by Sepulchre
'All right. I'm not happy, but let's accept the situation for what of is.' Then Snaith asked hopefully, 'I suppose his salary isn't in there somewhere?' Stuhr grinned and shook his head. 'Not even a hint.'
'We could find out from other sources, but let's not waste our tome. In fact, there's a lot more information we could uncover if we tool the trouble, but we'll take the assignment at face value. Our contract will be signed later today—we're moving fast on this one- Loam, you'll be Kline's constant companion as of eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Dieter, I want a report from you on terrorist and kidnap activities during the last year. Obviously anything relevant to Magma or its subsidiary companies is what we're after.' Stuhr made a note. After the meeting he would spend some tome at the data processing machine, using a special access code to link up with another company which specialised in maintaining and updating the activities and whereabouts of known worldwide terrorist groups on computer.
'I'll do some checks on Magma's rivals, also,' the German said, 'see if there are any areas where competition has become over-fierce.'
'Good. We're looking for enemies, business or otherwise. But if Kline is as neurotic as Liam says, this whole affair could well be a waste of time and effort. The man might be suffering from a severe case of paranoia.' The Controller managed a grim smile. 'Still, that's his and Magma's problem Achilles' Shield gets paid either way. What do you have for us, Charles?' Mather stopped rubbing at his knee. 'It's all fairly straightforward. For the time being we'll allocate four operatives to work with Liam, our inside man.
Two to a team, working six-hour shifts around the clock. We'll also keep a back-up here on alert. Any preference as to whom you want, Liam?' Halloran shook his head.
'Very well. As requested by Magma, our teams will keep at a distance. They'll maintain a constant patrol around theSurrey estate's boundaries—as usual, we'll inform the local police to save them from getting into a tizz.'
'Will our people be armed?' enquired Stuhr.
There was a pause. Snaith preferred his operatives to be 'lotted' against 'severe hostility', but it was illegal for private bodyguards to carry weapons inEngland (a law which was constantly abused, particularly by foreign visitors to the country). The Controller came to a decision. 'Liam will take with him to the estate whatever hardware he feels is necessary. I'm reluctant to sanction anything that will harm our special relationship with the police and Home Office, so our patrols will be unarmed for the time being.
However, should there be any definite moves against our client, then the situation will be reconsidered.
Although we'll have to rely on Liam and Kline's own bodyguards to take care of internal surveillance, we'll need a detailed report on the security system of this place . . .' Stuhr made another note.
' . . and the Magma building itself. The latter worries me considerably. Too many people in and out all day. However, we can plant an extra couple of our men in the lobbies of the ground and twelfth floors; naturally Magma's own security people will have to know they're there. We'll have a surveillance team outside at night, front and back, when Kline's in residence.'
'The building worries me, too,' said Halloran, and all eyes turned towards him. 'It's a glass and metal fortress, but it's vulnerable.'
'Then let's hope nobody tries to get at the target before we're operational,' commented Mather. 'Now that would be amusing.' Snaith didn't find that prospect amusing at all. Not one bit.
9 ENTICEMENT
Ah good, at last he is approaching the boy.
The boy is nervous but he speaks with bravado. He is pale; the boy, and looks unwashed; no doubt the rumpled plastic bag he carries contains all his worldly goods. He is perhaps sixteen, perhaps seventeen.
The English believe that is too young to be without family, without a home; would that they knew of the orphans who freely roam the streets and marketplaces of Damascus, boys who wander alone, others who prowl in packs, stealing, begging, and joining lost causes because they will supply them with guns.
Pah! The self-important British knew nothing of such things.
The boy is smiling. An unsure, nervous smile. He is lost in this huge railway station with its throngs of blank-eyed strangers. He would be even more lost in the city itself should he step outside. Now he assumes he has found a friend. If only he realised. Hah, yes, if only the boy understood.
Ajel, be quick, Youssef, do not linger on this plain of shuffling travellers and vagrants. Policemen patrol, they search for runaways such as this one.
