognise you, and if you stayed here to face the music and clear your name the Olympians would know where you were and come after you in force. So you have to go on the run. It's the only way you'll be free to fight your war. And that's what matters to you, so it matters to me too."
He eased her away from him, holding her at arm's length, clasping her shoulders.
"Go get the buggers, Akehurst," he said. "Hurt them. Make them pay."
She hadn't been seeking Prothero's blessing, and didn't need it, but Christ she was pleased to have it.
58. PRODIGAL DAUGHTER
S am and Ramsay aboard Captain Fuller's fishing smack, again, but now beneath a gleaming blue early-summer sky, and the swell in the strait gentle and sparkling. A pod of porpoises accompanied them for part of the journey, sporting in the boat's bow wave, and the harbour town they left behind was getting into the swing of the tourist season — freshly painted shopfronts, bunting laced across the streets, the amusement arcades whizzing and popping, fish and chips on every corner, ice cream for sale.
Signs of brightness and hope everywhere, but not on Sam's drawn, brooding face, nor on Ramsay's, who winced every time the smack bucked and jarred his bandaged arm.
Black-and-green Bleaney loomed out of the sea, solemn, shining. Nobody was on the jetty to greet them. Captain Fuller began unloading boxes of supplies and humping them up to the bunker entrance on a porter's trolley. His two passengers went ahead and disappeared underground.
McCann was the first person they came across, and his unconfined joy at seeing Sam again almost managed to raise a smile from her.
"The boss told us you were coming back," he gushed, "but I said I wouldn't believe it 'til I saw you with my own eyes." His grin faded. "I heard about what happened with Zaina. Horrible. That Aphrodite bitch. And your face has been on the news, did you know that? Wanted woman, you are. Fugitive from justice. Police keen for you to help them with their enquiries. That's got to feel weird, jumping the fence like that, hasn't it?"
"As usual, Jamie, you never quite know when to stop talking."
"No, I don't, I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. We wouldn't have you any other way. Where is Landesman?"
McCann shrugged. "You could try his office."
En route there, they bumped into Patanjali, who offered a courteous nod, and Hamel, who enfolded Sam in a fierce embrace then, without a word, carried on her way.
Landesman was at his desk. He rose.
"Sam… I don't know what to say."
"As long as you don't gloat, you can say anything you like."
"Why would I gloat? This is a moment for celebration, not recrimination. I'm delighted to have you back. The prodigal daughter returns. Finally we can get things rolling again."
"Before we do, I have two conditions."
"Name them. Anything."
"One: Aphrodite is mine. No ifs, ands or buts. I want Apollo and Artemis as well, but Aphrodite is top of the list."
"Done."
"Two: as before, no ops without me."
"Also done."
"That means you take orders from me. Tethys outranks Cronus at all times and in all places."
"I don't foresee having a problem with that," said Landesman.
"One more thing I need to clear up. You meant for me to go to the Hellenium and parley, didn't you? It was no accident Rick overhearing Lillicrap mentioning Dionysus and Aphrodite's invitation."
"In a spirit of full candour," said Landesman, "yes, I did hope that Rick would pass on word to you about the parley offer, and I did anticipate that you would go."
"Why?"
"So you would see that nothing would come of it, that talking peace with the Olympians is futile. Please believe me, though, when I tell you that I had no idea the outcome would be as it was. I know how close you and Zaina had become, and what Aphrodite did is unforgivable. It was never my intention that a Titan would suffer as a result of you meeting with her and Dionysus. I simply wished to make a point."
"You made it well. Better than you could ever have imagined."
"I won't deny that I'm glad this has brought you back into the fold," said Landesman, "and left you more resolute than ever. Som
etimes the darkest clouds have the most brightly silver linings."
Sam glanced at the desk. The photo of Xander Landesman and his mother had been removed.
"Yes," said Landesman, following her gaze. "And with it goes any last vestige of sentimentality I may have had towards the boy. At the back of my mind there's always been the hope that, in spite of everything, Xander and I could have some sort of rapprochement. Enough of me remembers the joy he used to give me, the happiness I found in him when he was small, that I still harboured notions of bringing our dispute to an amicable conclusion. Or certainly, that's how I used to feel. I was clinging to the idea that, at the last, we would find some way of settling our differences that didn't entail the death of one or other of us. But" — a profound, heartfelt sigh — "it's not to be. Not now.
