James Herbert

by Sepulchre

  'And that bunch yesterday? Haw would you classify them, Hall or an?' Kline's fists were clenched on the table-top and his lips were drawn tight.

  'I'd say they knew what they were doing. The car they used wasn't traceable, they were patient and waited for exactly the right moment. Fortunately for us we had them spotted before they made their move.'

  'They weren't that good. They failed, didn't they?'

  'Only because we were better. And the fact that they managed to get clean away confirms my belief that they were competent. Once the first attempt failed they didn't compound their mistake by giving chase.

  That could have been too messy. My guess is they'll be patient a while longer, wait for the right opportunity to come along. Or, at least, engineer that opportunity themselves. Now they know we're on the alert they'll be even more cautious.' “They'll try again?' It was Cora who had asked the question.

  Halloran looked at her in surprise. 'Of course. But at least we have the slight advantage of knowing our client is a definite target.'

  'I already told you that!' Kline was glaring at him, but although his wards were spoken angrily, the shrillness had gone from them. 'Why d'you think Magma hired your company in the first place? You think I'm on some kind of ego trip? Or suffering from paranoia? This is a real situation, Halloran, I told you that from the start.'

  'Okay, so let's go back to an earlier question: who or what organisation do you think is behind it? I still can't accept that you've no idea.'

  'Have any of your previous so-called targets known just who was out to get them? Why d'you expect me to?'

  'Because you were aware before an attempt was ever made.' Kline's sigh transmuted into a groan. 'After all I've shown you, you still don't believe.'

  'It's precisely because of what I know about you that I don't understand why you can't sense who your enemies are.' For the first time Kline looked unsure. His eyes went to Cora, then back to Halloran.

  'There's the mystery, Halloran,' he said. And then, as if to himself, he repeated, 'Yeah, there's the mystery.' Once more Halloran was checking through the house, prowling the corridors, ensuring that no outside door or window had been left unlocked. Even in daytime he wanted Neath shut tight. It was when he was passing along the first-floor hallway overlooking the inner courtyard that he paused. A door was opening on the other side of the decayed fountain.

  He waited by the window and watched, curious, as Khayed came through. The Arab was carrying a round metal container with handles on either side and by the way Khayed's body leaned backwards the burden had some weight. He scuttled across the yard, calling out to someone behind. Youssef Daoud appeared at the same doorway and he, too, dressed in the robes of his country as was his companion, carried a similar metal container. Both men were laughing and apparently joking as they went through another door leading to the front of the house.

  On impulse, Halloran hurried downstairs and went out into the courtyard. He quickly crossed over and went through the door the two Arabs had emerged from. He was in the short passageway he had entered the night before, at one end the stairway, at the other the sturdy closed door. He walked to the latter and tested the handle. It was still locked. Or, if the two men had brought the containers from there, locked again.

  Halloran stooped to examine the lock and immediately felt cold dank air from the keyhole on his cheek.

  He touched the stone floor at the door's base and the chill draught was even more noticeable. It had to lead to a cellar of some kind, perhaps where Kline kept his best wines.

  Noises outside. The Arabs returning. Halloran straightened, taking one last look at the lock as he did so.

  Old and strong, large keyhole needing a long key. Shouldn't prove too difficult to open. But he wondered at his own curiosity. And why not ask Kline or Cora what was down there? He also wondered why the was reluctant to do just that.

  The voices outside were louder, approaching.

  He quickly went down the short length of the passage and stepped through the open doorway. The two Arabs stopped when they saw him. The one called Khayed was the quickest to regain his composure, his friend's look of hostility dissolving a fraction later.

  Khayed gave a small bow and regarded Halloran questioningly. 'Assayed?'

  'I found it open,' Halloran said, indicating the doorway behind.

  'Ah,' said Khayed, then spoke to his companion in their own language. 'Sadi koona hashoor.' Daoud smiled at Halloran, who offered no more explanation than he'd already given.

