Necroscope II: Wamphyri! n-2

by Brian Lumley

  In Krakovitch’s room Kyle took the call. ‘Guy? Alec here.’

  ‘Alec? We have a big problem. It’s bad, I’m afraid. Can we talk?’

  ‘Can’t it go through London?’ Kyle was fully awake now.

  ‘That’ll take time,’ Roberts answered, ‘and time’s important.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Kyle. He said to Krakovitch: ‘What are the odds this is being monitored?’

  The Russian shrugged, shook his head. ‘None at all, that I can see.’ He stepped to the window, opened the curtains. It would soon be dawn.

  ‘OK, Guy,’ Kyle spoke into the phone. ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Roberts. ‘It’s just about four A.M. here. Now go back two hours…‘ He told Kyle the entire story, then detailed the action he’d taken since Clarke’s hag-ridden drive back to the hotel in Paignton.

  ‘I got Ken Layard in on it. He was great. He fixed Keen’s location somewhere on the road between Brixham and Newton Abbot. Keen and his car, smashed up, burned out. I scried out Layard’s fix and he was right, of course; we were able to say quite definitely that Peter was that he was dead.

  ‘I contacted the police in Paignton, told them I was waiting for a friend who was a little overdue, gave them his name, description, a description of his car. They said there’d been an accident; he was being cut out of the car; they could tell me no more, but an ambulance was on the scene and the driver of the car would be taken to the emergency hospital in Torquay. For me that was a ten minute drive. I was there when he was brought in. I identified him…‘ He paused.

  ‘Go on,’ said Kyle, knowing there must be worse to come.

  ‘Alec, I feel responsible. We should have been tighter. The trouble with this game is that we rely on our talents too damned much! We’ve almost forgotten how to use simple technology. We should have had walkie-talkies, better contact. We should have given this damned monster more credit for mayhem! I mean, Christ, how could I let this happen? We’re espers; we have special talents; Bodescu is only one man and we’re —‘

  ‘He’s not just a man!’ Kyle snapped. ‘And we don’t have a monopoly on talent. He has it, too. It’s not your fault. Now please tell me the rest of it.’

  ‘He… Peter was… hell, he didn’t get those injuries in any car smash! He’d been opened up… gutted! Everything was exposed. His head was… God, it was in two halves!’

  Despite the horror conjured by Roberts’s description, Kyle tried to think dispassionately. He’d known Peter Keen well and liked him. But now he must put that aside and think only of the job. ‘Why the car smash? What did that bastard hope to get out of it?’

  ‘The way I see it,’ Roberts answered, ‘he was just covering up the murder, and what he’d done to Peter’s poor body. The police said there was a strong petrol smell all around and inside the car. I reckon Bodescu drove Peter out there, put the car in top gear, pointed it downhiIl and let it roll. Being what he is, a few grazes and cuts wouldn’t matter much when he jumped for it. And he probably splashed a lot of petrol around inside the car first, so as to bum the evidence. But the way he’d cut that poor lad up was… Jesus, it was horrible! I mean, why? Peter must have been dead long before that ghoul was finished. If he was torturing him at least there’d be some sense in it. I mean, however horrible, at least I could understand it. But you can’t learn anything from a dead man, now can you?’

  Kyle almost dropped the telephone. ‘Oh, my God!’ he whispered.

  ‘Eh?’

  Kyle said nothing, stood frozen in sudden shock.

  ‘Alec?’

  ‘Yes you can,’ Kyle finally answered. ‘You can learn an awful lot from a dead man — everything, in fact if you’re a necromancer!’

  Roberts had had access to the Keogh file. Now it all came back to mind and he saw Kyle’s meaning. ‘You mean like Dragosani?’

  ‘I mean exactly like Dragosani!’

  Quint had caught most of this. ‘Good Lord!’ He grabbed Kyle’s elbow. ‘He knows all about us. He knows —‘

  ‘Everything!’ Kyle said, to Quint and to Roberts. ‘He knows the lot. He dragged it out of Keen’s guts, out of his brains, his blood, his poor violated organs! Guy, now listen, this is important. Did Keen know when you plan to move in on Harkley House?’

  ‘No. I’m the only one who knows that. Those were your instructions.’

