‘All right,’ Sebastian said. ‘We need to clear the area.’
‘The medical examiner’s on his way, sir,’ one of the CSIs said.
Peter Sebastian stalked away, followed by Bimsdale.
Ellen Parslow watched them go. She’d done a course on stress management in the Navy. It looked to her that the Director of Violent Crime was in urgent need of advice in that area, not that she was going to tell the overbearing cocksucker so.
I was left alone in the cell for some time. My watch had been taken, along with my shoes and belt, and I guessed it was at least an hour. I was tired after the long, violent day, but there was no chance of me sleeping. Apollyon had obviously mentioned Hades to put the shits up me. It didn’t have that effect literally, which was just as well considering the lack of facilities. My mind was working overtime. I made myself take deep breaths and tried to get into a self-protective zone. I had no doubt that I was going to have to use my combat skills if I was to get out of the camp in one piece. I tried to remember what Dave Cummings had taught me about mental preparation. That made me think of Quincy—he had reiterated much of that during our sessions. Quincy. He was another victim of Sara’s brutality. I owed her for him, too.
At last, the door opened and a pair of large specimens with buzz cuts advanced on me. My wrists were pinned behind my back with plastic restraints and I was led into the corridor. The concrete chilled my bare feet and gave the soles an abrasive rub that soon became unpleasant. At the end of the passage, we came to a steel door. One of my guards swiped a card through the locking device and it opened inward. On the other side was an elevator with a steel mesh cage. We went down what seemed like a long way. Another sealed door was opened and we walked into the underworld.
‘What the—’ I broke off in amazement as the full extent of the scene in front of me became apparent.
‘Welcome to Hades,’ Apollyon said, coming out of the darkness on the right. ‘In the Antichurch, we prefer to call it Hell.’
Both names were appropriate. The underground area beneath us was huge, with lights flashing in the distance and flares of flame blasting out all over. I made out buildings dotted around, some low and some as much as three stories high, but all of them in a partially ruined condition, as if a tank had driven around firing through windows and smashing against walls. Lengths of timber hung from some of the roofs like gibbets—when I looked closer, I realized that from some of them bodies were dangling. There was a roar and fire consumed a block in the middle distance. I could hear screaming from it, but saw no one emerge. A black-surfaced river wound through the domain, carcasses of animals aground in the shallows. A wrecked car was hanging from a rickety humpbacked bridge in the foreground, much of the brickwork having been knocked away. The horizon in the far distance was bright red, silhouetting ramparts and uneven walls above which smoke was curling. There was a stench of rotting matter much worse than any swamp.
Apollyon smiled grimly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Someone’s been to art school,’ I replied, with a lot more bravado than I felt; I had just noticed that the pale-colored objects in the middle of the river were naked, and incomplete, human bodies. ‘Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, right panel,’ said a familiar voice.
I looked past Apollyon. Like me, Sara was barefoot and the fatigues she’d been given were too big for her. Her face was pale and drenched in sweat. What had they done to her?
‘Correct,’ the bearded man said, apparently gratified.
‘Also, Pieter Brueghel’s Dulle Griet, Jan Brueghel’s Orpheus,’ Sara continued. ‘Plus shades of works by Michelangelo, Memling, the JS Monogrammist, Simon Marmion, Doré, John Martin…’ Sara’s voice faded away and her head dropped. She looked in a bad way.
‘You know a lot about infernal affairs,’ Apollyon said to her. ‘It’s a pity you can’t join the Antichurch.’
I wasn’t surprised that my ex-lover had educated herself about depictions of hell—after all, she did call herself the Soul Collector and her sister had been a practicing Satanist. Despite that, I was still taken aback by what I saw moving beneath us. At first I thought it was fake, some kind of model projected onto a screen, but then I realized the figures and the terrain they were moving through were real—though what did ‘real’ mean down here? Demonic figures with blackened faces, carrying lances and curved swords, were heading into the Hades landscape. They were followed by others, whose forms had been shaped in the imagination of Bosch—diabolical creatures with the heads of birds and fish, all armed with vicious blades and stabbing weapons. Another had the front half of a beetle and the extended rear legs of a frog, and behind it came one with a rat’s head and butterfly’s wings attached to its back. There was only one group missing.
