by Brian Lumley
‘But not just yet,’ Harry tried to put the brakes on. ‘I mean, I’ll come down soon. When I can…’
‘When you can?’ now Gormley sounded disappointed.
‘Soon,’ Harry said again. ‘As soon as I’ve finished… what I have to do.’
‘Very well,’ said the other, a little deflated, ‘that will have to do. But Harry — don’t leave it too long, will you?’
‘No, I won’t leave it too long.’ He put the phone down.
The phone was no sooner in its cradle than it rang again, even before Harry could turn away. He picked it up.
‘Harry?’ It was Brenda, her voice very small and quiet.
‘Brenda? Listen, love,’ he said before she could speak. ‘I think… I mean, I would like… what I’m trying to say is…oh, hell! Let’s get married!’
‘Oh, Harry!’ she sighed into her end, the sound and the feeling of her relief very close and immediate in his ear. ‘I’m so glad you said that before — before — ‘
‘Let’s do it soon,’ he cut her short, trying hard not to choke on his words as once more he saw, in his mind’s eye, the legend on Brenda’s marker as it had appeared to him in his dream.
‘But that’s why I called you,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m glad you asked me. You see, Harry, it was looking like we were going to have to anyway…’
Which came as no surprise at all to Harry Keogh.
Chapter Twelve
It was mid-December, 1976. Following one of the longest, hottest summers on record, now Nature was trying to even up the score. Already it promised to be a severe winter.
Boris Dragosani and Max Batu were coming to England from a place far colder, however, and in any case climate had no part in their scheme of things. It was not a consideration. If anything the cold suited them: it matched precisely the emotionless iciness of their hearts, the sub-zero nature of their mission. Which was murder, pure and simple.
All through the flight, not too comfortable in the rather stiff, unyielding seats of the Aeroflot jet, Dragosani had sat and thought morbid thoughts: some of them angry and some fearful or at best apprehensive, but all uniformly morbid. The angry thoughts had concerned Gregor Borowitz, for sending him on this mission in the first place, and the fearful ones were about Thibor Ferenczy, the Thing in the ground.
Now lulled by the jet’s subdued but all-pervading engine noise, and by the hiss of its air-conditioning, he sank down a little farther into his seat and again turned over in his mind the details of his last visit to the cruciform hills…
He thought of Thibor’s story: of the symbiotic or lamprey-like nature of the true vampire, and he thought of his agony and his panic-flight before merciful oblivion had claimed him half-way down the wooded slope. That was where he had found himself upon regaining consciousness in the dawn light: sprawled under the trees at the edge of the overgrown firebreak. And yet again he had cut short a visit to his homeland, returning at once to Moscow and putting himself directly into the hands of the best doctor he could find. It had been a complete waste of time; it appeared he was perfectly healthy.
X-ray photographs disclosed nothing; blood and urine samples were one hundred per cent normal; blood-pressure, pulse and respiration were exactly what they should be. Was there any condition that Dragosani was aware of? There was not. Had he ever suffered from migraine or asthma? No. Then perhaps it had been the altitude. Had his sinuses been causing him any concern? No. Had he perhaps been overworking himself? Hardly that! Did he himself have any idea as to the source of the trouble? No.
Yes, but it didn’t bear thinking about and couldn’t be mentioned under any circumstances.
The doctor had given him a pain-killing prescription, against the possibility of a recurrence, and that had been that. Dragosani should have been satisfied but was not. Far from it…
He had attempted to contact Thibor at long range. Perhaps the old devil knew the answer; even a lie might contain some sort of clue; but — nothing. If Thibor could hear him, he wasn’t answering.
He had gone over for the hundredth time the events leading up to his terrible pain, his flight, his collapse. Something had splashed on his neck from above. Rain? No: it had been a fine night, bone dry. A leaf, a piece of bark? No, for it had felt wet. Some filthy bird’s dropping, then? No, for his hand had come away clean.
