by Sepulchre
They wandered along the river bank for a short while, then headed back into the streets towards St Denis, taking their time rind watching the street entertainers-buskers, dancers, jugglers, even fire-eaters.
They felt frightened but exhilarated. They felt alive. The operation had been successful, and there was the bonus of one dead gendarme. Their clothes were too nondescript for easy identification, even if witnesses to the stabbing had come forward; and at the height of the tourist season, with students of all races gathered in this city of culture and romance, two young Arabs of murderous natures would be almost impossible to wheedle out.
The only disappointment came when they were seated at a streetside cafe drinking white wine (so wonderful to be away from the strictures of a Moslem society) and learned from the conversations around them that nobody appeared to have been killed in that day's bomb blast at the Gare du Nord, although five people, a child among them, were seriously injured.
Asil and Youssef drifted on, soon finding a creperie where they took delight in decadent European cooking. As they consumed the food and wine, it was with each other they flirted. The bustle and the festive atmosphere (despite the bombing) around them heightened their excitement; the killing and maiming served as a stimulus for their passion.
Eventually they crossed the river at the lie de la Cite, going towards the market quarter and their apartment, but stopping once again to take more wine at one of the cafes on the Place de la Contrescarpe. After two more glasses they decided that the night still held further adventures for them.
The crowds had dwindled, most of the tourists having tottered back to their hotels and pensions leaving the streets mostly to students and winos, the clochards. Asil and Youssef finally went in search of yet another victim, one who, would fulfil a certain need in them.
They rejected the first two male prostitutes because they looked too old—in their twe=nties at least—and too tough. The third was an effeminate boy who locked no more than seventeen. He led them into a dark cul-de-sac where he assured them they would not be disturbed. Youssef did not have leis beloved garotte with him, but the tie he wore would do; prolonged torture would not he possible here, but Asil would have fun with his blade while the boy's skin turned purple and his tongue swelled from his mouth.
Unluckily for them, the 'boy' was neither as young as he appeared, nor what he claimed to be (and certainly not effeminate).
Light from a distant lamp glinted on the pistol he produced from beneath his jacket. 'Police,' he informed them, holding up an ID in his left hand.
The bullet scraped along the bone of Asil's lower arm as he lunged with the knife, this time his victim's stomach exposed and an easy target. The fake prostitute dropped like a stone, the gun firing into the pavement before falling from his grasp.
Asil screamed with the pain in his arm, the knife slipping away, lodged in the policeman. Somewhere not too far away a whistle blew for the gendarmerie were out in force that night because of the bomb outrage, and the gunshots had been heard. Youssef dragged his friend away, hurrying him through the narrow streets in the direction of their apartment. A car screeched around a corner ahead of them, its lights blazing.
The two terrorists ducked into an alleyway, breaking into an awkward run, convinced they had been spotted. They had. The police car came to a halt at the alleyway entrance; doors flew open, uniformed men jumped out. They shouted, 'Arretez!' before aiming their weapons and firing.
Bullets smacked into the walls around the fleeing Arabs and one ricocheted off cobblestones to tear through the outer edge of Youssef s calf. Both men were handicapped, although they were able to keep on the move. Youssef was weeping as he limped along, the whole of his leg numbed with the shock, pain not yet registering.
They emerged into a wider street and saw other uniformed men coming towards them. There were still a few pedestrians around, one or two cars crawling close to the kerbs. All came to a standstill as the shouting gendarmes weaved through them. Asil and Youssef started in the opposite direction, running as fast as their wounds would allow, cursing themselves for their foolishness, knowing how angry their masters would be at the risk they had exposed themselves and the organisation to. They silently implored Allah to lend them wings.
Rounding another corner, they stumbled over the bodies of three clochards huddled on a metro vent (these raggedy men relished the underground warmth whatever the season). Asil struck his head against the pavement, stunning himself. The complaining winos kicked out and Youssef rolled into the gutter. He quickly sat up and was horrified when he saw the inert body of his friend. Running footsteps drawing near, headlights and blaring sirens approaching fast. He scrambled to his feet and pulled up his dazed companion, urging him to run.
