by Brian Lumley
‘Now I do, yes. It would explain a lot of things. As to what it is that’s brought all this to a head — I’ve had a letter from an old friend of mine in England. I use the term loosely. When we go back upstairs I’ll tell you all about it. But first let me introduce you to a new member of our little team. I think you’ll find him very interesting.’ Dragosani sighed inwardly. His boss would eventually arrive at the matter in hand, the necromancer knew that. It was just that he was so devious in everything he did, including coming to a point. So… better to relax and suffer in silence, and let things happen in Borowitz’s own good time.
Now he let the older man usher him in through another door and into a cell considerably larger than the last. Little more than a week ago this had been a storeroom,
Dragosani knew, but now there had been a number of changes. The place was much more airy, for one thing; windows had been let into the far wall and looked out just above basement level onto the grounds of the chateau. Also, a good ventilation system had been installed. To one side, in a sort of anteroom just off the main cell, a mini-operating theatre had been set up such as was used by veterinary surgeons; and indeed about the walls of both rooms, small cages stood on steel shelves and displayed a variety of captive animals. There were white mice and rats, various birds, even a pair of ferrets.
Talking to these creatures as he moved from cage to cage, a white-smocked figure not more than five feet three or four chuckled and joked and called them pet names, tickling them where he could with his stubby fingers through the bars. As Dragosani and Borowitz approached, he turned to face them. The man was slant-eyed, his skin a light yellowy-olive colour. Heavy-jowled, still he managed to look jolly; when he smiled his entire face seemed wreathed in wrinkles, out of which incredibly deep green eyes sparkled with a life of their own. He bowed from the waist, first to Borowitz and then to Dragosani. When he did so the ring of fluffy brown hair round the bald dome of his head looked for all the world like a halo which had slipped a little. There was something monkish about him, thought Dragosani; he would exactly suit a brown cassock and slippers.
‘Dragosani,’ said Borowitz, ‘meet Max Batu, who claims he can trace his blood right back to the Great Khans.’
Dragosani nodded and reached out a hand. ‘A Mongol,’ he said. 4I suppose they can all trace their blood back to the Khans.’
‘But I really can, Comrade Dragosani,’ said Batu, his voice soft as silk. He took Dragosani’s hand, gave it a firm shake. ‘The Khans had many bastards. So as not to be usurped, they gave these illegitimates wealth but no position, no power, no rank. Without rank they could not aspire to the throne. Also, they were not allowed to take wives or husbands. If they in their turn did manage to produce offspring, the same strictures were placed upon them. The old ways have come down the years. When I was born they still obey the old laws. My grandfather was a bastard, and my father, and so am I. Where I have a child, it too will be a bastard. Yes, and there is more than this in my blood. Among the Khans’ bastards were great shamans. They knew things, those old wizards. They could do things.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not know a lot, for all that I am told I am more intelligent than others of my race — but there are certain things I can do…’
‘Er, Max has a very high IQ,’ said Borowitz, smiling wolfishly. ‘He was educated in Omsk, opted out of civilisation and went back to Mongolia to herd goats. But then he had an argument with a jealous neighbour and killed him.’
‘He accused me of putting a spell on his goats,’ Batu explained, ‘so that they died. I could have done it, certainly, but I did not. I told him so but he called me a liar. That is a very bad thing in those parts. So I killed him.’
‘Oh?’ Dragosani tried hard not to smile. He couldn’t imagine this inoffensive little fellow killing anyone.
‘Yes,’ said Borowitz. ‘I read about it and was interested in the, er, nature of the murder. That is, in the method Max employed.’
‘His method?’ Dragosani was enjoying this. ‘He threatened his neighbour, who at once laughed himself to death! Is that it?’
‘No, Comrade Dragosani,’ Batu answered for himself,
his smile fixed now, square teeth gleaming yellow as ivory, ‘that was not how it happened. But your suggestion is very, very amusing.’
‘Max has the evil eye, Boris,’ said Borowitz, dropping the surname at last; which in itself would normally warn Dragosani that something unpleasant was coming. Warning bells did ring, but not quite loudly enough.
‘The evil eye?’ Dragosani tried to look serious. He even managed to frown at the little Mongol.