  ‘That’s right. Good! Well, we can thank God we got that right, anyway. Now listen: I’m coming home. Tonight I mean today! On the first possible flight. Carl Quint will stay out here and see this end sewn up, but I’m coming back. Don’t wait for me if I can’t get down to Devon in time. Go in as planned. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes.’ The other’s voice was grim. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got that! Christ, and I’m looking forward to it!’

  Kyle’s eyes narrowed, grew very bright and fierce. ‘Have Peter’s body burned,’ he said, ‘just in case.

  And then burn Bodescu. Burn all the blood-sucking bastards!’

  Quint gently took the phone from him and said, ‘Guy, Carl here. Listen, this is top priority. Get a couple of our best men up to Hartlepool A.S.A.P. Darcy Clarke especially. Do it now, even before you move on Harkley.’

  ‘Right,’ Roberts answered. ‘I’ll do it.’ Then he got the point. His gasp was perfectly audible, even over the none too clear connection. ‘Hell, of course I’ll do it right now!’

  Wide-eyed and pale, Kyle and Quint stared at each other. There was no need to give voice to what was on their minds. Yulian Bodescu had learned almost everything there was to know about them. Keen had access, as had they all, to the Keogh file. A vampire’s greatest fear is to be discovered for what he is. He will try to destroy anyone who even suspects him.

  INTESP knew what he was, and the focus the jinni loci of INTESP was someone called Harry Keogh.

  Darcy Clarke had swallowed two double brandies in quick succession before insisting on going back on duty. That had been shortly before Roberts’s call to the Hotel Dunarea in Bucharest. Roberts, at first dubious, had finally let Clarke go back to Harkley, but with this warning: ‘Darcy, stay in your car. Don’t leave it, no matter what. I know you have your juju working, but in this case it mightn’t be enough. But we do need someone watching that hell-house, at least until we can get fully mobilised, and so if you’re volunteering.

  Clarke had driven carefully, coldly back to Harkley House and parked on the stiff black grass close to where Keen’s car had stood. He tried not to think about the ground where his car stood, or what had happened there.

  He was aware of it would never forget it but he kept it on the periphery of his consciousness, didn’t let it interfere. And so with his gun and loaded crossbow beside him he’d sat there watching the house, never taking his eyes off it for a moment.

  Fear had turned to hatred in Clarke’s heart; he was here as a duty, yes, but it was more than that. Bodescu might just come out, might just show his face, and if he did… Clarke needed desperately to kill him.

  In the house Yulian sat in darkness by his garret window. He, too, had known a little fear, something of panic. But now, like Clarke, he was cold, calm, calculating. For now, with one very important exception, he knew all there was to know about the watchers. The one thing he didn’t know was when. But certainly it would be soon. He gazed out into the darkness and could sense the approaching dawn. Down there, beyond the gate, in a car in the field across the road, someone else watched. Ah, but this one would be better prepared. Yulian sent his vampire senses reaching into the cold and misty pre-dawn gloom, touched lightly upon a mind. Hatred lashed out at him before the mind closed itself — but not before he recognised it. Yulian merely grinned. He sent his telepathic thoughts down to the vaulted cellars: Vlad, an old friend of yours is keeping a vigil on the house. 1 want you to watch him. But don’t let him see you, and don’t try to hurt him. They are wary now, these watchers, and coiled like springs. If you are seen it may not go well for you. So just watch him, and let me know if he moves
or does anything other than watch us! Now go. A huge black shadow, slope-eared, feral-eyed, padded silently up the narrow steps in the small building standing towards the rear of the house. It came out into the grounds, turned towards the gates, kept to the darker areas of trees and shrubbery. Tongue lolling, Vlad hastened to obey.

  Yulian called the women down into the main living room on the ground floor. It was totally dark in that room, but each present could see the others perfectly well. Like it or not, night was now their element. When they were assembled, Yulian seated himself beside Helen on a couch, waited a moment to be sure he had the full attention of the women, then spoke.

  ‘Ladies,’ he commenced, mockingly, his voice low and sinister, ‘it will soon be dawn. I can’t be certain but I rather fancy that it will be one of the last dawns you ever see. Men will come and they will try to kill you. That may not be easy, but they’re determined and they’ll try very hard.’

  ‘Yulian!’ His mother at once stood up, her voice shocked; fearful. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Sit down!’ he commanded, glaring at her. She obeyed, but reluctantly. And when she was perched again on the edge of her chair, he said, ‘I have done what I must do to protect myself. And you all of you — shall be obliged to do likewise, or die. Soon.’