‘Where are the souls of the wicked?’ I asked.
‘Ah, you noticed,’ Apollyon said. ‘Where are the naked humans that the creatures of Hell will torment and feed upon?’ He laughed. ‘Take a guess, why don’t you?’
I looked at Sara. She was nodding slowly.
‘Don’t worry, you can keep your clothes on,’ the bearded man said. ‘We’ll even give you some weapons.’
One of the gorillas stepped up and dumped wooden staves in front of us, two long and two short ones.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said.
‘You prefer we take them back?’ Apollyon demanded.
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘All right. Now listen up. This isn’t just a turkey shoot—or should I say, a turkey slash and stab.’ He grinned. ‘The two of you have got a genuine chance to get out of here. All you’ve got to do is find your way to the exit at the far side of Hades.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Sara said contemptuously. ‘Like you’re going to let us go.’
Apollyon shrugged. ‘Sure I’ll let you go. As long as you get past the devils and demons.’
‘Oh, great,’ I said. ‘I take it those spears and swords are sharp.’
‘You shouldn’t complain. At least they aren’t carrying firearms.’ The bearded man turned and nodded to the big man with the badge on his cap. This time, I recognized the figure on it, one that had its own relevance to the location. Hercules, the ancient Greeks’ most dynamic hero, had descended to the underworld to capture Hades’ three-headed watchdog Cerberus. I hadn’t seen any other characters from ancient myth in this very medieval hell.
‘Right, take them down,’ the officer ordered.
I was marched to a metal staircase. As I went down, I heard more footsteps. It seemed that Sara and I were going to be working together. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Would she be watching my back or looking for an opportunity to execute me? Maybe I should have been thinking about doing that to her, but I didn’t have it in me. We had enough to contend with, and I had no idea what had happened to Rothmann.
A last door was opened and we moved out onto the damp earth at the beginning of the infernal landscape.
‘Hey, shoes,’ I said, as my feet sank into the mud.
‘Screw shoes,’ the guard behind me said. ‘You see any humans wearing footwear in those paintings?’
This wasn’t the time or place for a discussion about realism in art. The staves were tossed a few yards in front of us.
‘Follow your noses,’ said another guard.
I felt the plastic shackles fall from my wrists. By the time I had picked up my wooden weapons, the door had clanged shut behind the guards. I looked over at Sara. She was rolling up the sleeves of her camouflage jacket. She drew one of them across her forehead. I noticed how thin her forearms were. Surely she hadn’t given up the daily sessions in the gym that she had started in London.
‘Any idea where we should head?’ she asked, peering ahead.
Loud barking broke out to the right. I listened and thought I could make out three dogs. Either Caesar had a couple of friends or Cerberus was lying in wait for us.
‘Let’s go to the left,’ I said.
‘Why not? Capitalism’s dead an
d buried, after all.’
I raised an eyebrow and set off through the mud, glancing up at the figures on the viewing platform where we had been.
‘See you at the far side,’ I shouted. That provoked raucous laughter. Screw them, I wasn’t giving up without a fight.
As we approached the first pair of buildings, I saw a long spear wave above the roof and heard muffled commands.
We were expected.
Thirty-One
Rudi Crane was in Hercules-1, the company Learjet, en route to New York’s La Guardia airport. He was working at his computer, running an eye over the balance sheets from the various divisions. He was gratified to see that activities in the Far East were coming in above projected earnings, while the Middle East was running at its usual excellent levels. Even domestic business was up, proving that some things really were recession-proof. Private security was expanding at a rate that surprised many, but not Crane. It had been obvious to him for years that an economic crash would increase the gap between rich and poor, giving Hercules a golden opportunity to ensure that customers felt safe in their gated communities, places of work and country clubs. Investments that he’d made years ago were now bearing fruit—for which, as always, the Lord was to be thanked.