‘Precisely,’ Borowitz nodded. ‘Those green eyes of his. Did you ever see such a green, Boris? They are purest poison, believe me! I intervened in the trial, of course; Max was not sentenced but came to us instead. In his way he’s as unique as you are. Max — ‘ he spoke directly to the Mongol ‘ — could you give Comrade Dragosani something by way of a demonstration?’
‘Certainly,’ said Batu. He fixed Dragosani with his eyes. And Borowitz was right: they were absolutely exquisite in their depth, in the completely solid nature of their substance. It was as if they were made of jade, with nothing of flesh about them. And now the warning bells rang a little louder.
‘Comrade Dragosani,’ said Batu, ‘observe please the white rats.’ He pointed a stubby finger at a cage containing a pair of the animals. ‘They are happy creatures, and so they should be. She — on the left — is happy because she is well fed and has a mate. He is happy for the same reasons, also because he has just had her. See how he lies there, a little spent?’
Dragosani looked, glanced at Borowitz, raised an eyebrow.
‘Watch!’ Borowitz growled, his own eyes fixed firmly on what was happening.
‘First we attract his attention,’ said Batu — and immediately he fell into a grotesque crouch, resembling nothing so much as a great squat frog where he confronted the cage half-way across the room. The male rat at once sprang upright, its pink eyes wide in terror. It made a leap at the bars of its cage, clung there staring at Batu. ‘And then — ‘ said the Mongol’ — then — we — kill?
Batu had squatted even lower, almost in the stance of a Japanese wrestler before the charge. Dragosani, standing side-on to him, saw his expression change. His right eye seemed to bulge outward until it almost left its orbit; his lips drew back from his teeth in an utterly animal snarl of sheer bestiality; his nostrils gaped into yawning black pits in his face and great cords of sinew stood out on his neck and up under his jaw. And the rat screamed!
It screamed — an almost human scream of terror and agony — and vibrated against the bars as if electrocuted, then it released its hold, shuddered, flopped over on to its back on the floor of the cage. There it lay perfectly still, blood seeping from the corners of its glazed, bulging pink eyes. The rat was quite dead, Dragosani knew it for a certainty, without closer examination. The female scurried forward and sniffed the corpse of her mate, then peered out through the bars uncertainly at the three human beings. Dragosani did not know how or why the male rat had died. The words which now sprang to his lips were more a question than a statement of fact or any sort of accusation: ‘It… it has to be a trick!’
Borowitz had expected that; it was typical of Dragosani leap before looking, to rush in where angels might well fear to tiptoe. The boss of E-Branch stepped well back as
Batu, still crouching, swivelled to face the necromancer.
The Mongol was smiling again, holding his head questioningly on one side. ‘A trick?’ he said. ‘I meant only — ‘ Dragosani hastily began.
‘That is almost the same as calling me a liar,’ said Batu — and his face at once underwent its monstrous transformation. Now Dragosani got the full frontal view of what Borowitz had termed ‘the evil eye’. And without the slightest shadow of a doubt it was evil! It was as if Dragosani’s blood congealed in his veins. He felt his muscles stiffening, as if rigor mortis were already setting in. His heart gave a massive lurch in
his chest, and its pain caused him to cry out and sent him staggering. But the necromancer’s reflexes were lightning itself.
Even as he reeled back against the wall his hand slid inside his jacket, came out grasping his pistol. He now knew — or at least thought — that this man could kill him. And survival was uppermost in Dragosani’s mind. Quite simply, he must kill the Mongol first.
Borowitz stepped between them. ‘That’s enough!’ he snapped. ‘Dragosani, put it away!’
‘That bastard almost finished me!’ the necromancer gasped, his body trembling with reaction. He tried to move Borowitz out of his line of fire but the older man was like stone.
‘I said that’s enough? he repeated. ‘What, would you shoot your partner?’
‘My what?’ Dragosani couldn’t believe his ears. ‘My partner? I don’t need a partner. What sort of partner? Is this some sort of joke?’
Borowitz reached out a hand and carefully took Dragosani’s gun. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s better. And now we can go back to my office.’ On their way out, as he herded a shaken Dragosani before him, he turned to the Mongol and said: ‘Thank you, Max.’
