by Maynard Sims
As every bone in his body was systematically broken Mason could do nothing but lie there, mewling piteously as his body collapsed. Breathing was becoming impossible as his broken ribs splintered and needle-sharp bones drove themselves into his lungs. He was praying for death to come quickly, to release him from this living hell.
It came eventually, but not before his spine was snapped into three and his skull was crushed. When Don Mason finally died, he was little more than a fleshy sack of broken bones and ruptured organs, an undignified heap on the floor.
“Was that really necessary, Pieter?” Sultan said as he stepped into the room. The gun he was holding coughed once, taking the emaciated body in the shoulder, spinning it round and knocking it off its feet. It hit the bed and bounced onto the floor. He cocked the gun again and took aim.
“Wait!” the liquid voice cried. “You don’t want to kill me.”
“Right now it’s exactly what I want to do,” Sultan said calmly.
“Are you forgetting tomorrow? The reason you took me from Stonegate in the first place?”
Hesitantly Sultan eased his finger from the trigger but kept it pointed at Schroeder’s living corpse.
The red eyes faded back to a watery blue. “Take me home, Leon. We have plans to make for tomorrow.”
Sultan barked a laugh. “You don’t honestly expect me to trust you, do you? Look at what you’ve done?” He waved the gun at Mason and Offler. “You’re a danger, Pieter. What’s to stop you doing the same to me?”
“I need you, Leon. I need you to get me home, and I need you tomorrow. Twelve, the magic number, remember?”
Sultan considered this for a moment. Was it worth the risk? Hell, he’d been a gambler all his life. He could take a chance and trust the word of the monstrosity now dragging itself onto the bed, dribbling thick, almost black blood onto the sheet? Or he could finish it now. One bullet in the head would eradicate the risk once and for all. What was at stake was his own immortality.
He put the gun back into the pocket of his jacket, walked across to the bed and lifted the emaciated body into his arms. “We’d better get you home then,” he said and carried it from the room.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The dybbuk awoke in Pieter Schroeder’s bed, in Schroeder’s body and breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out and touched the body lying next to him. His original body was still there where Sultan had placed it and was still breathing, though barely. Leaving that body and reentering Schroeder’s was as difficult and as fraught as he expected it to. Leaving one body that was barely alive to go to another that was frail and weak had been a challenge, and not one he was sure he could master, but he had achieved it and now felt elated. Only another twelve hours and he could rid himself of this decaying shell once and for all. Once he had control of eleven others, this body would become obsolete. It had served him well over the years and part of him would be sorry to see it go, but this was no time for sentimentality.
He sat up in the bed and was startled to see Sultan sitting in an easy chair across the room from him.
“Welcome back, Pieter,” Sultan said, a humorless smirk playing on his lips. “There were a few times in the night I wondered whether or not you were going to make it.”
“Have you been there all night?”
“Of course,” Sultan said. “Loyal servant ’til the end.”
“Leave me now,” Schroeder said. “I have preparations to make.”
Sultan stood and shook the creases from his trousers. “I have a few things to do myself today. I’ll be back here later. What time are your guests due to arrive?”
“They’ll be here at seven.”
Sultan nodded. “Good, good. And then we can get this show on the road.” He left the room.
Schroeder glowered after him. He would make him pay for what he had done, but not yet. He could have destroyed him last night as easily as he had destroyed Mason and Offler, but Sultan still had his uses, so Schroeder would wait, bide his time and then Leon Sultan would wish he had never been born.
He swung his legs from the bed and stood, gripping the bedpost for support. He felt light-headed and very weak but he would rally during the day so that, when his guests arrived this evening, he would be ready for the biggest challenge of his long and sometimes arduous life.
He crossed to the dressing table, opened one of the top drawers and reached inside. The button was well hidden but, after years of using it, his arthritic fingers found it easily. He pressed it and a panel in the side of the dressing table slid down revealing a six by three inch recess. Inside was a small leather-bound book, the pages thin and browning with age. He flipped it open. His grandmother’s writing was clear as it was the day she set her thoughts down in this, her journal. Born in 1705 Emily Blackstone was a formidable woman. Jewish by birth, she had been extremely proud of her bloodline, despite breaking with tradition and going against the wishes of her family by marrying the rich Protestant, Alfred Blackstone.
She gave her husband three healthy children. He, in return, gave her a lifestyle that was the stuff of dreams when she was growing up in the slums of London’s East End.
The one thing she had in her favor as she went from childhood to her teens and into her twenties was her looks. She had inherited a rich Hungarian bloodline and it showed in her raven hair, smoldering brown eyes and clear, almost porcelain skin. Alfred Blackstone had been smitten the first time he set eyes on her in the bar of the Brewer’s Hole in Kentish Town, where she worked as a barmaid.
Despite the difference in class and age—he was from a wealthy Hertfordshire family and twenty years her senior—Blackstone wooed her relentlessly until she finally capitulated and agreed to become his wife, turning her back on her poor Yiddish family, but never on her Jewish traditions. And it was hearing about those traditions at his grandmother’s knee that began the young Samuel Blackstone’s quest to learn all there was to know about his heritage.