Something had landed on the top of his spine, and moments later both spine and brain had been gripped
and squeezed! By something unknown. But… what? Dragosani believed he knew, and still hardly dared to give it conscious thought. Certainly it had invaded his sleep, bringing him endless nights filled with bad dreams — recurrent nightmares he could never remember in his waking moments, but which he knew were terrible when he dreamed them.
The whole thing had become a sort of obsession with him and there were times when he thought of little else. It had to do not only with what had happened, but also with what the vampire had been telling him when it happened. And it also had to do with certain changes he’d noticed in himself since it happened…
Physiological changes, inexplicable changes. Or if there was an explanation, still Dragosani was not yet ready to face up to it.
‘Dragosani, my boy,’ Borowitz had told him not a week ago, ‘you’re getting old before your time! Am I working you too hard or something? Maybe I’m not working you hard enough! Yes, that’s probably it: not enough to keep you occupied. When did you last bloody your oh so delicate fingers, eh? A month ago, wasn’t it? That French double-agent? But look at you, man! Your hair’s receding — your gums, too, by their look! And with that pallid complexion of yours and your sunken cheeks, why, you could almost be anaemic! Maybe this jaunt to England will do you good…’
Borowitz had been trying to get a rise out of him, Dragosani knew, but for once he had not dared rise to the bait. That would only serve to draw more attention to himself, which was the last thing he wanted. No, for in fact Borowitz was more nearly correct than he could possibly guess.
His hair did seem to be receding, true, but it was not. A small birthmark on Dragosani’s scalp, close to the hairline, told him that much. Its position relative to his hair had not changed in ten years at least; ergo, his hair was not receding. The change was in the skull itself, which if anything seemed to have lengthened at the rear. The same was true of his gums: they were not receding, as Borowitz had suggested, but his teeth were growing longer! Particularly the incisors, top and bottom.
As for anaemia: that was purely ridiculous. Pale he might be but not weak; indeed he felt stronger, more vital in himself, than ever before in his life. Physically, anyway. His pallor probably resulted from a fast-developing photophobia, for now he literally shunned the daylight and would not go out even in dim light without wearing dark glasses.
Physically fit, yes — but his dreams, his nameless fears and obsessions — his neuroses…
Quite simply, he was neurotic!
It shocked Dragosani to have to admit it, even though he only admitted it to himself.
One thing at least was certain: no matter the outcome of this British mission, when it was finished Dragosani intended to return to Romania at his earliest opportunity. There were matters, questions, which must be resolved. And the sooner the better. Thibor Ferenczy had had things his own way for far too long.
Beside Dragosani in the cramped three-abreast seats, but with a dividing arm up to accommodate his girth, Max Batu chuckled. ‘Comrade Dragosani,’ the squat little Mongol whispered, ‘I am supposed to be the one with the evil eye. Had you perhaps forgotten our roles?’
‘What’s that?’ said Dragosani, starting up in his seat as Batu commenced speaking. He glared at his grinning companion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know what you were thinking about just then,
t
my friend, but I’m certain it bodes no good for someone,’ Batu explained. ‘The look on your face was very fierce!’
‘Oh!’ said Dragosani, relaxing
a little. ‘Well, my thoughts are my own, Max, and none of your business.’
‘You are a cold one, Comrade,’ said Batu. ‘Both of us are cold ones, I suppose, but even I can feel your chill. It seeps right into me as I sit here.’ The grin slowly faded from his face. ‘Have I perhaps offended you?’
‘Only with your chatter,’ Dragosani grunted.
‘That’s as may be,’ the other shrugged, ‘but “chatter” we must. You were supposed to brief me, tie up those loose ends which Gregor Borowitz left dangling. It would be a good idea if you did it now. We are alone here — even the KGB have not yet bugged Aeroflot! Also, we have only one hour before we arrive in London. In the embassy such a conversation might prove difficult.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Dragosani grudgingly. ‘Very well, then, let me put the pieces together for you. It is perhaps preferable that you’re fully in the picture.