‘My pleasure,’ said the other, his face once more wreathed in a smile. He bowed from the waist as Borowitz closed the door on him.
Out in the corridor Dragosani was furious. He snatched back his gun and put it away. “You and your damned weird sense of humour!’ he snarled. ‘Man, I nearly died in there!’
‘No you didn’t,’ Borowitz seemed unperturbed, ‘not even nearly. If you had a weak heart it would have killed you, just as it killed his neighbour. Or if you were old and infirm. But you’re young and very strong. No, no, I knew he couldn’t kill you. He himself told me that he couldn’t kill a strong man. It takes a lot out of him to do what he does, so much indeed that he would be the one to die, not you, if he really tried it on. So you see, I had faith in your strength.’
‘You had faith in my strength? You crazy old sadist — and what if you’d been wrong?’
‘But I wasn’t wrong,’ said Borowitz, starting back the way they had come.
Dragosani wouldn’t be placated. He still felt shaken, weak at the knees. Staggering after Borowitz, he said: ‘What happened back there was a deliberate set-up and you bloody well know it!’
His boss whirled and pointed directly at Dragosani’s chest. His grin was savage as a snarl. ‘But now you believe, yes? Now you have seen and you have felt. Now you know what he can do! You no longer think it’s a trick. It’s a new talent, Dragosani, and one we haven’t seen before. And who’s to say what other talents there are throughout the world, eh?’
‘But why did you let me — no, make me — go up against something like that? It makes no sense.’
Borowitz turned and hurried on. ‘It makes lots of sense. It’s practice, Dragosani, and like I’m always telling you-‘
‘Practice makes perfect, I know. But practice for what?’
‘I only wish I knew,’ Borowitz tossed over his shoulder. ‘Who can say what you’ll come up against — in England!’
‘What?’ Dragosani’s jaw dropped. He chased after the older man. ‘England? What about England? And you still haven’t told me what you meant when you said Batu was my partner. Gregor, I don’t understand any of this.’
They had reached Borowitz’s offices. Borowitz swept through the anteroom and turned on his heel just across the threshold of his private room. Dragosani came to a halt facing him, stared at him accusingly. ‘What is it you’ve got up your sleeve — Comrade?’
‘So you’re still accusing people of trickery, eh, Boris?’ said the other. ‘Will you never learn your lesson the first time around? I don’t need to resort to trickery, my friend. I give orders, and you obey! This is my next order: you’re going back to school for a few months to brush up on your English. Not only the language but the entire English system. That way you’ll fit better into the embassy over there. Max will go with you — and I’ll bet he learns faster, too. After that, when we’ve made certain arrangements — a little field trip…’
‘To England?’
‘Exactly. You and your partner. There’s a man over there called Keenan Gormley, Ex-MI5. “Sir” Keenan Gormley, no less. Now he’s the boss of their E-Branch. I want him dead! That’s Max’s job, for Gormley has a bad heart. After that — ‘
Dragosani saw it all now. ‘You want him “interrogated”,’ he said. ‘You want him emptied of secrets. You want to know all about him and his E-Branch down to the last detail.’
‘Right first time,’ Borowitz gave a sharp nod of his head. ‘And that’s your job, Boris. You’re the necromancer, inquisitor of the dead. It’s what you get paid for…’
And before Dragosani could answer, completely expressionless for once, Borowitz closed the door in his face.
A Saturday evening in the early summer of 1976. Sir Keenan Gormley was relaxing with a book in his study at home in South Kensington, an after-dinner drink on the
occasional table before him, when the telephone rang in the house proper. He heard it, and a few moments later his wife’s voice calling: ‘Darling, it’s for you.’
‘Coming!’ he called, and sighing put down his book and went through. As he took the telephone from her, his wife gave him a smile and returned to her own reading. Gormley carried the telephone to a wicker chair and sat down before glass doors which stood open on a large, secluded garden. ‘Gormley here?’ he said into the mouthpiece.
‘Sir Keenan? This is Harmon. Jack Harmon in Hartlepool. How’s the world been treating you ail these years?’
