by Brian Lumley
“What’s that?” said Dragosani, starting up in his seat as Batu commenced speaking. He glared at his grinning companion. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what you were thinking about just then, my friend, but I’m certain it bodes no good for someone,” Batu explained “The look on your face was very fierce!”
“Oh!” said Dragosani, relaxing a little. “Well, my thoughts are my own, Max, and none of your business.”
“You are a cold one, Comrade,” said Batu. “Both of us are cold ones, I suppose, but even I can feel your chill. It seeps right into me as I sit here.” The grin slowly faded from his face. “Have I perhaps offended you?”
“Only with your chatter,” Dragosani grunted.
“That’s as may be,” the other shrugged, “but ‘chatter’ we must. You were supposed to brief me, tie up those loose ends which Gregor Borowitz left dangling. It would be a good idea if you did it now. We are alone here—even the KGB have not yet bugged Aeroflot! Also, we have only one hour before we arrive in London. In the embassy such a conversation might prove difficult.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Dragosani grudgingly. “Very well, then, let me put the pieces together for you. It is perhaps preferable that you’re fully in the picture.
“Borowitz first conceived of E-Branch about twenty-five years ago. At that time a large Russian group of so-called ‘fringe-scientists’ were starting to take a real interest in parapsychology, still largely frowned upon in the USSR. Borowitz was interested—had always been interested in ESP—despite his very much down-to-earth military background and otherwise mundane persuasions. Strangely talented people had always fascinated and attracted him: in fact he was himself a ‘spotter’ but hadn’t realized it. When finally he did realize that he had this peculiar talent, he at once applied for a position as head of our ESPionage school. It was initially a school, you see, with no real application in the field. The KGB weren’t interested: all brawn and bullet-proof vests, ESP was far too esoteric for them.
“Anyway, since his Army service was coming to a close, and because he had good connections—not to mention his own not inconsiderable talent—he got the job.
“A few years later he found another spotter, but in very peculiar circumstances. It came about like this:
“A female telepath, one of the few girls on Borowitz’s team, whose talent was just beginning to blossom, was brutally murdered. Her boyfriend, a man called Viktor Shukshin, was charged with the crime. His defence was that he’d believed the girl was possessed of devils. He could sense them in her. Of course, Borowitz was very much interested. He tested Shukshin and discovered that he was a spotter. More than that, the ESP-aura of psychically endowed persons actually disturbed Shukshin, unbalanced him and drove him to homicidal acts—usually directed at the ESPer him or herself. On the one hand Shukshin was drawn to ESPers, and on the other he was driven to destroy them.
“Borowitz saved Shukshin from the salt mines—in much the same way he saved you, Max—and took him under his wing. He thought he might exorcise the man’s homicidal tendencies but at the same time save his talent for spotting. In Shukshin’s case, however, brain-washing didn’t work. If anything it only served to aggravate the problem. But Gregor Borowitz hates waste. He looked for a way to use Shukshin’s aggression.
“At that time the Americans were also greatly interested in ESP as a weapon; more recently they’ve taken it up again, though not nearly to the extent that we have. In England, however, a rudimentary ESP-squad already existed, and the British were rather more inclined towards the serious study and exploitation of the paranormal. So Shukshin was put through a long term of spy-school in Moscow and finally released upon the British. His cover was that of a ‘defector.’”
“He was sent over to kill British ESPers?” Batu whispered.
“That was the idea. To find them, to report on their activities, and, when the psychic stress became too great for him, to kill them if and when he had to. But after he’d been in England only a few months, then Viktor Shukshin really did defect!”
“To the British?”
“No, to the country of the British—to their political system—to safety! Shukshin didn’t give a damn for Mother Russia anyway, and now he had a new country, almost a new identity. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, do you see? In Russia he’d come close to life imprisonment for murder. Should he do the same thing in England? He could make a decent living there, a fresh start. He was a linguist, topflight qualifications in Russian, German, English, and more than a smattering of half-a-dozen other languages. No, he didn’t defect to anyone, he defected from the USSR. He ran, escaped—to freedom!”
