More Horror from Graham Masterton
BLACK ANGEL
DEATH MASK
DEATH TRANCE
EDGEWISE
HEIRLOOM
PREY
RITUAL
SPIRIT
TENGU
THE CHOSEN CHILD
THE SPHINX
UNSPEAKABLE
WALKERS
MANITOU BLOOD
REVENGE OF THE MANITOU
FAMINE
IKON
THE SWEETMAN CURVE
The Katie Maguire Series
WHITE BONES
BROKEN ANGELS
RED LIGHT
TAKEN FOR DEAD
BLOOD SISTERS
BURIED
LIVING DEATH
DEAD GIRLS DANCING
DEAD MEN WHISTLING
THE LAST DROP OF BLOOD
The Scarlet Widow Series
SCARLET WIDOW
THE COVEN
Standalones
GHOST VIRUS
SACRIFICE
Graham Masterton
www.headofzeus.com
First published in Great Britain in 1985 by W. H. Allen & Co. Plc
This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Graham Masterton, 1985
The moral right of Graham Masterton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781838935771
Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the author
An Invitation from the Publisher
With special thanks to Arja Salminen
SACRIFICE
Charles felt guilty, because he had long ago promised Agneta that he would never get himself involved with intelligence work again. But he also felt a familiar tightening in his heart, an exhilarating, alarming feeling that he was once again a player in that vast invisible game without rules; that game of deception and bluff and sudden extraordinary danger; that game without which the world could never be safe, and never be peaceful, no matter how uneasy the peace might be…
‘In my view, the defence of Europe is principally an issue of European defence. We have a duty to help our allies, for a secure Europe serves our common interests. But this should not mean an American guarantee to take up the slack whenever Europe is unwilling to make the required sacrifice.’
Senator Larry Pressler, Chairman of the U.S. Senate foreign relations subcommittee on arms control, June 24, 1984
‘To achieve victory for Communism throughout the world, we are prepared for any sacrifice.’
Mao Tse-tung, 1944
‘When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.’
Edmund Burke, 1794
One
He was washing up the plates from lunch when the grey Mercedes 350 SL drew up outside on the cobbled forecourt; and he knew at once that they had found him. He accidentally tugged the stopper out of the old-fashioned porcelain sink, and the soapy water drained away with a sharp and sudden gurgle. He said, ‘Karin!’ and when there was no answer, ‘Karin!’ again, and reached behind him to untie his apron.
Outside, in the wavering May sunshine, the Mercedes had drawn up beside a yellow Volkswagen camper, and parked, with its engine still running. The sun reflected so brightly from its windows that it was impossible for Nicholas to see who was in it; but he could guess. The three men who had been waiting for him by the fish-stand on Gammel Strand in Copenhagen on that foggy morning of February 10; the three men who were his nemesis.
Karin banged open the old wooden door, and said, ‘Mrs Nexo’s furious! The laundry have lost half of the pillow-cases.’
‘Listen,’ said Nicholas, without taking his eyes off the Mercedes outside. ‘Do you think you could carry on doing the dishes for me? I have to make a phone call.’
‘A phone call?’ She frowned. ‘I’m supposed to be hoovering the dining-room.’ She peered unenthusiastically at the stack of blue and white Bing & Grondahl plates, smeared with congealing mayonnaise and whiskered with fish-bones, and the crowd of empty beer-glasses, patterned with froth.
‘Just for a moment,’ Nicholas asked her. ‘Please.’
Karin frowned out of the window. A red-haired freckled girl with an uptilted nose and a long plait down the back of her neck, standing in a gloomy tiled kitchen; her hair shining the same colour as the copper pans hanging over the blue and white ceramic range. To Nicholas she looked for a moment like a portrait by Jørgen Roed, the Danish realist. It was a real moment, caught in time, but other more urgent realities were pressing in on it from all sides. The clock, striking three in the inn’s hallway. The heat of the day. The three men, waiting outside in their Mercedes.
And what was even more pressing was the reason why the three men were here.
Karin said, ‘Are you all right? You look as if somebody just stepped on your grave.’
‘I have to make a phone call, that’s all.’
‘Mrs Nexø will want you to drive in to Randers and find those pillowcases for her.’
‘Karin,’ said Nicholas. ‘I love you.’