‘Harmon? Jack! How the devil are you!? My God! How long’s it been. It must be twelve years at least!’
‘Thirteen,’ came the answer, tinny with the effects of static. ‘Last time we spoke was at that dinner they threw for you when you left “shhh! — you know who!” And that was back in ‘sixty-three.’
‘Thirteen years!’ Gormley breathed, amazed. ‘Where does time go to, eh?’
‘Where indeed? Retirement hasn’t killed you off, then?’
Gormley chuckled dryly. ‘Ah! Well, I only half-retired, as I believe you know. I still do this and that in the city. And you — are you still stout as ever? I seem to remember you’d got yourself the head’s job at Hartlepool Tech?’
That’s right, and I’m still there. Headmaster? — Christ, it was easier in Burma!’
Gormley laughed out loud. ‘It’s very good to hear from you again, Jack, especially since you seem in such good health. Now then, what can I do for you?’
There was something of a pause before Harmon finally answered: ‘Actually, I feel a bit of a fool. I’ve been on the point of calling you several times in the last week or so, but always changed my mind. It’s such a damned strange business!’
Gormley was at once interested. He’d been dealing with ‘strange businesses’ for many years now. His own fine-tuned talent told him that something new was about to break, and maybe it was something big. His scalp tingled as he answered: ‘Go on, Jack, what is it? And don’t worry that I may think it daft. I remember you for a very level-headed chap.’
‘Yes, but this is very — you know — difficult to put into words. I mean, I’m close to this thing, I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and yet — ‘
‘Jack,’ Gormley was patient, ‘do you remember the night of that dinner, how you and I got talking afterwards? I’d had quite a bit to drink that night — too much, maybe — and I seem to remember mentioning things I shouldn’t have. It was just that you seemed so well-placed — I mean, as a headmaster and all…’
‘But that’s exactly why I’m calling you now!’ Harmon answered. ‘Because of that chat of ours. How on earth could you possibly know that?’
Gormley chuckled. ‘Call it intuition,’ he said. ‘But do go on.’
‘Well, you said that I’d be seeing a lot of youngsters pass through my hands, and I should keep my eyes open for any that I thought were rather… special.’
Gormley
licked his lips, said: ‘Hang on a moment, Jack, there’s a good chap.’ He called out to his wife, ‘Jackie, be a love and fetch me my drink, would you?’ And to the telephone: ‘Sorry, Jack, but I’m suddenly quite dry. And now you’ve found a kid who’s a bit different, have you?’
‘A bit? Harry Keogh’s a lot different, you can take my word for it! Frankly, I don’t know what to make of him.’
‘Well then, tell me and let’s see what I can make of him.’
‘Harry Keogh,’ Harmon began, ‘is… one hell of a weird fellow. He was first brought to my attention by a teacher at the boys’ school in Harden a little farther up the coast. At that time he was described to me as an “instinctive mathematician”. In fact he was a near genius! Anyway, he sat a form of examination and passed it — hell, he flew through it! — and so came to the Tech. But his English was terrible. I used to get on to him about it…
‘Anyway, when I spoke to this fellow up at Harden — the young teacher, I mean, a fellow called George Hannant — I somehow got the impression that he didn’t like Keogh. Or maybe that’s a bit strong; maybe Keogh simply made him uneasy. Well, I’ve recently had cause to speak to Hannant again, and that’s how the whole thing came to light. By that I mean that Hannant’s observations of five years ago match mine exactly. He too, at that time, believed that Harry Keogh… that he…’
‘That he what?’ Gormley urged. ‘What’s this lad’s talent, Jack?’
Talent? My God! That’s not how I would describe it.’
‘Well?’
‘Let me tell it my way. It’s not that I’m shy of my conclusions, you understand, just that I believe the evidence should be heard first. I’ve said that Keogh’s English was bad and I used to urge him to do better. Well, he improved rapidly. Before he left the school two years ago he’d sold his first short story. Since then there have been two books full of them. They’ve sold right across the English-speaking world! It’s a bit off-putting to say the least! I mean, I’ve been trying to sell my stories for thirty years, and here’s Keogh not yet nineteen, and — ‘