"Zeus gave Aphrodite the order to brainwash one of you over the phone, I'm sure of it. She wouldn't have done it except on his say-so. And to me that is the final straw. A truly unacceptable, insidious act. The mark of a coward and a rat. When he was a boy, I adored Xander. Now he's an adult, and has turned out the way he has, I believe more than ever that the only responsible course of action is to wipe him off the face of the planet."
If he was trying to elicit agreement or sympathy from either Sam or Ramsay, he got none. "I'm going to check on the Minotaur," Sam said.
The monster, languishing in his foetid pen, leapt to his feet and capered with glee the moment he laid eyes on Sam. His — yes, his — excited lowing sounded like peals of laughter, deafening in the confined space. He had lost weight, a lot of it, and sores had broken out on his muzzle and chest. Sam spent several minutes scratching the top of his head; he wouldn't let her stop. And it was only after being petted for some considerable time that he thought to eat the food she had brought.
Sam noted the heaps of untouched, rotting vegetable matter that littered the floor of the pen. "Hunger strike, eh?" she said. "You poor thing. I don't blame you. But I'm back now, and I'm not abandoning you again. I'm staying 'til this is all over."
The Minotaur snorted approvingly, as if he under-stood, and resumed munching a head of cabbage.
Then, mid-mouthful, he stopped.
He looked up. Cocked his head.
His red eyes were wide and wary.
"What is it? What's up?"
Stupid to ask questions of a speechless and uncomprehending beast, but Sam did it anyway. She was unnerved. The Minotaur had become agitated, as if he sensed something, detected something she could not. Something wrong.
Then he let out a deep, growling low. The ridge of coarse hair leading down from his scalp to between his shoulderblades bristled.
Danger.
Sam was on her feet in an instant, making for the command centre. The Minotaur lumbered after her.
And at that point, all through the bunker, alarms started to sound.
59. RAID ON BLEANEY
T his was not a drill.
The Titans had rehearsed what to do in the almost inconceivably unlikely event of the Olympians launching an attack on Bleaney. Make for the command centre, suit up as fast as possible, go out to repel invaders.
All seven of them converged now in that large chamber, along with the techs and the Minotaur. There were moments of clamour and chaos as Patanjali and others checked the island's perimeter cameras to establish who and where the threat was, while the Titans scrambled into their battle garb. They had their armouring technique down to a fine art now, but still none of them could achieve full combat readiness in under ten minutes.
"South promontory secure," Patanjali announced. "Nothing there. Looking at the eastern shoreline now. Nothing on any of those cameras either. Come on, come on, show yourselves. It's got to be Olympians. With our facial recognition software, this can't be a bunch of boat trippers landing for a picnic. The emergency alarms wouldn't've triggered. Scanning along the western shoreline now… oh shit."
"Which of them?" Landesman barked, strapping on his chestplate.
"Uh…"
"Come on, out with it. How many?"
Patanjali had paled. "A lot, sir. Too many."
On the large screens, they were coming up one of the mainland-side beaches, striding purposefully across the shingles. Sam counted six in total. Not the full Pantheonic complement by any means, but enough. Enough. Ares, Apollo, Artemis, Hades and Zeus. Naturally Zeus. All the big guns, the heavy hitters. And sauntering behind them, was that… could it be…?
Hermes?
Hermes. It was him. Caduceus, winged helmet and sandals — all present and correct. Alive after all. Looking unharmed, intact, as if he'd been nowhere near Harryhausen's grenade when it went off. He had Demeter to thank for that, no doubt.
And yet, Sam thought, it wasn't Hermes. Not quite. There was something about him, something different but at the same time naggingly familiar…
No time to worry about that. She slapped her helmet on and triggered the visor display. The suit ran its preliminary diagnostic, and she felt the servos humming around her, and she was armoured again, and Tethys, and powerful, and it was good.
Not just good.
Fantastic.
"This is it," she heard Sparks murmuring beside her. The other woman was fumbling with her own helmet, hands trembling. "This is really it. O Jesus, Lord, saviour of my soul, I ask you this morning to protect me and keep me and let me defeat these heathens who profane the word 'god.' I pray for your guidance and blessing in this, our hour of tribulation."
