Necroscope®

by Brian Lumley

  “This is not new to me,” said Dragosani, puzzled. “I know we’re ahead of the Americans. So what?”

  Borowitz ignored him. “The same goes for the Chinese,” he said. “They’ve got some clever minds over there in Peking, but they aren’t using them right. Can you imagine? The race that invented acupuncture doubting the efficacy of ESP? They’re stuck with the same sort of mental block we had forty years ago: if it isn’t a tractor it won’t work!”

  Dragosani kept silent. He knew he must let Borowitz get to the point in his own good time.

  “Then there’s the French and the West Germans. Oddly enough, they’re coming along quite well. We actually have some of their ESPers here in Moscow, field agents working out of the embassies. They attend parties and functions, purely to see if they’re able to glean anything. And occasionally we let them have tidbits, stuff their orthodox intelligence agencies would pick up anyway, just to keep them in business. But when it comes to the big stuff—then we feed them rubbish, which dents their credibility and so helps us keep right ahead of them.”

  Borowitz was bored now with toying with his pencil; he put it down, lifted his head and stared into Dragosani’s eyes. His own eyes had taken on a bleak gleam. “Of course,” he finally continued, “we do have one gigantic advantage. We have me, Gregor Borowitz! That is to say, E-Branch answers to me and me alone. There are no politicians looking over my shoulder, no robot policemen spying on my spying, no ten-a-penny officials watching my expense account. Unlike the Americans I know that ESP is the future of intelligence gathering. I know that it is not ‘cute.’ And unlike the espionage bosses of the rest of the world I have developed our branch until it is an amazingly accurate and truly effective weapon in its own right. In this—in our achievements in this field—I had started to believe we were so far ahead that no one else could catch us. I believed we were unique. And we would be, Dragosani, we would be—if it were not for the British! Forget your Americans and Chinese, your Germans and your French; with them the science is still in its infancy, experimental. But the British are a different kettle of fish entirely.…”

  With the exception of the last, everything Dragosani had heard so far was old hat. Obviously Borowitz had received disturbing information from somewhere or other, information concerning the British. Since the necromancer rarely got to see or hear about the rest of Borowitz’s machine, he was interested. He leaned forward, said: “What about the British? Why are you suddenly so concerned? I thought they were miles behind us, like all the rest.”

  “So did I,” Borowitz grimly nodded, “but they’re not. Which means I know far less about them than I thought I knew. Which in turn means they may be even farther ahead. And if they really are good at it, then how much do they know about us? Even a small amount of knowledge about us would put them ahead. If there was a World War Three, Dragosani, and if you were a member of British Intelligence knowing about the Château Bronnitsy, where would you advise your airforce to drop its first bombs, eh? Where would you direct your first missile?”

  Dragosani found this too dramatic. He felt driven to answer: “They could hardly know that much about us. I work for you and I don’t know that much! And I’m the one who always assumed he’d be the next head of the branch.…”

  Borowitz seemed to have regained something of his humour. He grinned, however wryly, and stood up. “Come,” he said. “We can talk as we go. But let’s you and me go see what we have here, in this old place. Let’s have a closer look at this infant brain of ours, this nucleus. For it is still a child, be sure of it. A child now, yes, but the future brain behind Mother Russia’s brawn.” And shirt-sleeves flapping, the stubby boss of E-Branch forged out of his office, Dragosani at his heels and almost trotting to keep pace.

  They went down into the old part of the château, which Borowitz called “the workshops.” This was a total security area, where each operative as he worked was watched over and assisted by a man of equal status within the branch. It might seem to be what the western world would call the “buddy” system, but here in the château it was designed to ensure that no single operative could ever be sole recipient of any piece of information. And it was Borowitz’s way of ensuring that he personally got to know everything of any importance.

  Gone now the padlocks and security guards and KGB men. There were none of Andropov’s lot here now, where Borowitz’s own agents themselves took care of internal security on a rota system, and the doors to the ESP-cells were controlled electrically by coded keys contained in plastic cards. And only one master card, which of course was held by Borowitz himself.

