The Gods' Gambit

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The Gods' Gambit Page 4

by David Lee Marriner


  Batka Ivan sheathed his sabre and waved to his people, indicating to them to follow his example. He bowed together with them and said, “My name is Ivan. I lead these people. It’s an honour for me to meet with your Emperor’s Majesty.

  “Rise. I thank you, Ivan. And all of you... We meet in strange circumstances,” the Tsar said. “Do you know who the bastards that attacked us were?”

  Before Batka could answer, Semeon Laptin spoke. “I think I know who they might be, Your Majesty.” He approached a dead body and rolled it over with his foot. “This villain I recognise from the police ‘most wanted’ list. He's from Moscow - an anarchist. Most probably all of them are of that kind.”

  “I didn’t believe that this trash would dare do something like that.” The Tsar shook his head and turned to Batka. “Tell me your whole name.”

  “I do not have a family name, Your Majesty. I don’t remember it. I was orphaned at a very young age.”

  The Tsar took out a white lace handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his sword and sheathed it into the scabbard that was hanging on his hip. “Lower weapons. It is only friends here,” he ordered the hussars. He threw away the stained handkerchief and offered his hand to Batka, who stepped over a few bodies and took it with a bow.

  “I serve Your Majesty,” Batka said in a ceremonial tone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Brighton, UK

  The present day

  In the mid-afternoon, inside Restaurant 07 at the hotel Altor in Brighton, a modest number of customers were eating and drinking; most had decided to sit outside on the large balcony overlooking the sea. A man in his fifties sat alone at the restaurant’s bar drinking a glass of whisky. He wore a badge clipped to his coat pocket that identified him as Stefan Costov. As well as being a scientist in molecular genetics, Stefan Costov was head of the laboratory at A. A. Farma, a Bulgarian firm which operated as the European branch of a large American pharmaceuticals company called Techno Genetics. Costov was visiting Brighton for a three-day conference on developments in genetics. He had just finished a presentation and the busy question-and-answer session that followed it and had come straight to the bar. Actually, for the two days he had been there, Costov had spent much more time in the bar than in the Regency Suite where the conference was taking place.

  “One more. Double, please,” he said to the bartender.

  Costov gulped down his second double whisky and, using a combination of nodding and finger pointing, he signalled to the bartender for another refill. He had never drunk so much in his life. But he needed it because otherwise the bad thoughts and feelings wouldn’t go away. He found drink to be the best way of blurring the painful memories of the assault on him in his apartment. Stefan Costov had arrived at the conference hoping that a change of scenery would help him deal with his post-traumatic experience. That didn’t happen.

  The faint odour of an expensive perfume drew him out of his reflections. The scent originated from a pretty young lady with short black hair and blue eyes who sat in the chair next to him.

  “A cosmopolitan, please,” she said to the bartender.

  As she waited for her cocktail, she turned her gaze towards Stefan Costov until their eyes locked. “Sometimes one needs something stronger than a cup of tea at this time of the day,” she said with a smile.

  “That’s so true.” Stefan Costov lifted his glass to her. “Cheers.”

  “They almost crucified you today with all those questions,” she said, and swivelled around her chair. Costov spotted the badge on the side pocket of her jacket.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you among the delegates. I’m Stefan Costov, but I’m sure you already know that.”

  “I’m Ulrike Maier. It’s nice to meet you. I only arrived today, which is probably why you haven’t noticed me before.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Vienna University Hospital, Department of Microbiology and Immunology.”

  “Well, you missed a few colourful lectures on the first day.”

  “I’m going to buy recordings of everything I missed.”

  “Of course, but it’s not the same.”

  “I’ve been preparing for this conference for quite some time. Unfortunately, right at the last minute something happened which forced me to postpone my flight,” Ulrike explained.

  Suddenly, in the background, raised voices could be heard. A young couple had started an argument in the middle of the bar. Instinctively, Costov turned his head in their direction, and, at that very moment, Ulrike dropped a small brownish pill into his glass, which he had placed on the bar. It dissolved instantly in a burst of tiny bubbles which swiftly disappeared.

  “I must admit, I would have been very disappointed if I’d missed your report,” said Ulrike.

  As she spoke, Costov turned to give his full attention to her. “I’m glad you hold me in such high esteem.” He smiled.

  The bartender brought over Ulrike’s cosmopolitan, and she lifted her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Costov gulped down the rest of his whisky. “It’s time for me to go back to the conference hall now. It’s been a pleasure talking with you,” he said.

  “You’re nice company, Mr Costov. Would you allow me to buy you another drink before going?”

  He looked at her cheerfully. “That should have been my line. I must be getting old… Nevertheless, I must…” He began to slur his words.

  “What were you saying, Mr Costov?”

  “Erm, I was leaving … I think.” He began to stutter helplessly and his shoulders drooped. “I don’t remember…” Suddenly, the intelligent persona of Stefan Costov vanished, and he seemed disorientated and bewildered. Onlookers would have probably described him as drunk.