Karin said pffff, and pursed up her lips in amusement as she tied up her apron.
‘Just because you are American, you think you can twist any girl around your finger.’
Nicholas was moved to kiss her; but there was no time left for romantic gestures. A car door slammed outside, leaving a solid echo like a picture-frame, and two grey-suited men crossed the forecourt towards the entrance to the inn. Nicholas glanced quickly around the kitchen, and picked up a large chef’s knife, still sticky with herring. Then, while Karin watched him in bewilderment, he crossed to the door which led out to the hallway, and listened. Karin started to say something, but Nicholas hurriedly waved his hand to quieten her.
Voices, talking in Danish. One of them thick and heavily-accented, like water washing through gravel.
‘We have been told that you have an American working here. Don’t worry, we’re not from the Tilsynet m
edudlaendinge. We’re just friends of his. Nicholas Reed?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t have any Americans working here. Why should I?’ (That was Mrs Nexø, being evasive. Mrs Nexø had been taught by her late husband that there are only two kinds of people in this world, sellers and buyers, and that sellers should never give anything to buyers for nothing because that would destroy the integrity of world commerce, not to mention the balance of payments at the Hvidsten Inn.)
‘He’s a tall fellow, 185 cm; slim, though; thin face, with fair curly hair. You know the American movie star Donald Sutherland? Quite like him.’
A silence. Somebody coughing, and shuffling their feet. Then Mrs Nexø saying, ‘No. Nobody like that here. Are you sure it’s the Hvidsten Inn you want? Have you tried further up the road?’
‘The Hvidsten Inn, that’s what we were told. No mistake.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
Somebody saying something quickly in another language, indistinct, but probably Russian. Then the gravelly voice saying again, ‘It’s most important that we talk to Mr Reed. It’s his mother, you see. She’s been taken critically ill. She doesn’t have long; and if we can’t find him… well—’
Another pause. Nicholas strained to hear what was going on, but the Volkswagen camper had suddenly started up in the forecourt outside, and if the three men were saying anything to Mrs Nexø, it was impossible for him to make it out.
Karin said anxiously, ‘Nicholas, what’s happening? What is that knife for? Nicholas!’
Again, Nicholas waved her into silence. The Volkswagen’s engine coughed and died, and the driver almost immediately started it up again, but in that brief intervening second of silence, Nicholas heard Mrs Nexø say, ‘Three thousand kroner? What do you expect me to tell you for that?’
Nicholas moved away from the door, stepping as quietly as he could on the kitchen’s shiny tiled floor. He took Karin’s wrist, and said to her quickly, ‘Don’t worry about the dishes. I have to go. But make that phone call for me, would you? Call a man called Charles Krogh, in Copenhagen. You can usually find him at the Københavner bar on Gothergade. Here – write the number down, 21 18 01. Or if he’s not there, try him at home on Larsbjørnstrade.’
‘What do I have to say?’
‘Tell him that Lamprey called. Tell him the old code. “The old code.” Can you remember that? That’s all you have to say.’
‘Lamprey?’ Karin had difficulty in pronouncing it. ‘The old code?’
Nicholas kissed her. She was yielding, very soft-skinned, and she tasted of flowery soap and Danish salami.
‘I’ll come back when I can,’ he told her. They had done nothing together, apart from bicycle occasionally on Sunday afternoons to Asferg, where Karin had an aunt, a smiling woman with big arms; and once they had driven to Randers Fjord and picnicked on the shore, in a strong wind, with the sea dancing like smashed windows. She kissed him back, worried, uncomprehending. He had always been so tall and so laconic and so unfailingly gentle, treating everybody around him with such American civility, that she could not understand why he should have to run away from anything.
He said, ‘They may come in and ask you questions. Act, you know, dumb.’ Then he smiled, and went quickly out through the wooden door, and along the dark flagstoned corridor which led to the back of the inn. There were etchings on the whitewashed walls, views of Århus Bugt and fishing-boats on Kattegat, foxed, in dusty frames. Nicholas hesitated when he reached the door at the end of the corridor, and then eased up the wrought-iron latch. He could hear voices at the front of the inn, in the forecourt, but they sounded like tourists. The sun shone warmly on the cobbled steps, and the air was filled with glowing fairies. A marmalade cat that had been sleeping amongst the geranium pots turned and looked at him narrow-eyed. Cats could always recognize prey.