  Helen, simultaneously fascinated and horrified by Yulian, her skin crawling with her fear of him, timorously touched his arm. ‘I shall do whatever you ask of me, Yulian.’

  He thrust her away, almost hurled her from the couch. ‘Fight for yourself, slut! That is all I ask. Not for me but for yourself — if you desire to live!’

  Helen cringed away from him. ‘I only —,

  ‘Only be quiet!’ he snarled. ‘You must fight for yourselves, for I shall not be here. I’m leaving with the dawn, when they’d least expect me to leave. But you three will remain. While you are here they may be fooled into thinking that I am still here.’ He nodded and smiled.

  ‘Yulian, look at you!’ his mother suddenly hissed, her voice venomous. ‘You were always a monster inside, and now you’re a monster outside, too! I don’t want to die for you, for even this half-life is better than none, but I don’t intend to fight for it. Nothing you can say or do shall make me kill to preserve what you’ve made of me!’

  He shrugged. ‘Then you’ll die very quickly.’ He turned his eyes on Anne Lake. ‘And you, Auntie dear? Will you go to your maker so passively?’

  Anne was wild-eyed, dishevelled. She looked mad. ‘George is dead!’ she babbled, her hands flying to her hair. ‘And Helen is… changed. My life is finished.’ She stopped fussing, leaned forward in her chair and glowered at Yulian. ‘I hate you!’

  ‘Oh, I know you do,’ he nodded. ‘But will you let them kill you?’

  ‘I’d be better off dead,’ she answered.

  ‘Ah, but such a death!’ he said. ‘You saw George go, Auntie dear, and so you know how hard it was. The stake, the cleaver, and the fire.’

  She sprang to her feet, shook her head wildly. ‘They wouldn’t! People… don’t!’

  ‘But these people do,’ he gazed at her wide-eyed, almost innocently, aping her expression. ‘They will, for they know what you are. They know that you’re Wamphyri!’

  ‘We can leave this place!’ Anne cried. ‘Come on, Georgina, Helen we’ll leave right now!’

  ‘Yes, go!’ Yulian snapped, as if done with them, utterly sick of them. ‘Do go, all of you. Leave me — go now.

  They looked at him uncertainly, blinking their yellow eyes in unison. ‘I won’t stop you,’ he told them with a shrug. He got to his feet, made to leave the room. ‘No, not I. But they will! They’ll stop you dead! They’re out there now, watching — and waiting.’

  ‘Yulian, where are you going?’ His mother stood up, looked as if she might even try to take hold of him, detain him. He forced her back with nothing but a growl of warning, swept by her.

  ‘I have preparations to make,’ he said, ‘for my departure. I imagine that you, too, will have certain final things you want to do. Prayers to some non-existent god, perhaps? Cherished photographs to look at? Old friends and lovers to remember, while you may?’ And sneering, he left them to their own devices.

  Tuesday, 8.40 A.M. middle-European time, the airport in Bucharest.

  Alec Kyle’s flight was due to leave in twenty-five minutes and the passengers had just been called forward. Kyle would be in Rome in two-and-a-half hours; given that there would be no problems with his connection, he’d be into Heathrow around 2.00 P.M. local time. With a bit of luck he would reach his destination in Devon with half an hour to spare before Guy Roberts and his team went in and ‘cleaned up’ at Harkley House. Even if his timings were wrong, Roberts should still be in situ at the house when-finally he did arrive. The last stages of his journey would be by MOD helicopter from Heathrow down to Torquay, and on to Paignton in an air-sea rescue chopper courtesy of the Torbay coastguard.

  Kyle had made these final arrangements by telephone from the airport via John Grieve in London as soon as he’d discovered that he couldn’t get a flight until now. And mercifully, for once, he’d got the call through without too much difficulty.

  On hearing the call for embarkation, Felix Krakovitch stepped forward and took Kyle’s hand. ‘A lot has happened in a short time,’ the Russian psychic said. ‘But to know you has been… my pleasure.’ They shook hands awkwardly, but both men meant it. Sergei Gulharov was much more open: he hugged Kyle close and kissed his cheeks. Kyle shrugged and grinned, he hoped not too sheepishly. He was only glad he’d said his farewells to Irma Dobresti the previous night. Carl Quint nodded and gave him a thumbs-up signal.