  “Do you want to go to your room now?” Ulrike’s tone was suddenly harsh.

  “Yes, I want to go to my room,” he repeated apathetically and rose from his chair.

  Ulrike guided him across the bar. His steps were sluggish and his eyes were glazed. She held his arm, and her closeness seemed to make no difference to him. The couple who had started the argument discreetly followed them.

  * * *

  Costov and his new female companion walked towards the lift followed by the young couple who had been sitting in the bar. On arriving at the right floor, they walked along the corridor towards Costov’s room, outside of which two men dressed in expensive suits were standing, chatting casually. The older one, a thickly built man with red hair and freckled skin, carried an elongated black suitcase. The other was taller and carried a travel bag slung over his shoulder.

  As soon as the four approached, Ulrike bowed slightly to the man carrying the suitcase. “It all went well, sir. Behind us is clear,” she reported.

  The man acknowledged her with an almost imperceptible nod. “Unlock the door!” he commanded, addressing Costov.

  Stefan Costov complied easily and they entered the room.

  The luxurious apartment was rather small. It consisted of a lounge, a bedroom and a bathroom. Ulrike guided Costov towards one of the chairs in the lounge and pushed him down into the seat.

  The man with the red hair stepped close to him and said, “We have given you the slave drug, rick-sal-la, as it was called in the last kingdom of our ancestors. A small dose of it will partially block your memory and will fragmentize your thinking. It will make you a good and compliant servant. You’ll feel happy if somebody fills up the black holes in your head by telling you what to do. I believe you already know that. However, a larger dose will make you lose total control of your body. You need a larger dose.” The red-haired man paused and then added, “I want you to take off your top.”

  Costov carried out the instructions with a docile obedience. The red-haired man pointed to the bag and the suitcase that his companion had placed on the central coffee table. “Let’s begin,” he ordered.

  The younger man opened the bag. It contained a set of clothes, which had been carefully folded, and a hatbox. He took out the entir
e contents of the bag and placed them neatly on the table. At the same time, Ulrike opened the suitcase and placed it on the floor. Inside were a number of unusual objects: a twisted jagged horn, a metal bar decorated with a blade like the claw of a bird of prey, a dagger with an ornate inlaid handle, several fine brushes, a bowl, some small bottles filled with a mud-coloured liquid and a transparent box containing syringes. Ulrike filled a syringe with liquid from one of the bottles, knelt next to Costov and injected it into a vein in his left hand. She pulled the needle out roughly and blood ran along Costov’s arm, dripping to the floor.

  The red-haired man started to put on the clothes that were arranged on the table.First, a red silk robe with black and blue horizontal stripes, which he fastened around his waist with a wide gold-coloured belt. Then, he put on an elongated black hat taken from the hatbox. It had a square rim to which a yellowish veil was attached. He looked like a priest who was about to perform some kind of ceremony, but his clothing did not match the gown of any known religious denomination.

  The man leaned his veiled head towards the drowsy face of Stefan Costov, whispering, “You have been here for too long. It’s time for you to go. Forever.” He took the metal bar with the claw-like blade out of the suitcase and gave a short order. “Prepare him!”

  The others moved the furniture against the walls to clear some floor space. The two men laid Costov’s languid body on the carpet. Ulrike took the dagger and the bowl and positioned Costov’s left forearm just over the bowl. With one quick and proficient movement, she cut deep into the veins above his wrist. Thick blood began flowing steadily into the vessel. When the base of the bowl was covered, the four younger members of the group moved away from Costov to stand an equal distance from each other, facing outwards. Simultaneously, they knelt down on one knee; their positions forming the shape of a symmetrical cross. The veiled man started to chant in an unknown language, and without stopping his chant he carved a large swastika on Costov’s chest with the eagle-claw blade. When he finished, he picked up one of the fine brushes and began to draw strange symbols on the carpet using the blood from the bowl as paint. When he had drawn the last symbol, he put the bowl aside, grabbed the horn with both hands and held it over Costov’s chest. For what seemed like several long moments, the man stood motionless, his eyes staring from behind the yellow veil into the face of his victim.

  The drug Costov had been given began to loosen its hold and his mind started to clear. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes and he began to cry inwardly in silent agony. He knew what was happening now. It was the resumption of the assault that had taken place in his apartment in Bulgaria. He had never truly believed that the assault was a robbery, even though that was the main hypothesis the police investigation was pursuing. The fact that the attacker had taken two of his precious paintings and his wallet had not convinced him, because he had looked into his eyes. They were the cold and inhuman eyes of a merciless killer. Costov now realized why he had been left alive in his apartment despite the intruder having had the chance to do with him whatever he wanted.

  They want to perform a ritualistic killing. Lord!