  A smell of spices drifted towards him from the two men. They waited there and he guessed they'd stay all day without saying another word until he went on his way. It was in his mind to ask them again what was beyond the locked door, but he doubted he'd receive a reply. He noticed Khayed held a long key by his side.

  Halloran waved them through, but they remained where they were, politely indicating that he should pass them. 'Min fadlak, assayed,' said Khayed.

  With a shrug, he cut back across the yard, this time making for the corridor leading to the main hall and the front of the house.

  Coolness and gloom after the brightness of the yard struck him as soon as he entered and his footsteps were hollow on the stone flooring. He frowned when he saw that the doubledoors of the entrance were open wide and guessed that Khayed and Daoud were the culprits. He went to the door and passed through into the porch area.

  Outside he saw that the Rover's tail was up, and inside were the two metal containers. He walked over to examine them more closely, tapping them both at first, the sound heavy, indicating they were full. The tops were tightly sealed.

  He was prising at one with his fingertips when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Now there was no quick disguising of the alarm in Khayed's expression. He was alone, obviously having followed Halloran out while his companion went nn about his business.

  'Kala, assayed,' the Arab said, recovering welt enough to smile.

  Halloran raised his eyebrows. He indicated the containers. 'What's in them?' he asked.

  'Nothing to concern the good sir,' came the reply.

  'I'd like to take a look.'

  'Oh no, sir, there is nothing of interest for you in them. It is food, you see.'

  'What'''

  'I said it is food inside the bins.' His companion appeared on the porch and he was holding vet another container. He halted to look at both men, then hurried over to the back of the car, politely edging past Halloran to place his load inside with the other two. He straightened and grinned at Halloran, his eyes full of amusement.

  'For the dogs.' he said. “Akel Ilkaleb They will cat well tonight.' -His snigger became laughter. Khayed joined in that laughter.

  23 THE LODGE-HOUSE

  Dusk was aided by a clouded sky, the fine day having changed its mind mid-afternoon, becoming overcast and broody, yet shedding no rain, as if sulking without tantrum, leaving the air warm and muggy.

  Halloran took off his jacket as he strolled away from Neath's front gate, no longer having to worry about exposing his waist-holster now he was away from the public road.

  He had just completed briefing the two sets of Shield operatives, keeping them no more than ten minutes so that the roads around the estate would not be left unpatrolled for longer than was necessary (he realised even double the number of observer cars would still be inadequate, because it would be easy enough for intruders to enter the grounds during surveillance 'gaps'; nevertheless, even two cars could usually spot potential trouble parked vehicles, loiterers, anything out of place or suspicious and two were better than one, one better than none). Halloran wasn't happy with the situation, but knew that only a small army would really be adequate in the circumstances and at least the operatives were now discreetly armed; he could only hope that Kline's faith in his guard dogs was justified.

  It had been an odd day (no reason it shouldn't have been, Halloran told himself, considering the whole affair was odd), beginning with his hallucination on the lake that morn
ing. But that had amounted to no more than Kline flexing his psychic muscles, showing Halloran his psyche's strength, a mild 'frightener' to let him know he was dealing with a man who had a genuine ability, one that could be used in any direction Kline chose. Fine. The experience had been unnerving, but at least had given his client some satisfaction, and that in turn might make him more amenable to following Halloran's strictures on security.

  Kline's outburst at breakfast had left the operative unperturbed: he already knew the man was an ego-maniac, as well as being somewhat eccentric, so it wasn't surprising that he was concerned solely for his own safety. How Cora tolerated her employer's boorishness Halloran couldn't understand at all. The question had been in his mind most of the day: why was she so dependent on Kline?