  Krakovitch carried Kyle’s hand luggage to the departure gate. From there Kyle went on alone, through the gates and out onto the asphalt, finding a space in the jostling line of passengers. He looked back once, waved, turned and hurried on.

  Quint, Krakovitch and Gulharov watched him go, waiting until he rounded the corner of the massive air control tower and so out of sight. Then they quickly left the airport. Now they were ready to commence their own journey: up into old Moldavia, where they’d cross the Russian border by car over the River Prut. Krakovitch had already made the necessary arrangements — through his Second in Command, of course, at the Château Bronnitsy.

  Out on the airfield, Kyle approached his plane. Close to the foot of the mobile boarding stairway, uniformed aircrew saluted him and checked his boarding pass one last time. A smiling official stepped forward, glanced at Kyle’s boarding pass. ‘Mr Kyle? One moment please.’ His voice was bland, conveyed nothing. Nor did Kyle’s in-built warning system. Why should it? There was nothing outside of nature here. On the contrary, what was coming was very down-to-earth but terrifying for all that.

  As the last of the passengers disappeared into the body of the aircraft, three men emerged from behind the stairs.

  — They wore lightweight overcoats and dark grey felt hats. though their clothes were intended to lend anonymity, hey were almost a uniform in their own right, an unmistakeable mode of identification. Even if Kyle hadn’t known them, he would have recognised the cases one of them was carrying. His cases.

  Two of the KGB men, unsmiling, restrained him while the third moved up very close, put down his suitcases and took his cabin luggage. Kyle felt a stab of fear, a moment of panic.

  ‘Need I introduce myself?’ The Russian agent’s eyes bored into Kyle’s.

  Kyle found his nerve, shook his head and managed a rueful smile. ‘I think not,’ he answered. ‘How are you this morning, Mr Dolgikh? Or should I simply call you Theo?’

  ‘Try “Comrade”,’ said Dolgikh without humour. ‘That will suffice.

  Whatever Yulian Bodescu’s intentions had been, he had not left Harkley House at dawn.

  At 5.00 A.M. Ken Layard and Simon Gower arrived to relieve Darcy Clarke, who then returned to Paignton. At 6.00 A.M. Trevor Jordan joined Layard and Gower; the three split up, formed points of triangulation. An hour later there were t
wo more men, reinforcements Roberts had earlier called down from London. All of these arrivals were dutifully reported by Vlad, until Yulian cautioned the huge dog and ordered him down to the cellars. It was broad daylight now and Vlad would be seen coming and going. The Alsatian was Yulian’s rearguard and no harm must come to him just yet.

  The enemy’s numbers had penned Yulian in; but just as bad from his point of view was the fact that the day was cloudless, the risen sun bright and strong. The mists of the night had soon been steamed away, and the air was clear and smelled fresh. Behind the house, beyond the wall that marked the boundary of the grounds, woods rose to the top of a low hill. There was a track through the woods and one of the watchers had somehow managed to get his vehicle up there. He sat there now, watching the house through binoculars. Yulian could easily have seen him through one of the upper storey rear windows, but he didn’t need to. He sensed that he was there.

  At the front of the house were two more watchers: one not far from the gate, standing beside his car, the other fifty yards away. Their weapons were not visible but Yulian knew they had crossbows. And he knew the agony a hardwood bolt would cause him. Two more men guarded the flanks, one at each side of the house, where they could look into the grounds across the walls.

  Yulian was trapped — for the moment.

  Fight? He couldn’t even leave the house without them seeing him. And those crossbows of theirs would be deadly accurate. The day wore on through midday and into the afternoon, and Yulian began to sweat. At 3.00 P.M. a sixth man came on the scene — driving a truck. Yulian watched carefully from behind the curtains at his garret window.

  The driver of the truck must be the leader of these damned psychic spies. The leader of this group, anyway. He was fat, but in no way clumsy; his mind would be hard and clear, except he guarded his thoughts like gold. He began to distribute indeterminate items of heavy equipment in canvas containers, also jerrycans, food and drink, to the other men. He spent a little time with each of them, talking to them, demonstrated with certain pieces of equipment, gave instructions. Yulian sweated more yet. He knew now that it would be this evening. Traffic rolled as usual on the autumn road; couples walked together in the sunshine hand in hand; birds sang in the woods. The world looked the same as it always looked — but those men out there had determined that this would be Yulian Bodescu’s last day.