‘Borowitz first conceived of E-Branch about twenty-five years ago. At that time a large Russian group of so-called “fringe-scientists” were starting to take a real interest in parapsychology, still largely frowned upon in the USSR. Borowitz was interested — had always been interested in ESP — despite his very much down-to-earth military background and otherwise mundane persuasions. Strangely talented people had always fascinated and attracted him: in fact he was himself a “spotter” but hadn’t realised it. When finally he did realise that he had this peculiar talent, he at once applied for a position as head of our ESPionage school. It was initially a school, you see, with no real application in the field. The KGB weren’t interested: all brawn and bullet-proof vests, ESP was far too esoteric for them.
‘Anyway, since his Army service was coming to a close,
and because he had good connections — not to mention his own not inconsiderable talent — he got the job.
‘A few years later he found another spotter, but in very peculiar circumstances. It came about like this:
‘A female telepath, one of the few girls on Borowitz’s team, whose talent was just beginning to blossom, was brutally murdered. Her boyfriend, a man called Viktor Shukshin, was charged with the crime. His defence was t hat he’d believed the girl was possessed of devils. He could sense them in her. Of course, Borowitz was very
much interested. He tested Shukshin and discovered that he was a spotter. More than that, the ESP-aura of psychically endowed persons actually disturbed Shukshin, unbalanced him and drove him to homicidal acts — usually directed at the ESPer him or herself. On the one hand Shukshin was drawn to ESPers, and on the other he was
driven to destroy them.
‘Borowitz saved Shukshin from the salt mines — in much the same way he saved you, Max — and took him under his wing. He thought he might exorcise the man’s homicidal tendencies but at the same time save his talent for spotting. In Shukshin’s case, however, brain-washing didn’t work. If anything it only served to aggravate the problem. But Gregor Borowitz hates waste. He looked for a way to use Shukshin’s aggression.
‘At that time the Americans were also greatly interested in ESP as a weapon; more recently they’ve taken it up again, though not nearly to the extent that we have. In
England, however, a rudimentary ESP-squad already existed, and the British were rather more inclined towards the serious study and exploitation of the paranormal. So
Shukshin was put through a long term of spy-school in Moscow and finally released upon the British. His cover was that of a “defector”.’
‘He was sent over to kill British ESPers?’ Batu whispered.
‘That was the idea. To find them, to report on their activities, and, when the psychic stress became too great for him, to kill them if and when he had to. But after he’d been in England only a few months, then Viktor Shukshin really did defect!’
‘To the British?’
‘No, to the country of the British — to their political system — to safety! Shukshin didn’t give a damn for Mother Russia anyway, and now he had a new country, almost a new identity. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, do you see? In Russia he’d come close to life imprisonment for murder. Should he do the same thing in England? He could make a decent living there, a fresh start. He was a linguist, top-flight qualifications in Russian, German, English, and more than a smattering of half-a-dozen other languages. No, he didn’t defect to anyone, he defected from the USSR. He ran, escaped — to freedom!’
‘You sound almost as if you approve of the British system,’ the Mongolian grinned.
‘Don’t worry about my loyalties, Max,’ Dragosani grated. ‘You won’t find a man more loyal than I am.’ To Romania! To Wallachia!
‘Well, that’s good to know,’ the other nodded. ‘It would be nice if I could say the same. But I’m a Mongol and my loyalties are different. Actually, I’m only loyal to Max Batu.’
“Then you probably resemble Shukshin a great deal. I imagine that’s how he felt. Anyway, gradually over the months his reporting fell off, and finally he dropped out of sight. It put Borowitz on the spot but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Since Shukshin was a “defector” he’d been granted political asylum; Borowitz couldn’t very well ask for him back! All he could do was keep tabs on him, see what he was up to.’
‘He feared he’d join the British ESPers, eh?’
‘Not really, no. Shukshin was psychotic, remember? Anyway, Borowitz wasn’t taking any chances, and eventually he tracked him down. Shukshin’s plan was simple: he’d got himself a job in Edinburgh, bought a tiny fisherman’s cottage in a place called Dunbar, made official application for British citizenship. He kept himself to himself and settled down to leading a normal life. Or at least he tried to…’
‘It didn’t work out?’ Batu was interested.