  With a deep intake of breath, the veiled man raised the horn and, with the power of a woodcutter chopping a log, he plunged it deep into Stefan Costov’s heart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Whiteway Estate, Hampshire, UK

  Having finished his morning tea ritual, James donned his tracksuit and trainers ready to go for a run in the forest. While he was warming up in the porch, he spotted his estate manager, Lao Boonliang, coming out of the stables. Lao was a short, slim man with a muscular body who looked about fifty but was in fact sixty years old. Lao was from Thailand, and, together with his wife Pema, who was of Tibetan origin, he lived in a bungalow in the woods about forty metres away from the main house. James’ parents had hired both Lao and his wife not long after James had been born. Pema had been James’ nanny and had taken care of the household. The couple had lived and worked there ever since. James had grown up as close to Lao, Pema and their only daughter, Malee, who now lived in London, as to his parents.

  Lao spotted James in the porch. “Good morning, James.” He joined his palms in front of his chest in greeting, a traditional Thai bow.

  James saluted him in an identical way.

  “We could do a training session together,” said Lao.

  “I only had a quick jog in mind this morning,” replied James.

  “Very good, but first, do me the honour of practicing with me. Then you can do your running.”

  Lao was a Muay Thai master. He had taught James the secrets of this traditional style of Thai boxing since James’ early teens. They normally trained together every Thursday evening but James had skipped the last few sessions because he had to work on the final draft of the Star Gods manuscript. Now Lao was trying to make him catch up. James didn’t feel like doing anything except taking a refreshing run in the forest. He and Elizabeth had spent most of the night making love. He could still feel a relaxing weakness in his muscles. However, he knew that this time Lao would not take ‘no’ for an answer. He had become increasingly insistent about James’ boxing training, especially after he got a job about a year ago as a supernumerary religious analyst in the British security services. James had tried more than once to convince him that this new job didn’t differ too much from his writer’s job, but this didn’t seem to change Lao’s attitude at all. “In this business, one can never be sure of anything,” had been Lao’s response.

  The gym occupied about one-third of the former stable block. It was fully equipped, including punchbags, a mannequin for precision hitting and a Thai-style boxing ring. In addition, it housed many different Asian swords and a variety of ancient combat weapons, which were displayed on the walls. On the wall opposite the entrance stood an altar cabinet complete with a metre and a half-high marble statue of Buddha Shakyamuny perched on top of it. In front of the altar there were two candlesticks holding thick candles and two vases containing fresh flowers.

  Lao and James knelt and bowed to Buddha’s statue, touching the ground with their foreheads. James began the training session with the ceremonial boxing dance Wai-Kru. The purpose of this dance was to express respect to the teacher, but at the same time it doubled as a warm-up. Lao made James play out a basic boxing routine called Mae Mai, and then guided him through some more detailed Look Mai techniques that reflected Lao’s own personal style of boxing. After this, they had a short sparring session and finished with special breathing and relaxing exercises.

  “I can sense that your boxing rhythm is disturbed,” said Lao.

  James nodded and replied, “Thanks for the lesson, Lao.”

  “I know you’re busy now. You and Elizabeth are planning the wedding.”

  “You’re right. But I’ll try to find time to catch up,” James almost snapped back.

  Lao turned his head in surprise to express disagreement with what he had just heard. “It is not the quantity of exercise that is important for you. You need to do quality work.”

  “Do you mean that I need to place emphasis on the ‘soft’ approach – using the power of the opponent against him?”

  Lao again turned his head towards James in disagreement. “A Muay Thai boxer does not become undefeatable because of the proficiency of his technique, his strength, his stamina, his boldness, or his willpower. He becomes undefeatable because he is able to govern his own mind.”

  “I’ve heard this before.”

  “Clearly, it hasn’t helped you much. You still can’t find the right state of mind. That is the key to victory.”

  “What state of mind is the right mind?” James’s curiosity had been aroused.

  “It’s the possession of the right awareness.”

  “Right awareness as part of the Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Pat?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “How can this be?”

  “Because this is a thing to do, to experience. When you talk about it,
you strain.”

  “Yet, this is something within the Eightfold Pat.”

  “You could say that.”

  “So, it’s the right thinking, speech, action, way of living, understanding, effort, awareness, as well as meditation.” James listed the principles of the Noble Eightfold Pat. “These elements are interdependent. Developing one of them means working on the other seven as well. I believe it’s an impossible task for a contemporary man to perfect them all.”

  “You can interpret that as much as you wish. In my opinion, an interpretation is not helpful in reaching true understanding.”

  James was about to request clarification of this statement when Lao stopped him by lifting his arm. Obviously, this time Lao didn’t want to enter into one of their usual philosophical discussions. “You’re the expert at talking, James, not me. My words cannot go beyond what I’ve just told you,” he said.

  * * *

  After his training session, James emerged from the shower and felt his stomach rumble. The early morning physical exercise had made him as hungry as a wolf. He reached for the bath towel, dried himself, dressed with barrack-like speed and headed directly for the kitchen. He had anticipated that Elizabeth would be tired from the flight and from their long night of lovemaking and so would still be in bed, but she was already in the kitchen helping Pema with the breakfast. James greeted them both and kissed Elizabeth.

 

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