Now he is hesitant. The boy is uncertain. Perhaps it is the dark skin he does not trust. The English nurture such intolerances, instil them in their young.
Talk smoothly, Youssef, my friend. He looks around, the movement casual, nothing mare than a glance at arrival and departure times, a constantly changing pattern high on the station wall: but Youssef really looks to see if he and the boy are being observed. You are not, my friend; I, Asil, have already looked for you. I am the only one who is interested. Besides, a man talking to a shab is familiar cares Life is too personal to these surroundings. Nobody really He places a reassuring hand on the runaway's shoulder and the boy does not flinch away. Perhaps money is mentioned. Ah, I see the boy nods. He has all the boldness and the stupidity of the unworldly.
My friend turns away and the boy follows. They walk side by side. Not close, not like lovers, but like associates in sin. I see it in your eyes, Youssef, the gleam that shines from your dark soul, even though outwardly you are calm. And the boy swaggers; but this is a self-conscious posturing, an arrogant affectation.
I must quickly go to the car. I must be ready in the darkness of the backseat. The boy will hardly feel the needle's sting; he will only sense my presence when it is too late.
Then, for him, sleep. A long, deep sleep.
And when he wakes—our pleasure and the master's sustenance.
10 INTRUDER
Hurry, Youssef, ajel. I suspect that same gleam is now m my own eyes. My body is already aching.
Monk was surprised. Nobody was due this time of night. Leastwise, nobody'd told him.
The elevator was humming though. Faint, but it was on its way up. Sounded like the one from the chairman's suite. No way could it be Felix's elevator, the one that slid all the way down to the basement.
Nobody else had the code for that. Even the chick, Cora, had to wait 'til it was sent down for her.
Monk was momentarily distracted by Cora's image. The image was naked from the waist down.
Sound's stopped. It'd travelled no more'n four storeys. Yeah, from Sir Vic's den. Who the hell -?
Monk heard the doors open.
But no one stepped out.
The bodyguard laid down his magazine and rose from the chair at the end of the corridor. He released the restraining hoop on his shoulder-holster, but stayed where he was, awaiting developments.
No mood for fuckouts tonight, he told himself. It'd been a bad day already. He'd been shown for a jackass that morning, a clumsy meatloaf, and he was in no mind for surprises tonight, even if some jerk had made a mistake in coming up to the twenty-second. Just step outside, lessee the colour of your teeth.
Still no one. But the doors weren't closing, and that wasn't right.
Monk crept down the corridor, one hand on the butt of his pistol, a big lumbering man who nevertheless approached the lift silently, soft carpeting helping his stealth. The corridor was gloomy-dark—the way Felix liked it—and mellow light from the opening ahead stained the floor and opposite wall.
The door should've closed by now. Unless someone had a mitt on the O button.
Monk drew out the Snaith and Wesson.
He paused, the opening only two feet away. There were no shadows in the glow that spread from it.
He braced himself, readied to spring forwards and sideways, gun-arm pointed into the lift. But he thought better of that tactic. Monk wasn't stupid. His bulk was too good a target.
So he got down on his hands and knees
and crawled forward, gunbarrel almost alongside his nose, elbows digging into the deep-pile. No one expected to see a face appear below knee level.
He was at the very corner, easing his massive head past the shiny metal ridge, the lift's interior coming into view. His gun hand was no more than a few inches ahead of him.
Nobody there. It looked like there was nobody there after A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him forward onto his belly. A leg straddled him and crushed his gun into the carpet. Iron fingers still dug into his hair making the roots scream. Something slammed hard into his neck and his thoughts became unsettled dreams.
Janusz Palusinski sat at the kitchen's breakfast bar slapping butter on bread with a carving knife whose blade was at least nine inches long. Beside his plate was a tumbler half-full of vodka.