“You sound almost as if you approve of the British system,” the Mongolian grinned.
“Don’t worry about my loyalties, Max,” Dragosani grated. “You won’t find a man more loyal than I am.” To Romania! To Wallachia!
“Well, that’s good to know,” the other nodded. “It would be nice if I could say the same. But I’m a Mongol and my loyalties are different. Actually, I’m only loyal to Max Batu.”
“Then you probably resemble Shukshin a great deal. I imagine that’s how he felt. Anyway, gradually over the months his reporting fell off, and finally he dropped out of sight. It put Borowitz on the spot but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Since Shukshin was a ‘defector’ he’d been granted political asylum; Borowitz couldn’t very well ask for him back! All he could do was keep tabs on him, see what he was up to.”
“He feared he’d join the British ESPers, eh?”
“Not really, no. Shukshin was psychotic, remember? Anyway, Borowitz wasn’t taking any chances, and eventually he tracked him down. Shukshin’s plan was simple: he’d got himself a job in Edinburgh, bought a tiny fisherman’s cottage in a place called Dunbar, made official application for British citizenship. He kept himself to himself and settled down to leading a normal life. Or at least he tried to.…”
“It didn’t work out?” Batu was interested.
“For a while. But then he married a girl of old Russian stock. She was a psychic medium—the real thing—and naturally her talent was like a magnet to him. Perhaps he tried to resist her, but to no avail. He married her, and he killed her. At least that’s how Gregor Borowitz sees it. After that—nothing.”
“He got away with it?”
“The verdict was accidental death. Drowning. Borowitz knows more about it than I do. Anyway, it’s incidental. But Shukshin inherited his wife’s money and house. He lives there still.…”
“And now we are on our way to kill him.…” Batu mused. “Can you tell me why?”
Dragosani nodded. “If he had simply continued to keep a low profile and stay out of our hair, that would have been okay. Oh, Borowitz would catch up with him eventually, but not immediately. But Shukshin’s fortunes have changed, Max. He’s short of cash, generally down at heel. It’s been the downfall of many another before him. So now, after all these years, finally he’s turned blackmailer. He threatens Borowitz, E-Branch, the entire set-up.”
“One man poses so great a threat?” Batu raised his eyebrows.
Again Dragosani’s nod. “The British equivalent of our branch is now an effective force. How effective we’re not sure, but they may even be better than we are. We know very little about them, which in itself is a bad sign. It could well be that they are clever enough to cover themselves entirely, give themselves one hundred percent ESP security. And if they’re that clever—”
“Then how much do they know about us, eh?”
“That’s right,” Dragosani looked at his companion with a little more respect. “They might even know that we two are aboard this plane right now, and our mission! God forbid!”
Batu smiled his moonish, ivory smile. “I don’t believe in any god,” he said. “Only in the devil. So the Comrade General fears that if Shukshin isn’t silenced he might after all talk to the British?”
“That’s what Shuks
hin has threatened him with, yes. He wants money or he’ll tell British E-Branch all he knows. Mind you, that won’t amount to much after all this time, but even a little knowledge about our E-Branch is far too much for Gregor Borowitz’s liking!”
Max Batu was thoughtful for a moment. “But if Shukshin did talk, surely he would be giving himself away, too? Wouldn’t he be admitting that he came to England in the first place as an ESP-agent of the USSR?”
Dragosani shook his head. “He doesn’t have to give himself away. A letter is perfectly anonymous, Max. Even a telephone call. And even though twenty years have gone by, still there are things he knows which Borowitz wants kept secret. Two things in particular, which might prove valuable beyond measure to the British ESPers. One: the location of the Château Bronnitsy. Two: the fact that Comrade General Gregor Borowitz himself is head of Russian ESPionage. That is the threat which Shukshin poses, and that is why he’ll die.”
“And yet his death is not our prime objective.”