Hitting the keys with two fingers—whoever would have thought that chief executives would need secretarial skills?—Crane brought up the company profile. Red dots across the globe showed Hercules facilities, while there was a mixture of red and blue on the continental U.S.—the latter color marking operations that the company financed, but kept its involvement secret for various reasons. Texas had more of those than any other state because of favorable tax and firearms legislation. There was an underwater combat training unit near Galveston and an advanced cavalry section north of Lubbock—riding skills had proved to be very useful in parts of Russia and Africa—but the preacher’s attention was not focused on those blue dots. He clicked on another one and a drop-down menu appeared. The third line offered voice connection. The call was answered immediately and a clipped voice gave him an encouraging update. Praise be, everything was in hand.
‘Mr. Crane?’
He looked up and smiled at the ice-blonde stewardess. She was Ukrainian and he had chosen her himself from a lineup provided by the Hercules team in that country. Unfortunately, he could never recall her name.
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He took the glass of tomato juice and sipped experimentally. ‘Excellent. A touch less Tabasco the next time.’
The young woman bowed and stepped away.
Katya, Crane remembered. He must remember that when she came to his sleeping quarters later. In the meantime, he had to refresh his memory about the week to come. He was using the United Nations Conference on Climate Change to bring Hercules Solutions even more into the public eye, which meant a large amount of schmoozing with mercenary politicians and their hangers-on. Schmoozing? He banished the word from his vocabulary. It sounded Jewish. Anyway, there would be plenty of opportunity to fly the company flag, not least because he had recently begun an initiative to make all Hercules facilities and vehicles as green as possible in countries and states where that was important—not Texas, of course. It was important to give clients all the help they could get when it came to deciding on which company to use. Not that he believed in climate change. The whole thing was obviously a conspiracy by left-leaning intellectuals to jam up the wheels of business. Besides, the Lord had everything in hand. With Armageddon fast approaching, those who deserved to be saved would be taken up to Heaven. For those who remained, the state of the planet would be the least of their worries.
Before he went to the well-appointed bedroom at the rear of the cabin, Rudi Crane dropped to his knees and gave thanks for the support his plans had received from the Good Lord. Recent developments had showed that he had been right to cut loose from Jack Thomson and his Nazi fantasies. It wasn’t necessary to believe in outdated ideologies, let alone debase oneself in impious devil worship. The traditions he had grown up covered things much more effectively, even if it was sometimes necessary to make exceptions: some of his best combat leaders were black; Hercules Solutions also used Jewish lawyers and accountants, and Asian bankers. Of course, none of them were candidates for the Rapture.
Crane got to his feet, holding on to the chair as the jet hit minor turbulence. When he’d been younger, he would have parted company with his lunch in such a situation, but he had trained his body to control itself.
‘Oh, Katya,’ he called.
Swallowing bile, the stewardess walked toward the preacher, her blouse already undone.
‘Got any ideas?’ I asked, as we approached the damaged building.
‘Weapons,’ Sara said, banging her staves together. ‘Concentrate on replacing these with anything that’s more lethal.’ Her forehead shone in the flickering light, but her face was set hard. ‘I’ll take the front. You see what’s round that corner.’
My mouth was dry, but my heart rate wasn’t excessively rapid. I was in some kind of zone, ready to fight to the end. I had to make this good—for Karen and our son, but also for my trainers, Dave and Quincy. I glanced at Sara. I should have been paying her back for their deaths, but that could wait. Without her, I had much less chance of getting to the far side of Hades. The last I saw, she was pointing the long staff like a lance and charging the shattered door.