Into an alleyway apposite they went, the smell of an underoround river that had been turned into a sewer strong in the confines of the narrow space. A saxophone played bluesily overhead, the musician uninterested in the commotion below. Garbage piled up in heaps against walls near the backdoors of restaurants. Run, Asil, Run, Youssef! But to where? Paris was not familiar, they were disorientated. They would never find their way to the apartment that night.
The numbness had left Youssef's leg. It felt as though it was an fire. Ash's head had not yet cleared, and all he was really conscious of was the searing pain in his arm. He had to rely on his lover to lead him onwards.
Out into another street, this one wider than the last, but with little cruising traffic. Across the road, into a courtyard, shouts and footsteps behind. Both men were near to exhaustion, their wounds draining strength. They knew they could not go much further.
Akhoo Sharmoota! No way out! The courtyard was a closed trap! Beloved Allah, show mercy to loyal soldiers of the jihad!
Shouted commands outside. Whistles blowing. Tyres screeching to a halt. Doors slamming.
But Asil was pointing and Youssef could not understand how his dazed companion had seen the tiny opening between the buildings, a dark cleft as if the houses had been eased apart.
Yatamajad ism al rab! The way had been shown!
They staggered across the courtyard, where lights from windows were coming on to throw reflections like searchlights down on them. and entered the pinch-black opening, just enough room inside far them to lope along helping each ocher. A dim glow Seemed to rise from the ground ahead, and they soon found themselves at the tap of a seep flight of stone steps. A single streetlarnp lit the exit a short distance away.
Voices in the courtyard behind. No time to linger. Down they went. But blinding pain gnashed throe gh the muscles of Youssefs calf and he slipped, gabbed far Asil as he fell, taking him along, aver and aver, the edges of the worn steles scraping skin, jarring, bones, as they plunged then slid, slowing to a tumbling roll as they neared the bottom.
They lay there, tangled together. sobbing and moaning, with no strength to carry on, and no will either.
The exit was not far away. Yet it was too far.
Echoing footsteps from above The policemen would punish them severely for killing one of their own.
And when they realised they had killed yet another earlier in the day, that they were responsible for the bombing at the station, what then? Asil and Youssef shuddered, the thought shared. They reached for each other's hand and waited, shivering with hurt and fear.
But something was moving across the opening in front of them. A shiny blackness. Sleekly slow. They thought it would pass by, but the vehicle stopped when the rear door was level with the passageway.
The door opened. A voice whispered to them down the close walls of the alley.
'Ta al maee wa sa ta eesh lee taktol mara sani ya—come with me and you'll live to kill again,' it said.
The promise gave them enough strength to crawl into the black limousine.
(And it was a promise that Kline certainly kept.)
31 RETURN TO NEATH
Kline stirred, shifting in the seat so that his face was away from Halloran.
The Shield operative watched him, his attention momentarily away from the passing countryside. The psychic had hardly moved since the Mercedes had left the Magma building an hour or so before, yet he had seemed too still to be sleeping. No rhythmic breathing, no total limpness; it was almost as if he had gone into same kind of self-induced trance. Maybe he had, Halloran considered. Wasn't that what psychics did Nat for the first time during the journey, Halloran looked over his shoulder through the rear window. A couple of cars behind but, as far as he could tell, nothing to warty about: they weren't being followed. The Granada containing his own men came iota view, keeping swell back, ready to accelerate into action should a problem arise. He checked ahead before settling back into the seat, remaining alert, but reasonably sure there were no immediate worries. .Although Monk and the. Jordanians had been left back at Magma, evidently to collect some items for Kline from his penthouse, he considered it no, great loss of manpower. If the Mercedes were to come under attack, then he could rely on himself and the two Shield men without the. blunderings of untrained bodyguards to hinder his own counter-tactics. The fact that his, own men were armed mow added to his confidence.