‘For a while. But then he married a girl of old Russian stock. She was a psychic medium — the real thing — and naturally her talent was like a magnet to him. Perhaps he tried to resist her, but to no avail. He married her, and he killed her. At least that’s how Gregor Borowitz sees it. After that — nothing.’
‘He got away with it?’
The verdict was accidental death. Drowning. Borowitz knows more about it than I do. Anyway, it’s incidental. But Shukshin inherited his wife’s money and house. He lives there still…’
‘And now we are on our way to kill him…’ Batu mused. ‘Can you tell me why?’
Dragosani nodded. ‘If he had simply continued to keep a low profile and stay out of our hair, that would have been okay. Oh, Borowitz would catch up with him eventually, but not immediately. But Shukshin’s fortunes have changed, Max. He’s short of cash, generally down at heel. It’s been the downfall of many another before him. So now, after all these years, finally he’s turned blackmailer. He threatens Borowitz, E-Branch, the entire
set-up.’
‘One man poses so great a threat?’ Batu raised his eyebrows.
Again Dragosani’s nod. ‘The British equivalent of our branch is now an effective force. How effective we’re not sure, but they may even be better than we are. We know very little about them, which in itself is a bad sign. It could well be that they are clever enough to cover themselves entirely, give themselves one hundred per cent ESP security. And if they’re that clever — ‘
‘Then how much do they know about us, eh?’
‘That’s right,’ Dragosani looked at his companion with a little more respect. ‘They might even know that we two are aboard this plane right now, and our mission! God forbid!’
Batu smiled his moonish, ivory smile. ‘I don’t believe in any god,’ he said. ‘Only in the devil. So the Comrade General fears that if Shukshin isn’t silenced he might after all talk to the British?’
‘That’s what Shukshin has threatened him with, yes. He wants money or he’ll tell British E-Branch all he knows. Mind you, that won’t amount to much after all this time, but even a little knowledge about our E-Branch is far too much for Gregor Borowitz’s liking!’
Max Batu w
as thoughtful for a moment. ‘But if Shukshin did talk, surely he would be giving himself away, too? Wouldn’t he be admitting that he came to England in the first place as an ESP-agent of the USSR?’
Dragosani shook his head. ‘He doesn’t have to give himself away. A letter is perfectly anonymous, Max. Even a telephone call. And even though twenty years have gone by, still there are things he knows which Borowitz wants kept secret. Two things in particular, which might prove valuable beyond measure to the British ESPers. One: the location of the Chateau Bronnitsy. Two: the fact that Comrade General Gregor Borowitz
himself is head of Russian ESPionage. That is the threat which Shukshin poses, and that is why he’ll die.’ ‘And yet his death is not our prime objective.’ Dragosani was silent for a moment, then said: ‘No, our prime objective is the death of someone else, someone far more important. He is Sir Keenan Gormley, head of their ESPers. His death… and his knowledge — all of it — that is our prime objective. Borowitz wants both of them dead and stripped of their secrets. You will kill Gormley — in your own special way — and I shall examine him in mine. Before that we shall already have killed Viktor Shukshin, who also shall have been examined. Actually, he should not present too much of a problem: his place is lonely, out of the way. We’ll do it there.’
‘And you can really empty them of secrets? After they are dead, I mean?’ Batu seemed to have doubts.
‘Yes, I really can. More surely than any torturer could when they were alive. I shall steal their innermost thoughts right out of their blood, their marrow, their cold and lonely bones.’
A dumpy stewardess appeared at the cabin end of the central aisle. ‘Fasten your seatbelts,’ she intoned like a robot; and the passengers, equally robotic, complied.
‘What are your limitations?’ Batu asked. ‘Strictly out of morbid curiosity, of course.’ ‘Limitations? How do you mean?’ ‘What if a man has been dead for a week, for example?’ Dragosani shrugged. ‘It makes no difference.’