  In a corridor lit by blue fluorescent light, he now inserted that key in its slot and Dragosani followed him into a room of computer screens and wall charts, and shelf upon shelf of maps and atlases, oceanographical charts, fine-detail street plans of the world’s major cities and ports, and a display screen upon which there came and went a stream of continually updated meteorological information from sources world-wide. This might be the anteroom of some observatory, or the air-controller’s office in a small airport, but it was neither of these things. Dragosani had been here before and knew exactly what the room held, but it fascinated him anyway.

  The two agents in the room had stirred themselves and stood up as Borowitz entered; now he waved them back to work and stood watching as they took their places at a central desk. Spread out before them was a complex chart of the Mediterranean, upon which were positioned four small coloured discs, two green and two blue. The green ones were fairly close together in the Tyrrhenian Sea, midway between Naples and Palermo. One of the blue ones was in deep water three hundred miles east of Malta, the other was in the Ionian Sea off the Gulf of Taranto. Even as Borowitz and Dragosani watched, the two ESPers settled down again to their “work,” sitting at the desk with their chins in their hands, simply staring at the discs on the chart.

  “Do you understand the colour code?” Borowitz hoarsely whispered.

  Dragosani shook his head.

  “Green is French, blue is American. Do you know what they’re doing?”

  “Charting the location and the movement of submarines,” said Dragosani, low-voiced.

  “Atomic submarines,” Borowitz corrected him. “Part of the West’s so-called ‘nuclear deterrent.’ Do you know how they do it?”

  Dragosani again shook his head, hazarded a guess: “Telepathy, I suppose.”

  Borowitz raised a bushy eyebrow. “Oh? Just like that? Mere telepathy? You understand telepathy, then, do you, Dragosani? It’s a new talent of yours, is it?”

  Yes, you old bastard! Dragosani wanted to say. Yes, and if I wanted to, right now I could contact a telepath you just wouldn’t believe! And I don’t need to “chart his course” because I know he isn’t going anywhere! But out loud he said: “I understand it about as much as they’d understand necromancy. No, I couldn’t sit there like them and stare at a chart and tell you where killer subs are hiding or where they’re going; but can they slice open a dead enemy agent and suck his secrets right out of his raw guts? Each to his own skills, Comrade General.”

  As he spoke one of the agents at the desk gave a start, came to his feet and went to a wall screen depicting an aerial view of the Mediterranean as seen from a Soviet satellite. Italy was covered in cloud and the Aegean was uncharacteristically misty, but the rest of the picture was brilliantly clear, if flickering a little. The agent tapped keys on a keyboard at the base of the screen and a green spot of light simulating the location of the submarine to the east of Malta began to blink on and off. He tapped more keys and as he worked Borowitz said:

  “That Froggie sub has just changed course. He’s putting the new course coordinates into the computer. He isn’t much on accuracy, however, but in any case we’ll be getting confirmation from our satellites in an hour or so. The point is, we had the information first. These men are two of our best.”

  “But only one of them picked up the course alteration,” Dragosani commented. “Why didn�
�t the other?”

  “See?” said Borowitz. “You don’t know it all, do you, Dragosani? The one who ‘picked it up’ isn’t a telepath at all. He’s simply a sensitive—but what he’s sensitive to is nuclear activity. He knows the location of every atomic power station, every nuclear waste dumping ground, every atomic bomb, missile and ammo dump, and every atomic submarine in the world—with one big exception. I’ll get on to that in a minute. But locked in that man’s mind is a nuclear ‘map’ of the world, which he reads as clearly as a Moscow street map. And if something moves on that map of his it’s a sub—or it’s the Americans shuffling their rockets around. And if something begins to move very quickly on that map, towards us, for instance.…” Borowitz paused for effect, and after a moment continued:

  “It’s the other one who’s the telepath. Now he’ll concentrate on that single sub, see if he can sneak into its navigator’s mind, try to correct any error in the course his partner has just set up on the screen. They get better every day. Practice makes perfect.”