  Halloran had wanted to talk with her alone, but she had avoided his company, disappearing to her room immediately after breakfast. He had gone to her, and she had opened her bedroom door only slightly, her eyes downcast, almost as if she were ashamed of what had happened the night before. Cora had told him she was suffering from a migraine headache, that she needed to lie down for a few hours, curtains drawn, if it were to pass. He'd left her, disappointed in her lack of response to him, for even though her sexual preference had surprised him (and, if he were to be totally honest with himself, dismayed him a little) a tenderness between them had followed the lovemaking. Cora had wept when he untied her, and had clung to him, body trembling, tears dampening his chest, for a long time before falling into a troubled sleep.

  Somewhere in the distance he heard the faint sound of church bells, evensong in some nearby parish, and his thoughts drifted back to the country of his childhood. The small town in Kilkenny, where the priest's authority was irrefutable, his word law, his temple the court, his judgement final . . . Halloran checked himself. It wasn't the time for such reflection—he needed to be alert, aware of what was going on around him at the present moment, not having his thoughts wandering around the past. That was happening too much of late.

  Adding further to the day's discord was the news that Dieter Stuhr had disappeared. Mather had rung Halloran before lunch to inform him that Shield's Organiser couldn't be located, but everything at his apartment appeared to be in order. Key members of Shield had been recalled to the office to try and track him down, and Gerald Snaith had decided it was far too soon to involve the police. Besides, out of keeping though it might be for the German, there might just be a rational explanation for his absence.

  Mother would ring Halloran the moment he had more information.

  He was before the lodge, a building of similar but darker stone to Neath itself, its grey-slated roof full of holes, windows dulled by grime. It looked unlived in. Yet someone inside had somehow allowed him to open the front gates (he'd had a better chance to examine the lock and still hadn't detected any electronic device installed within), for on first try the gates wouldn't budge. He studied the lodge a while longer before leaving the road and walking the short track up to the frontdoor. The best he got when he stretched a hand to the rusted bell was a dull clunk. He rapped on the wood.

  There were no sounds from inside the house. No one came to open the door.

  He knocked louder, then tried the handle; it was as though the door were solid to the stone itself, for it did not even jar in its frame. Halloran stepped back to look up at the first floor windows and saw nothing through the smeared glass. He walked back to the edge of the rutted road for a better view, but the angle merely rendered the windows an opaque black. He took one more backward step.

  Halloran was suddenly cold, as if he'd stepped into a pocket of wintry air. He was being observed.

  Such an awareness was not unusual for him -experience in his particular profession brought with it a certain sensitivity towards prying, unseen eyes -yet never before had the sensing been so acute for him.

  The coldness, he realised, was due to the crawling sensation of his own skin, as if it was undulating in small ridges. He shifted his jacket to his other arm so that his gun hand was free.

  Nothing stirred inside the lodge. At least, not as far as he could tell. But the urge to run from there, to put as much distance between himself and that uninviting abode, was immense. A whisper, whose source was somewhere deep in his own mind, cautioned him against further investigation. Irrational, he told himself. Are you sure? his sub-conscious taunted.

  He raised a hand to his forehead as if to dispel further insinuations that had gathered, warnings that something nasty, something unclean, was waiting for him inside the lodge-house, and that contained within its walls were secrets that should remain secrets; but physical action was useless against the tenacity of the psyche. The thoughts continued.

  Halloran almost sagged under their force. He willed their dispersion and it was only gradually that his mind became calmer, that his own consciousness became dominant.

  For those other thoughts had not been his. He was certain they had not originated from some sub-level of his own mind, but had been implanted by another. He turned his head, searching the woods behind, the roadway leading to Neath. Kline. Those thoughts had been Kline's. He had the gift: Kline had shown him that very morning. But the psychic was still at the main house. Or should have been. Again Halloran scanned the area around him. Did distance bother someone like Kline, could ideas be directed no matter how far away the recipient? Or was Felix Kline inside the lodge?

  The coldness was still with him and Halloran slipped his jacket back on. He took a step towards the building.

  And the thoughts intruded once more, stabbing at him, bringing with them not only fear but a curious reluctance to discover what was inside the old house. He remained where he was.