Halloran ran a hand over his eyes and across his rough chin. He was tired, the dream last night obviously having disturbed what little rest he'd had in the armchair. A shower, a shave, and something to eat wouldn't come amiss. .fin inspection of the house and grounds and then, with luck, a couple of hours'
sleep. There was an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger, but which told him he would need all the rest he could get if he were to cope with the next day or two. An instinct he had come to depend on through the years made him aware that something was imminent. It was a feeling he couldn't explain even to himself, but there was a familiar tension building inside him, honing his senses, sharpening his reactions, preparing him for what was to come. Fear had always mingled with that sensing, and that was natural; but this time a deep foreboding was involved, a disquieting dread, and that was new to him.
A muffled sound from Kline. The psychic's shoulders rose and slumped. His breathing became regular.
Now he was sleeping.
Cora, next to Palusinski in the front of the car, turned to look at her employer. Her eyes caught Halloran's and her smile was tentative. A moment went by before he returned the smile.
She faced the front again and Halloran, on the opposite corner of the Mercedes, was able to study her profile. He wondered if she really had it in her to give away company secrets. Unlikely. She was too closely linked to Kline and, Halloran was sure, too much afraid of her employer to betray him. Yet Kline had had no doubts. He'd denounced her before Magma's chairman and vice-chairman. Surely there had to be good reason for that?
Halloran checked the windows again. All clear, with only the Granada behind them. He realised they would soon be at Neath.
So what plans did Kline have for Cora? Would she be accused once they arrived at Neatly or would he set a trap for her, catch her in the act of betrayal? Kline's paranoia suggested the former, his sly vindictiveness the latter. Halloran made up his mind that he would get to her first, warn her of what was to happen. To hell with Kline and the Magma Corporation. To hell with the assignment. He'd continue to guard the target, but he would also keep the girl from any harm. Halloran had already suspected that Kline's four bodyguards were more than just that; he was sure they were well used to meting out punishment—particularly Monk, in this respect—whenever their employer pointed a finger. It was an unnecessary complication to the situation but, guilty or not, Cora wasn't going to suffer in their hands. He intended to keep a good watch on her.
As the car rounded a bend, Kline's hand flopped down by his side, its fingers curled into a claw.
Halloran noticed that small sections of skin were whitish, as if about to peel off.
'Is good to be away from city,' came Palusinski's voice from the front. 'Air is cleaner here. My father was farmer, Mr Halloran, rolnik, so countryside is my love. Cities are bad place for me.'
'Where in Poland d'you come from?' Halloran asked with no real interest.
'Ah, it is of no importance.' Palusinski tapped the steering wheel. 'I am here now, is all that matters. He
. . .' the Pole inclined his head towards the sleeping man and Halloran was surprised to catch the hint of a sneer in his tone '. . . bring me here many years ago, take me from my beloved country.'
'You could always go back,' Halloran suggested, watching the road which was becoming familiar as they neared the estate.
'Back?' Palusinski uttered a bitter chuckle. 'To what go back? To Russians who bleed Poland dry? I stay here, I drink. Yes, I stay here where everyone is friendly, and food is good!' He laughed aloud and thumped the steering wheel.
The gates to the estate were not far away and Halloran checked the front and rear windows yet again.
Only the Shield vehicle was bringing up their rear. The Mercedes swung in towards the iron gates and stopped no more than a foot away from them. Kline stirred but did not awaken.
Halloran opened his door and stepped out, walking to the edge of the road, and waited for the Granada to pull up beside him. He leaned forward, one hand on the roof, as the passenger lowered the window.
'Contact the patrol and make sure everything's okay. I'll meet you back here . . .' he lifted his wristwatch
'. . . in three hours.'
'Anything extra we should do?' the driver called across his passenger.
Halloran shook his head. 'Just patrol, the full tour. Don't come into the grounds.'
'What if we spot someone?' the man nearest said, plainly irritated.