Dragosani was silent for a moment, then said: “No, our prime objective is the death of someone else, someone far more important. He is Sir Keenan Gormley, head of their ESPers. His death … and his knowledge—all of it—that is our prime objective. Borowitz wants both of them dead and stripped of their secrets. You will kill Gormley—in your own special way—and I shall examine him in mine. Before that we shall already have killed Viktor Shukshin, who also shall have been examined. Actually, he should not present too much of a problem: his place is lonely, out of the way. We’ll do it there.”
“And you can really empty them of secrets? After they are dead, I mean?” Batu seemed to have doubts.
“Yes, I really can. More surely than any torturer could when they were alive. I shall steal their innermost thoughts right out of their blood, their marrow, their cold and lonely bones.”
A dumpy stewardess appeared at the cabin end of the central aisle. “Fasten your seatbelts,” she intoned like a robot; and the passengers, equally robotic, complied.
“What are your limitations?” Batu asked. “Strictly out of morbid curiosity, of course.”
“Limitations? How do you mean?”
“What if a man has been dead for a week, for example?”
Dragosani shrugged. “It makes no difference.”
“What if he has been dead for a hundred years?”
“A dried-up mummy, you mean? Borowitz wondered the same thing. We experimented. It was all the same to me. The dead cannot keep their secrets from a necromancer.”
“But a corpse, rotting,” Batu pressed. “Say someone dead for a month or two. That must be quite awful.…”
“It is,” said the other. “But I’m used to it. The mess doesn’t bother me so much as the risk. The dead teem with disease, you know? I have to be very careful. It’s not a healthy business.”
“Ugh!” said Batu, and Dragosani actually saw him give a small shudder.
London’s lights were gleaming in the dark distance on the curve of night’s horizon. The city was a hazy glow beyond the small, circular windows. “And you?” said Dragosani. “Does your talent have its ‘limitations,’ Max?”
The Mongol gave a shrug. “It, too, has its dangers. It requires much energy; it saps my strength; it is debilitating. And as you know, it is only effective against the weak and infirm. There is supposed to be one other small handicap, too, but that is a matter of legend and I do not intend to put it to the test.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. There is a story told in my country of a man with the evil eye. It’s an old story, going back a thousand years. This man was very evil and used his power to terrorize the land. He would ride with his bandits into villages and rape and plunder, then ride out again unscathed. And no one dared hold up a hand against him. But in one village there lived an old man who said he knew how to deal with him. When the robber band was seen riding that way, the villagers took all their corpses and gave them spears and propped them on the walls. The robbers came and in the dusk their leader saw that the village was protected. He cast his evil eye upon the watchers at the walls. But of course, the dead cannot die twice. The spell rebounded and struck him down. He was shrivelled up no larger than a roasted piglet!”
Dragosani liked the story. “And the moral?” he asked.
Batu grunted and shrugged again. “Doesn’t it speak for itself? One must never curse the dead, I suppose, for they have nothing to lose. In any argument, they must always win in the end.…”
Dragosani thought of Thibor Ferenczy. And what of the undead? he wondered. Do they, too, always win? If so, then it’s about time someone changed the rules.…
* * *
They were met and whisked through Customs by “a man from the embassy,” their baggage delivered as if by magic to a black Mercedes bearing diplomatic plates. As well as their cold-eyed escort there was also a silent, uniformed driver. On their way to the embassy their escort sat in the front passenger’s seat, his body half-turned towards them, his arm draped casually along the back of the driver’s seat. He made small-talk in a frigid, mechanical fashion, trying to assume an air of friendly interest. He didn’t fool Dragosani for a minute.
“Your first time in London, Comrades? You’ll find it an interesting city, I’m sure. Decadent, of course, and full of fools, but interesting for all that. I, er, didn’t have time to check on your business here. How long do you plan to stay?”
“Until we go back,” said Dragosani.
“Ah!” the other smiled, thinly, patiently. “Very good! You must excuse me, Comrade, but for some of us curiosity is—shall we say—a way of life? You understand?”