  If Dragosani was impressed, his expression didn’t register it. Borowitz snorted, moved towards the door, said: “Come on, let’s see some more.”

  Dragosani followed him out into the corridor. “What is it that’s happened, Comrade General?” he asked. “Why are you filling me in on all these fine details now?”

  Borowitz turned to him. “If you more fully understand what we have here, Dragosani, then you’ll be better equipped to appreciate the sort of outfit they might have in England. Emphasis on might. At least, the emphasis used to be on might.…”

  He suddenly grabbed Dragosani’s arms and pinioned them to his sides, saying: “Dragosani, in the last eighteen months we haven’t had a single British Polaris sub on those screens in there. We just don’t know where they go or what they do. Oh, the shielding’s good on their engines, no doubt about it, and that would explain why our satellites can’t track them—but what about our sensitive in there? What about our telepaths?”

  Dragosani shrugged, but not in a way that might cause offence. He was genuinely mystified, no less than his boss. “You tell me,” he said.

  Borowitz released him. “What if the British have got ESPers in their E-Branch who can blank out our boys as easy as a scrambler on a telephone? For if that’s the case, Dragosani, then they really are ahead!”

  “Do you think it’s likely?”

  “Now I do, yes. It would explain a lot of things. As to what it is that’s brought all this to a head—I’ve had a letter from an old friend of mine in England. I use the term loosely. When we go back upstairs I’ll tell you all about it. But first let me introduce you to a new member of our little team. I think you’ll find him very interesting.”

  Dragosani sighed inwardly. His boss would eventually arrive at the matter in hand, the necromancer knew that. It was just that he was so devious in everything he did, including coming to a point. So … better to relax and suffer in silence, and let things happen in Borowitz’s own good time.

  Now he let the older man usher him in through another door and into a cell considerably larger than the last. Little more than a week ago this had been a storeroom, Dragosani knew, but now there had been a number of changes. The place was much more airy, for one thing; windows had been let into the far wall and looked out just above basement level onto the grounds of the château. Also, a good ventilation system had been installed. To one side, in a sort of anteroom just off the main cell, a mini-operating theatre had been set up such as was used by veterinary surgeons; and indeed about the walls of both rooms, small cages stood on steel shelves and displayed a variety of captive animals. There were white mice and rats, various birds, even a pair of ferrets.

  Talking to these creatures as he moved from cage to cage, a white-smocked figure not more than five feet three or four chuckled and joked and called them pet names, tickling them where he could with his stubby fingers through the bars. As Dragosani and Borowitz approached, he turned to face them. The man was slant-eyed, his skin a light yellowy-olive colour. Heavy jowled, still he managed to look jolly; when he smiled his entire face seemed wreathed in wrinkles, out of which incredibly deep green eyes sparkled with a life of their own. He bowed from the waist, first to Borowitz and then to Dragosani. When he did so the ring of fluffy brown hair round the bald dome of his head looked for all the world like a halo which had slipped a little. There was something monkish about him, thought Dragosani; he would exactly suit a brown cassock and slippers.

  “Dragosani,” said Borowitz, “meet Max Batu, who claims he can trace his blood right back to the Great Khans.”

  Dragosani nodded and reached out a hand. “A Mongol,” he said. “I suppose they can all trace their blood back to the Khans.”

  “But I really can, Comrade Dragosani,” said Batu, his voice soft as silk. He took Dragosani’s hand, gave it a firm shake. “The Khans had many bastards. So as not to be usurped, they gave these illegitimates wealth but no position, no power, no rank. Without rank they could not aspire to the throne. Also, they were not allowed to take wives or husbands. If they in their turn did manage to produce offspring, the same strictures were placed upon them. The old ways have come down the years. When I was born they still obeyed the old laws. My grandfather was a bastard, and my father, and so am I. When I have a child, it too will be a bastard. Yes, and there is more than this in my blood. Among the Khans, bastards were great shamans. They knew things, those old wizards. They could do things.” He shrugged. “I do not know a lot, for all that I am told I am more intelligent than others of my race—but there are certain things I can do.…”

  “Er, Max has a very high IQ,” said Borowitz, smiling wolfishly. “He was educated in Omsk, opted out of civilization and went back to Mongolia to herd goats. But then he had an argument with a jealous neighbour and killed him.”