As he entered adulthood Samuel Blackstone had started to delve into the myths and legends of his grandmother’s faith and, encouraged by her, began to study the more arcane and mystical side of her religion.
With his grandmother on her deathbed and himself nearing forty, Samuel was summoned to her side. She was fading fast. The effects of disease had ravaged her once beautiful features, leaving her a pale shadow of the woman she once was, but the light of fervor in her eyes was fierce as she reached under the covers and produced the small leather-bound book and pressed it into his hands.
“Read this, Samuel. Study it,” she said to him in her cracked and broken voice. “Learn well what is in this book.”
“What do you mean?” he asked her.
“It’s the key to what you have been looking for. The key!”
And then the light vanished from her eyes and she died, still clasping his hands in hers.
The book was a revelation, confirming what he had come to suspect, that there was more than just this one life. It was in here he learned about dybbuks and golems and many other supernatural entities; it was in here he learned the secrets needed to extend his existence. The ritual he was using tonight was written down here in his grandmother’s precise script.
He owed her so much, and would continue to be in her debt for centuries to come.
Turning to the pages containing the ritual, he read them again to refresh his memory, not that it really needed refreshing. He had learned the ritual by heart years ago and read the pages through again and again over the decades. It was a heady thought that now he was only hours away from performing it, hours before the years of planning came to fruition.
He closed the book and slipped it back into its hiding place.
“I’m ready, Grandmother.” In his mind’s eye he could see her nod of approval and hear her voice. Of course you are, Samuel. Of course you are.
But for now, while he still inhabi
ted this body, he was Pieter Schroeder, self-made billionaire. That was who his guests were expecting to see, who they had made their Faustian deal with. He wouldn’t disappoint them.
“This is for you.” Madaki handed Jane the Respark, dropping it into her outstretched palm. “It will protect you and stop the dybbuk taking over your body.”
“Thanks, Tevin,” Jane said, slipping the chain over her head. “I appreciate it.”
They were gathered in the conference room in Department 18’s Whitehall headquarters. Carter, McKinley and Stern were sitting at the conference table, poring over the floor plan of Pieter Schroeder’s Highgate home. Bailey was pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee.
“I’m not sure I can sanction this,” Lucas said as he entered the room. He continued. “I’ve seen Schroeder’s guest list. I don’t see how you can pull this off without pissing off some very important and influential people, the Home Secretary’s wife for one.”
“This isn’t about personalities,” Bailey said. “These people are in grave danger.”
“So you say,” Lucas said. “But based on what? From what I can see it’s nothing but a hunch. Speculation and guesswork.”
“We’ve undertaken operations based on less,” Carter said.
“Yes,” Lucas said. “I’ve read your file.”
McKinley got to his feet. “Sometimes that’s the way it works. It’s the nature of the job. Events tend to happen quickly and we have to grab any opportunity to strike first. You can’t always dot the I’s and cross the T’s.”
“Maybe not, but you can make sure that innocent bystanders come to no harm. And I see that is being flagrantly ignored. Mr. Stern, Mr. Madaki, I’ll ask you to leave now.”
“But we need them,” Bailey said. “For the operation to work we need Abe and Tevin on board.”
“I don’t think I can sanction this course of action. I refuse to take responsibility for it.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Lucas, you won’t have to.”
All eyes turned and stared at Crozier, sitting in a wheelchair at the doorway of the conference room. Trudy stood behind him, gripping the handles of the wheelchair.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“What the hell are you doing here?” Bailey said. “You should be in hospital.”
“Not today, Harry. Mr. Lucas is right. If something goes wrong with this operation, then the ramifications will be serious and I don’t expect any of you to shoulder that responsibility. This is my Department and I decide what happens.”
“And if you’re taken ill?” Lucas said.
Crozier smiled. “I’ve taken precautions.” He reached behind him and squeezed Trudy’s hand. She responded by pushing him farther into the room. They were followed closely by Maria Bridge.
“Maria?” Harry Bailey said incredulously.
“This wasn’t my idea,” she said, shaking her head. “If I hadn’t agreed to accompany him, the cantankerous old sod would have discharged himself anyway and come here alone. Luckily I had some leave owing so I took a day. But he goes back to hospital as soon as all this is over. In the meantime I’ll be watching him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t exert himself or do anything stupid.”
“So there you have it. I have medical backup.” Crozier said. “The operation goes ahead with my blessing.”
“Not so fast,” Lucas said. “Officially you’re on sick leave. The Home Secretary put me here to oversee the Department.”
“And I will tell Francis Bates what a fine job you’ve done in my absence, but as you can see, I’m here. If Doctor Bridge gets her way and whisks me back to hospital, Harry here is my official deputy. He will continue to run the Department.”
“But he didn’t want the job,” Lucas said hotly.
“He’s reconsidered. Haven’t you, Harry?”
Bailey gave a wry smile and nodded his head.