He checked his wristwatch, parts of tattooed numbers showing at the edge of the broad strap, then sawed off chunks of roast beef, the red meat rare almost to the point of being raw. As he cut he wondered if Felix—moj Pan, he mentally and with more than a degree of cynicism added—would scream in his sleep tonight. A terrifying sound that stilled the blood of anyone who heard it. What did the man dream of? What fears possessed him when he slept? How close to total madness had he come? But no. Janusz must not even have a negative thought about his master. Felix would know, he would sense.
Felix, Felix, Felix.
Just the name could cause an ache in Palusinski's head.
The Pole wiped the back of his fist across his forehead, the knife he held catching light from overhead in a sudden flare. Normally the kitchen lights, like all the others in the penthouse, would be kept low by dimmer switches, but at present Felix was sleeping, he wouldn't know. Yet sometimes he did . . .
Sometimes he would accuse them all of things that he should never have been aware of, and they would cringe, they would cower, they would be craven before him. Still Felix—O lord, master, and oppressor—would make them suffer, sometimes the punishment cruel, other times involving a mere few hours of discomfort. Palusinski often felt that the two Arabs enjoyed that part of their servitude. Monk's brain was too curdled to care either way, blazen that he was.
But Janusz was different, he assured himself. Janusz was aware of certain things . . . The others were fools. No, the Arabs were not fools. They believed . . .
Palusinski gulped neat vodka, then unscrewed the mustard jar lid. He dug in the tip of the carving knife, sunk it four inches, then spread the dollop it came out with across the cut meat. He slammed another thick slice of bread, also lavishly buttered, on top, pressing down with the flat of his hand so that yellow goo oozed from the sides.
Twenty minutes before the gorilla was to be relieved, he told himself as he raised the overflowing sandwich and barged his mouth into it. Monk—a good name for an animal such as he. flours of sitting watching an empty corridor was a fitting task for such an idiota. But for Janusz, it meant five hours of misery to look forward to. A torment. Another torture imposed by Felix. Even pain was better than boredom.
What was it that had made Felix so nervous? The man was mad, there could be no doubting that. But a genius also! No doubting that, either. Gowno! No doubt at all. But why afraid now, moj szef? You, who lives in shadows, who distrusts the light unless it is for your purpose. What fresh fear haunts you now, mgzcayana of many dreads?
Palusinski chomped on meat and bread, lips glistening from the surplus of butter. He stilled his jaw to gulp vodka, seasoning the mushed food in his mouth with fire. His eyes were small behind the wire-framed spectacles he wore, their lids never fully raised, like blinds half-drawn in a room where secrets were kept. They were focused upon the rim of the open mustard jar, everything else a soft periphery; yet his eyes were not seeing that rim with its sliver of reflected light, for his thoughts were inwards, perhaps examining those very secrets within that room of his mind. He sat, slowly munching, as if mesmerised.
Something snatched him from the introspection, though. And he didn't know what.
A sound! A movement? Palusinski was puzzled. He was sensitive to intrusion. Months of living rough, sleeping in ditches, eating raw vegetables dug from the earth, always with his eyes darting left, right, afraid he would be seen, what would happen to him if they found him . . . all that, even though it had been many years since, had attuned his senses for the slightest shift in atmosphere.
His grip tightened on the knife. Someone was in the room beyond.
Monk? He would never disobey Felix's orders to watch the corridor one floor below until Palusinski took over. Unlikely, then, that Monk would desert his post. Youssef and Asil? No, they were not due to return that night, they had the country house to prepare for their precious lord and master's visit. Then who?
Palusinski slipped off the stool and reached inside his jacket, which was draped over a chair back. His hand came out with a thick, round metal bar, its length matching the blade protruding from his other fist.
He crept over to the lightswitch and extended finger and thumb to turn it anti-clockwise. The light in the kitchen faded.
From where he stood the Pole could see a broad section of lounge beyond and he cursed the shadows out there, the darkness of the furnishings, the blackness of the walls. He could wait; or he could venture out. He had the patience—skulking and hiding in the old country had instilled that in him—but he also had a duty. To Felix. He must never fail in that.