There were two figures waiting for me at the side of the building. I applied the long staff to the first one’s rat head and hit the second with the short staff where I guessed his chin was under the demon mask. They dropped like stones. I went to the corner and looked round, pulling my head back rapidly as something came toward it at speed. I looked behind me and saw a wooden shaft quivering in the trunk of a withered tree. I ran to it and wrenched out the weapon. It had a wicked steel point like a javelin’s.
I replaced the smaller staff with the spear and went back to the corner, narrowly avoiding another missile. I went after the thrower, sprinting round the corner with a loud roar. A large man wearing a peaked cap and fatigues stepped back, then dropped the spear he was holding and raised his hands when he saw me. His face was brown and he had a mustache.
‘Please, please,’ he gabbled. ‘They give us orders.’
I put the point of the spear at his throat. ‘Tell them to fall back and drop their weapons!’ I yelled, glaring at the men behind him.
The officer shouted out something in a language I didn’t understand, but it had the desired effect. The men let their javelins and hooked swords fall to the ground. There were several animal and insect heads already lying there.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘Major Mohammed Al-Haq,’ the officer said, straining back from the sharp tip. ‘Third Mountain Rangers Regiment, Pakistan Army.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ I looked through the hole in the wall, wondering what had happened to Sara. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Training,’ he said. ‘We arrive yesterday. Tonight take part in exercise to experience mentality of insurgents armed with outmoded weapons.’ He shook his head. ‘Very strange costumes. I do not approve.’
Sara appeared behind the soldiers, a spear in each hand and a scimitar in her belt.
‘They’re Pakistani,’ I said. ‘Being trained, he says.’
‘They need it,’ she said, brandishing her weapons at the cowed soldiers.
‘I hope you didn’t…’
‘Kill anyone? No, I don’t think so. There’ll be some sore heads and bellies. What’s next?’
I tried to look beyond a heap of earth. There were more damaged buildings dotted about broken ground.
‘If you will permit,’ the major said, raising a hand to the javelin at his throat. ‘I give you my word that we will not attack you.’
I glanced at Sara and she nodded, though she didn’t lower her weapons.
‘Why’s that?’
He gave a slack smile. ‘Because men defending next fortifications are from India. We would like to
give them a beating.’
Jesus, what was this? International Crisis 101?
‘How are they armed?’ Sara asked.
‘This I do not know for sure,’ the major replied. ‘I guess same as us.’
‘All right,’ I said, wondering what kind of training establishment issued participants with lethal weapons. The points and edges were very sharp. ‘Try not to inflict any serious wounds.’
Sara looked at me as if I were a small child. ‘Okay, you take half of the men and go left again. I’ll take the center and the right.’ She gave the major a steely look. ‘Tell your men they can arm themselves again. If anyone tries to touch me, I’ll take his throat out.’ She made a rapid and extremely competent movement with one of her spears.
‘I come with you, yes?’ the officer said, stepping toward me.
I smiled at him. ‘Good idea.’ Then, when they were ready, I signaled the advance.
We were halfway across a pitted, evil-smelling no-man’s-land when the first shots rang out.
Violent Crime Director Sebastian looked out over the lights of central Washington. To his left, the Capitol building stood out like an oversize wedding cake, bright and icing-white.
‘Sit down, Peter,’ the Director said, closing a file. ‘Sorry to keep you.’
Sebastian did as he was told and looked across the desk at the wizened man who bore such a resemblance to Robert Redford that his nickname was ‘Sundance.’ He had been an admiral and, later, a Presidential adviser, before landing the job at the top of the Hoover Building.
‘Now, what’s the story with Sir Andrew Frogget?’ The Director still had a Southern drawl, though it was many years since he’d lived in South Carolina. ‘Was it a heart attack?’
‘It looks that way. The postmortem won’t be done till the morning.’
‘You told the Brits?’
Sebastian nodded. ‘The number two at their embassy. He said he would consult. I can’t say he sounded particularly animated.’
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