  “He accused me of putting a spell on his goats,” Batu explained, “so that they died. I could have done it, certainly, but I did not. I told him so but he called me a liar. That is a very bad thing in those parts. So I killed him.”

  “Oh?” Dragosani tried hard not to smile. He couldn’t imagine this inoffensive little fellow killing anyone.

  “Yes,” said Borowitz. “I read about it and was interested in the, er, nature of the murder. That is, in the method Max employed.”

  “His method?” Dragosani was enjoying this. “He threatened his neighbour, who at once laughed himself to death! Is that it?”

  “No, Comrade Dragosani,” Batu answered for himself, his smile fixed now, square teeth gleaming yellow as ivory, “that was not how it happened. But your suggestion is very, very amusing.”

  “Max has the evil eye, Boris,” said Borowitz, dropping the surname at last; which in itself would normally warn Dragosani that something unpleasant was coming. Warning bells did ring, but not quite loudly enough.

  “The evil eye?” Dragosani tried to look serious. He even managed to frown at the little Mongol.

  “Precisely,” Borowitz nodded. “Those green eyes of his. Did you ever see such a green, Boris? They are purest poison, believe me. I intervened in the trial, of course; Max was not sentenced but came to us instead. In his way he’s as unique as you are. Max—” he spoke directly to the Mongol, “—could you give Comrade Dragosani something by way of a demonstration?”

  “Certainly,” said Batu. He fixed Dragosani with his eyes. And Borowitz was right: they were absolutely exquisite in their depth, in the completely solid nature of their substance. It was as if they were made of jade, with nothing of flesh about them. And now the warning bells rang a little louder.

  “Comrade Dragosani,” said Batu, “observe please the white rats.” He pointed a stubby finger at a cage containing a pair of the animals. “They are happy creatures, and so they should be. She—on the left—is happy because she is well fed and has a mate. He is happy for the same reasons, also because he has just had her. See how he lies there, a little spent?”

  Dragosani looked, glanced at B
orowitz, raised an eyebrow.

  “Watch!” Borowitz growled, his own eyes fixed firmly on what was happening.

  “First we attract his attention,” said Batu—and immediately he fell into a grotesque crouch, resembling nothing so much as a great squat frog where he confronted the cage halfway across the room. The male rat at once sprang upright, its pink eyes wide in terror. It made a leap at the bars of its cage, clung there staring at Batu. “And then—” said the Mongol, “—then—we—kill!”

  Batu had squatted even lower, almost in the stance of a Japanese wrestler before the charge. Dragosani, standing side-on to him, saw his expression change. His right eye seemed to bulge outward until it almost left its orbit; his lips drew back from his teeth in an utterly animal snarl of sheer bestiality; his nostrils gaped into yawning black pits in his face and great cords of sinew stood out on his neck and up under his jaw. And the rat screamed!

  It screamed—an almost human scream of terror and agony—and vibrated against the bars as if electrocuted. Then it released its hold, shuddered, flopped over on to its back on the floor of the cage. There it lay perfectly still, blood seeping from the corners of its glazed, bulging pink eyes. The rat was quite dead; Dragosani knew it for a certainty, without closer examination. The female scurried forward and sniffed the corpse of her mate, then peered out through the bars uncertainly at the three human beings.

  Dragosani did not know how or why the male rat had died. The words which now sprang to his lips were more a question than a statement of fact or any sort of accusation:

  “It … it has to be a trick!”

  Borowitz had expected that; it was typical of Dragosani to leap before looking, to rush in where angels might well fear to tiptoe. The boss of E-Branch stepped well back as Batu, still crouching, swivelled to face the necromancer. The Mongol was smiling again, holding his head questioningly on one side. “A trick?” he said.