  Halloran could see no one at the windows, but he sensed a presence beyond those walls. He had lost the inclination to enter the house, though, no longer wanting to find out who the occupant was. Not at the moment. He'd return when he was . . . prepared.

  Halloran backed away.

  With a last lingering look, he turned from the lodge and began the long trek to the main house where earlier he had decided to leave the Mercedes, preferring to make the journey to the estate's entrance on foot. Too much could be missed when viewed from a moving car and Halloran had wanted to get the 'eel of the surrounds, with particular regard to the private roadway which was a natural place for an ambush, safe from public gate, out of sight from anyone in Neath itself. Now, with the evening gloom taking a firmer hold and the unease left by the uninvited thoughts, Halloran regretted his decision. At once he berated himself, a little astonished by his own trepidation. But then, as he'd already acknowledged, it had been an odd day.

  In the stillness around him his footsteps seemed louder than normal. Ahead the road narrowed, trees on opposite sides linking leafy arms to form a tunnel. It was twilight inside that tunnel.

  He was too warm suddenly, the air almost too heavy to breathe. The clouds were swollen and dark and he relished the idea of rain, or even a storm. But it was as though the dampness was scaled into the masses above. He walked on, at irregular intervals glancing from left to right, occasionally checking the road behind. All was quiet. The lodge-house was a distant image, rendered small and impotent. The road in front of him had begun to curve, no exit visible inside the tunnel.

  A stirring of ferns by the roadside, no more than a transient breeze. ,A faint crash further within, merely a dead or broken branch shed from a tree.

  Light faded as he passed beneath the canopy of leaves. It was cooler, although not much, and Halloran quickened his pace. The more he progressed, the dimmer became the light. Soon it was as though night had fallen prematurely. His senses sharpened and he allowed his vision to wander, never focusing on any particular section of forest for too long, constantly shifting his attention from one dark area to another.

  At first he thought he had imagined the snuffling, for it had been barely audible over the sound of his own footsteps, but then it came again. He stopped to listen. Nothing now. An
d that in itself was unusual, for the woods were always full of noises of some kind, small scufflings, the flapping of wings, an owl settling in for the night's vigil. Over many years he had learned to discern nature's disturbances from those that might originate from stealthy humans, the difference being that animal or natural noises generally continued even if for no more than a second or two, whereas those caused by humans—be they hiding or stalking prey -had a tendency to cease immediately.

  He resumed his journey, the tension in his stride indicating an extra alertness. Keeping his steps as quiet as possible, Halloran moved into the curve of the tunnel. A rustling to his right, a definite movement. He carried on walking, a hand reaching under his jacket to the butt of the Browning. More movement, something keeping pace with him. He began to suspect what that something might be.

  He had assumed that the dogs were controlled during the daytime and allowed to run free at night.

  Perhaps it was at dusk that their keeper set them loose on their own.

  Snuffling noises again, and then a louder rustling through the undergrowth as though the animals were hurrying to get ahead of him. Initially the sounds had come from some distance inside the woodland, but now they were drawing close, as if the dogs were cutting in at an angle. Halloran deliberately maintained his own steady pace.

  For one brief moment he caught sight of a shadow loping through the trees, low to the ground. It was followed by another, then another . . . he watched a stream of shadows slinking through the undergrowth.

  Strange that they didn't come straight at him, but maybe that was part of their training, to cut off and intimidate rather than attack. He sincerely hoped so. Could be that they'd also been trained to keep silent while they tracked their quarry. Halloran resisted the urge to break into a run, knowing he would never outpace them: there was no point in turning back either—they'd only follow. He slid the gun from its holster and held it down by his side.

  It could have been midnight, so dark had it become under the trees. The disturbance to his right had settled as though the procession of dim shapes had passed on its way, having had no real interest in the solitary walker. Halloran did not relax his guard.