Dragosani nodded. “Yes, I understand. You’re KGB.”
The man’s thin face went icy in a moment. “We don’t use that term much outside the embassy.”
“What term do you use?” smiled Max Batu, his voice a deceptive whisper. “Shitheads?”
“What?” The escort’s face slowly turned white.
“My friend and I are here on business which is no concern of you or yours,” said Dragosani in a level tone. “We have the very highest authority. Let me make that clear: the Very Highest Authority. Any interference will be very bad for you. If we need your help we will ask for it. Apart from that you’ll leave us alone and not bother us.”
The escort pursed his lips, drew one long, slow breath. “People don’t usually talk to me like that,” he said, his words very precise.
“Of course if you persist in obstructing us,” Dragosani continued, without changing his tone of voice, “I can always break your arm. That should keep you out of the way for two or three weeks at least.”
The other gasped. “You threaten me?”
“No, I make you a promise.” But Dragosani knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. This was a typical KGB automaton. The necromancer sighed, said: “Look, if you have been tasked to us I’m sorry for you. Your job is impossible. Moreover it’s dangerous. This much I’ll tell you, and this much only. We’re here to test a secret weapon. Now, ask no more questions.”
“A secret weapon?” said the other, his eyes widening. “Ah!” He looked from Dragosani to Batu and back again. “What weapon?”
Dragosani smiled grimly. Well, he had warned the fool. “Max,” he said, carefully turning his face away. “A small demonstration, perhaps…?”
Shortly after that they arrived at the embassy. In the grounds of the place Dragosani and Batu stepped down from the car and took their luggage from the boot. They looked after their own cases.
The driver attended to their escort. The last they saw of him was as he staggered away, leaning on the driver’s arm. He looked back at them only once—stared round-eyed and fearfully at Max Batu—before stumblingly disappearing inside the gloomily imposing building. And that was the last they saw of him.
After that no one bothered them again.
* * *
The second Wednesday after New Year, 1977.
Viktor Shukshin had known this feeling of
encroaching doom for well over a fortnight now, a leaden psychic depression which had lifted only marginally upon the arrival of Gregor Borowitz’s fourth monthly registered letter containing one thousand pounds in high denomination notes. In fact it worried Shukshin that Borowitz had surrendered so readily, that he had made no counter threats of his own.
Today had been especially bad: the skies were overcast and heavy with snow; the river was frozen over with thick grey ice; the big house was cold and seemed invaded by icy draughts that followed Shukshin everywhere. And for the first time in as long as he could remember—or at least the first time that he had noticed it—there was a strange and ominous quiet about everything, so that sounds seemed muffled as if by deep snow, though little had fallen as yet. The ticking of an old grandfather clock sounded heavy, dull—even the warped floorboards seemed to creak a little less volubly—and all in all it had put Shukshin’s nerves in a very bad way. It was as if the house held its breath and waited for something.
That “something” came at 2:30 P.M., just as Shukshin poured himself a glass of iced vodka and sat down in his study before an electric fire, looking gloomily out through neglected, fly-specked windows on a garden frozen into white crystal. It came with the nerve-jangling clamour of his telephone.
Heart hammering, he put down the drink he’d almost spilled, snatched up the handset and said, “Shukshin.”
“Stepfather?” Harry Keogh’s voice seemed very close. “It’s Harry here. I’m in Edinburgh staying with friends. How’ve you been keeping?”
Shukshin choked back the anger which came on the instant, boiling to the surface. So that was it; this damned spawn of an ESPer was here, close at hand, sending out his psychic aura to crush Shukshin’s sensitive spirits! He bared his teeth, glared at the telephone in his hand, fought down the urge to curse and rage. “Harry! Is that you? In Edinburgh, you say? How thoughtful of you to call me.” You bastard! Your mutant aura is hurting me!
“But you sound so well!” the other sounded surprised. “When I saw you last you seemed so—”