Sam helped her fit the helmet on. "Just do what you can, Kayla — Theia. Take the fight to the Olympians. Give them no quarter. If this is to be our final clash with them, let's make it a battle to remember."
"How the hell did they find us, that's what I want to know," said Ramsay, now Hyperion. "Somebody sell us out?"
A terrible thought came to Sam. Prothero? Could it have been? She had told him everything about the Titans, after all.
But Dai Prothero would never betray her. Never. She dismissed the possibility outright, although the fact that the idea had even occurred to her left a bitter mental aftertaste.
"Ah, who cares?" said Barrington, Iapetus, slotting shells into his pump-action shotgun. "We're taking the bastards on, face to face, man to man. It's what we wanted, isn't it? Up to now all we've been doing is skirm-ishing. About time we had a proper ding-dong go."
"I couldn't agree more," said Tsang, Crius. "They've come here in numbers. That'll just make it easier to obliterate them."
"Jamie!" Cronus called out.
McCann came bounding over. "Sir!"
"Whatever happens out there, I want you to commence evac procedures."
McCann blinked. "Sir?"
"We can't guarantee the integrity of the bunker, especially with Hermes back in action, and our location has been compromised anyway. You know what to do. All noncombatant personnel up top, along with the bare essential support equipment. We're in luck — Captain Fuller's still moored at the jetty. Get everything and everyone on board the boat and set sail. We'll keep the fighting as far from you as we can. Come on, hop to it. Time's wasting."
McCann whirled and started doling out orders to the techs: dismantle this, unplug that. All at once he no longer seemed boyish.
Sam approached the Minotaur, who was bewildered by all the noise and confusion and the scent of dread in the air. He shrank from her in her battlesuit.
"It's me," she said soothingly. "You know my voice. Me."
The monster relaxed a little.
"I need you to stay put. For your own good. You can't come with me. Stay down here where you'll be safe."
But the Minotaur tagged along after her as she headed for the exit with the other Titans.
"No," she insisted, thinking this was like something out of a Lassie movie, "you can't come. It's too dangerous."
"Dangerous?" said Hyperion. "For a four-hundred-pound beast?"
"Or for us," Sam told him. "Who knows whose side he'll be on? Once he sees who's up there…"
<
br /> "He'll be on our side," Hyperion stated firmly. "He'll be on whatever side you are on."
"You think?"
He nodded. "And we could surely do with the extra muscle."
Sam turned back to the Minotaur, who was showing absolutely no intention of doing anything but go with her.
"Fine," she said, and on she and her fellow Titans went, the Minotaur too, up to the entrance, where the Titans mustered in a line as the main door rolled apart in front of them.
"Comms on," Sam said. "Titans, sound off. Tethys."
"Cronus."
"Hyperion."
"Rhea."
"Crius."
"Theia."
"Iape-bloody-tus."
The Minotaur grunted.
"Out we go, then," Sam said. No big speech. No pre-battle rallying address. Nobody needed reminding how grave the situation was. All knew.
Six Olympians were marching northward up the island.
Seven Titans, and a monster, strode south to engage.
60. SCREAMERS
AND RUMBLERS
A shallow valley, a long spoon-scoop in the island's surface, became the battlefield. At the northern end of it there was the broken black ruin of a croft, where the Titans embedded themselves, hunkering among the jagged runs of wall and tuning their suits' camouflage to appropriately dark hues. The Olympians approached from the other end, striding in a confident phalanx. Artemis with her silver spear shouldered, her twin brother Apollo with an arrow nocked, their half-brother Ares swinging his battleaxe — these three formed the front rank. Zeus came next. Hermes and Hades hung back, the rearguard. Clouds were darkening the firmament. Drumbeats of thunder sounded.
Sam was sure of only one thing: she might be about to die but she would not sell her life cheaply. Oddly, hearteningly, the fear was not as great as she'd thought it would be. What she felt was relief more than anything. This looked like being the final showdown, the culmination of all the guerrilla attacks, the climax of the war's gradual escalation. In a way it seemed the most honest method of settling the thing. Titan versus Olympian, out in the open, in broad daylight. No more skulking around, no more hit-and-run sneakiness. Today Titanomachy II would be resolved one way or the other. In terms of raw power the Titans were outmatched, there was no question about that, but then again, so far the battlesuits hadn't been pushed to their absolute limits, nor had every weapon at the Titans' disposal been used in the field yet.
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