He held his breath and armed with the weapons moved towards the open doorway.
The danger-if there was someone out there-would probably be from either side of the doorway where a person could lurk safe from view. Which side? Always the dilemma. Which side would an assailant strike from'? If there was someone there . . .
He crouched low and ran through, counting on surprise, the knife held at hip level, tip pointing upwards, ready to plunge or swipe. Palusinski turned immediately he was clear, thrusting one leg back for balance and for leverage, so that he could spring forward or withstand an assault.
There was no need. Nobody hid outside the kitchen doorway, not on any side.
But somebody was behind the long black couch nearby. Only Palusinski, sensitive to intrusion though he was, neither saw nor felt the shadow that rose up from it.
He may have felt fingers tilt his head to one side so that certain nerves in his neck were exposed, but if so, he didn't remember later. He definitely did not feel the edge of the stiffened hand chop down, fast and silent, to deaden those nerves. Nor would he have felt the shock travelling along their roots towards a certain terminal inside his brain. The journey was too swift for that.
Kline was within himself.
He swam in blood vessels amid cells which changed from red to scarlet around him, through narrow passages, breaking out into round caverns, swept on by a bubbling tide that never stilled, towards a source that was no more than a distant rhythmic echo somewhere ahead in the labyrinth of busy tunnels, the rush to the sound as exhilarating as it was terrifying.
There were other things racing with him that were alien to these passages, black misshapen forms that were there only to disease and destroy; but these parasites themselves were steadily destroyed, attacked by globules which engulfed, swallowed, digested. And these defenders decided that he, too, was foreign, had no place alongside healthy corpuscles, that he was an interloper, a danger, up to no good. Even though it was his own body he journeyed through.
He screamed at the giant lumps to get away, to leave him alone, he meant no harm. But they were programmed to fight to the death all that was not right in the system and had no minds of their own. Two attached themselves to him as he was flushed through into a wider tunnel, and he felt the burning of his own back, his arm, acid seeping into him.
Yet he was so near, the rushing even faster, moving in contractions, the steady beat louder, louder still, becoming a thunder, the rapids leading to a fall, the fall to be mighty and devouring. And that was his desire, no other yearning possible to him now: he wanted to be consumed b
y the mountainous heart.
Instead these blind, ignorant creatures, organisms that knew nothing of other things, were eating him. His body was decomposing under their chemical excretions.
Nearly there, nearly there.
He could hear the hysteria of his own laughter.
Nearly there.
The noise ahead—THUD-UP THUD-UP—deafened him, filled him with dread. Elated him.
Nearly there.
Nearly swallowed.
It wasn't too late.
He would make it.
Be absorbed by the heart.
THUD-UP THUD-UP There . . . !
But not there.
Drifting back, drawn away, consciousness ing upwards, a soft retreat . . .
An abrupt awakening.
There was someone with him in the bedroom. Kline opened his mouth to call out, but something clamped hard over it. A hand. A strong, threatening hand. He felt the extra weight on the bed.
Somebody, a shadow among shadows, kneeling over him.
Another hand encircled his throat.
'Someone else and you could be dead,' Halloran whispered close to his ear.
11 A DANGEROUS ENCOUNTER
Halloran glanced into the rearview mirror.
The blue Peugeot was still there, keeping well back, at least four or five other cars between it and the custom-built Mercedes Halloran was driving. His own back-up, in aGranada . was directly behind him.
He reached for the RT mounted beneath the dashboard and set the transmit button.
'Hector-One,' he said quietly into the mouthpiece.
'Hector-Two, we hear you,' came the reply through the receiver. 'And we see the tag.' Kline leaned forward from the backseat, his face close to Halloran's shoulder. There was a bright expectancy in his eyes.
'Turning off soon,' said Halloran. 'Stay close 'til then. Out.' He replaced the instrument.