Crozier turned to Lucas again. “Or would you rather be the one to tell your boss that his wife has been possessed by a demon…or worse.”
Lucas considered this for a moment. “I think you should call the Home Secretary and tell him your decision to replace me,” he said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure no blame attaches itself to you.”
“Right then,” Lucas said, heading towards the door. “I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.”
“Thank you. I think we’re going to need it,” Crozier said.
When they were on their own Crozier turned to Bailey. “What’s the plan?”
“We get to Schroeder’s House in Highgate before the members of the cartel arrive. We’ll surround the house and form a psychic circle, and then we press inwards and force the dybbuk out of Schroeder’s body.”
Crozier nodded his head slowly. “And then what happens to it? What happens to Schroeder, come to that?”
“The dybbuk will be out of Schroeder’s body but still trapped in the house. Abe Stern will take it from there.”
“What’s to stop the dybbuk from taking over one of the other bodies in the house?” Crozier said.”We have no way of knowing how many others are in the house.”
Stern stepped forward. “I told Harry there are only three ways to deal with a dybbuk. There may be a fourth. Good to see you again, Simon, by the way. You’re looking remarkably well, considering everything you’ve been through.”
“You two know each other?” Harry Bailey said, surprised.
“Abe and I have history,” Crozier said, but didn’t elaborate. To Stern he said, “So what do you think will work, Abe?”
“I told Harry about a book I found. I also found others, later. One I found is over two hundred years old. There are no records I can find to suggest they’ve ever been used, but the book is a Kabbalistic tract written by Shimon Hoffberg, who had a fearsome reputation in the eighteen hundreds as a successful demon hunter, so I choose to be optimistic. The prayers it speaks of may work.”
“And Schroeder?” Crozier said.
“He’s a very old man,” Bailey said. “For all we know the dybbuk is keeping him alive to suit its purpose. Extracting the demon may kill him.”
“And we’re okay with that?”
There was general assent around the room.
“Tevin, you look troubled.” Crozier said to his old friend.
Madaki was staring at his shoes, a faraway look in his eyes. “The dybbuk has claimed so many lives,” he said. “My brother among them. I always envisaged extracting a more personal revenge.”
“It’s not possible, Tevin,” Bailey said. “It’s going to take the combined efforts of all of us to bring this monster down and stop it killing again.”
Madaki rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I know, I know. I’m just saying, it’s not the way I saw things turning out.”
“We need you, Tevin,” Bailey said.
“And I’ll give you everything I have,” Madaki said. “You have my word on it.”
“So what happens if Schroeder’s guests start arriving before you’ve expelled the dybbuk?”
“We’ll deal with it…if it happens,” Carter said.
“I have a better plan,” Crozier said.
They looked at him expectantly.
“You need someone to receive them, before they get to the house, someone with enough credibility to persuade them not to attend Schroeder’s soiree.”
“Anyone in mind?” Jane asked, knowing very well that Crozier had someone very much in mind.
“Me. I’m coming with you.”
Maria Bridge stepped forward. “Out of the bloody question,” she snapped at him. “Listen, Mr. Crozier, I said you could leave the hospital on two conditions. The first was that you let me accompany you, the second being that you spend the time peacefully in your office, not gallivanting around on a bloody field trip.”
“You’re wasting your breath, Maria,”
Bailey said. “You should know by now what a difficult and stubborn bastard he can be.”
Bridge glared at him. “I assume that’s a prerequisite of working for Department 18.”
A difficult silence filled the room as they watched Bailey struggle to find a response to her.
“It most definitely is. I could tell you stories…” Jane said, trying to defuse the situation. “Maria, isn’t it? Would you like a coffee?”
Bridge nodded.
“I don’t think you should come,” Bailey said, coming up behind her.
“I don’t remember asking you for your opinion,” Bridge said frostily.
“This is about the other night, isn’t it?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Harry. I’ve been dumped by far better catches than you.”
“That’s unfair,” Bailey said, taking a step away from her. “I was concerned for your safety. I saw something…” He stopped himself. There was no point trying to it explain to her.
Jane was coming back with her coffee. “Perhaps when all this is over we can try again,” Bailey said, and realized immediately how pathetic he sounded.
Bridge took the coffee from Jane with a thank-you, turned and gave Harry Bailey a withering look. “I’m sure you had your reasons, Harry, but I really can’t be bothered to hear them. I came along today to keep an eye on my patient. If you can’t handle it, then tough, but I’m going with him, whether you like it or not.”
He nodded his head slowly. “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
“Lover’s tiff?” Carter said when Jane came back to the coffee machine.
“It certainly looks like it. It’s a shame. Harry could do with someone special in his life, and Maria strikes me as tough enough to be able to handle him and the demands this job places on him. Perhaps I’ll have a word with her if we get a moment alone.”
“Leave well alone,” Carter said. “I’m sure he won’t thank you for interfering.”
Jane was about to respond when Crozier caught Carter’s eye and beckoned him across to him.
“Back in a minute,” Carter said and went across to where Crozier was sitting.