'Use the RT to let me know. Don't come in.'
'Why the hell not?'
'You wouldn't like it.' Halloran straightened, examined the roadway in 'oath directions, then walked to the gates. He heard the Granada speed away as he reached out and grasped one oh the thick iron struts.
There came a dull, heavy click .and he pushed against the metal. The gate swung open, a grating of rusted hinges accompanying the sluggish movement. Halloran took it Fit the way back, then did the same with the other half. feeling oh-served from the lodge-house as he did so.
Another resolution for Halloran: he was going to confront whoever it was inside that place, the person who guarded the gate, who was master of the dogs. He would visit the lodge later, and this time he would find a way inside. Before leaving Magma, he had discussed the vulnerability of the Neath estate with Charles Mather, and the Planner had promised to raise the matter with Gerald Snaith, after which an ultimatum would be delivered to Sir Victor Penlock: either adequate defences were installed around the house and grounds, or Shield would be forced to relinquish the contract. The enormous sums of insurance money involved would ensure the alliance of the Lloyd's underwriters. Mather had been horrified to learn there were jackals roaming the estate, and perplexed when Halloran had told him that he had not yet met the lodge-keeper to discuss any emergency measures. Arum business altogether, Mather had voiced in his dry manner. Time to lay down stricter ground rules.
Halloran waved the Mercedes through, then closed the gates. There was a solid permanence about the thudded dunk as they locked together.
He climbed back to the car and as it pulled away, Palusinski said cheerfully: 'No dogs to bite you today.'
Halloran frowned. 'Where are they kept?'
'Kept?'came the reply. 'You mean caged? Hah!These beasts wander freely, they go where they please.'
'They're not much in evidence.'
'We are not hostile.'
'Yesterday . . . ?” 'You were alone. And perhaps they sensed . . .' Halloran wondered why the Pole did not complete the sentence.
'They tend to keep under cover in the daytime,' said Cora, twisting in her seat. 'They dislike people, they keep away from them. But at night they prowl.'
'And search out intruders,' Palusinski finished.
'Have there been any?' asked Halloran. 'I
ntruders?' Palusinski giggled. Cora said, 'There have been one or two trespassers, but they've always been frightened off.'
'They were lucky they weren't savaged,' Halloran commented.
'No, the jackals didn't touch them. They were frightened off by . . . other things.'
'I don't understand. What things?' Palusinski giggled again. 'Wood devils, Pan Halloran. You have not heard of the wood devils?' The house, its walls a deeper and duller red under the overcast day, came into view. Cora turned away from Halloran, as if unwilling to continue the conversation, but he leaned forward and grasped her shoulder.
'What does he mean, wood devils'? What's he talking about'?'
'ft's nothing, Liam. Really it's nothing.'
'But explain to him,' said Palusinski, his tone bantering. He ,notched a quick look at Halloran, eyes small and squinted behind his wire-framed spectacles.
'They're only images, no more than that,' Cora said quickly. -Felix can project mental images, make a person see what isn't really there.' Oh yes, Halloran knew that. He had seen such visions far himself in the lake.
'Felix senses when the dogs are alerted. I don't know how it's as if there's some kind of telepathic link between himself and the animals. He doesn't even have to hear the jackals to know there are trespassers in the grounds.' Halloran started to understand why Kline felt so secure within his own territory. The man had his own inbuilt alarm system, according to Cora, and his own defence weapon. With such power, no wonder his subordinates feared him.
The car drew up outside the house and Cora leaned aver the back of her seat to rouse Kline. 'Felix.' she said„ quietly at first, then again, louder, when there was no response.
'Felix, we're here.' Cora reached dawn and tapped his knee. The dark-haired man, curled up into the corner of the Mercedes, twitched but did not awaken. She shook his leg this time .and repeated his name more sharply.
Kline stirred, his legs stretched. He mumbled something and began to push himself up in the seat.
'We're home?' he asked, voice slurred with tiredness.