He waited a moment or two longer, then he stepped outside into the sunshine, and made his way cautiously along the half-timbered, lime-washed wall. The Hvidsten Inn was thatched, a picturesque old-fashioned Jutland kro; and he could hear mice rustling in the eaves. He reached the rear of the building, and took the risk of looking around the corner, to see if any of the three men had been sent to cover the garden. But it was deserted. Only the white daisies, ruffled by the wind. Only an old wooden wheelbarrow, filled with gardening tools.
He was about to cross the corner of the garden, into the shadow of the white-flowering chestnut trees which surrounded the inn on the north-western side, when another door abruptly opened, and one of the grey-suited men emerged, his hand in his pocket, smoking a cigarette. He was talking to somebody else, inside the inn, whom Nicholas was unable to see.
‘She says he was supposed to be washing the dishes.’
‘He’s been here all right, and he hasn’t taken anything with him.’
‘Well, maybe he just went out for a while.’
‘You think so?’
The man looked around the garden, and coughed. ‘Nobody could have warned him we were coming.’
‘So where is he?’
‘How should I know? That girl was as thick as two bricks.’
The man said nothing, but remained on the steps, smoking, and staring at the garden. He had short-cropped hair the colour of sand, and he was wearing very large black town-shoes. Nicholas couldn’t see much of his face, but it seemed pale and lumpy, like a swede.
Nicholas waited, and sweated, and shifted the chef’s knife from one hand to the other. The man coughed again, and sniffed.
Nicholas was confident that they weren’t going to catch him. Not this time, at least. But it had been a shock to see them turn up outside the inn, in that grey car of theirs; as undistinguished and as uncompromising as an illness that refuses to be cured. They must know that he hadn’t managed to pass on anything of what he knew, yet they still wanted him. He had imagined spending a lazy and idyllic summer at the Hvidsten Inn, and then surreptitiously trying to leave Denmark during the winter.
Now, however, he was going to have to think of some other way of eluding them. A serious disguise, perhaps; or a complicated programme of doubling back and changing names, just to shake them off. Even a plain out-and-out run for it. The trouble with running for it, though, was that the information he had learned had made it very difficult for him to think of where he could possibly run to.
There are some secrets, like some passions, that are greater than those who are chosen to carry them; and the burden of carrying them, passions or secrets, is ultimately overwhelming. This afternoon, as he stood with his back pressed to the wall of the Hvidsten Inn, Nicholas began clearly to recognize that the secrets he knew could kill him.
The grey-suited man went back into the inn. The door hesitated, then closed. Nicholas walked smartly away from his hiding-place at the corner of the inn, across the short stretch of bright green grass that separated the inn from the chestnut trees. A dove started warbling, and startled him, but he kept on walking.
He had almost reached the trees, when a rough voice called out, ‘You! Hey, you! Just a moment!’
Nicholas didn’t turn around, but called out, ‘Gardener, going for a pee! Won’t be a second!’ Then immediately he started running, right through the trees, down a crackling, leaf-choked gully; through light and shadow and flickering bushes; along by an old half-dilapidated picket-fence, until he was suddenly clear of the woods and out in a dazzling yellow mustard field.
He still didn’t turn around, but ran as fast as he could, plunging into the mustard as if he were throwing himself into a blinding primary-coloured lake. He was fit, and he could run. With any luck at all, he could make it to the far side of the field, where there was a tile-topped wall, and beyond that, a white-washed, red-tiled church, Set. Jørgens, where he could find some cover among the orchards and outbuildings.
The mustard whipped against his legs as he ran. His breath sounded like the breath of someone running close behind him, and when he was a third of the way across the field, he had
to turn around, to make sure that it wasn’t. One of the grey-suited men was standing in the shadow of the trees, his hands on his hips. There was no sign of the other two.
He kept on running. The sky above his head was like a blue and white jigsaw. His feet rustled swiftly through the mustard-stems; insects droned past his ears. He hoped to God that Karin would manage to call Charles; although he didn’t really know what good it would do. Charles might not even understand. He might understand, but refuse to care. He hadn’t seen Charles for a long time, and he knew that Charles was fond of his Jack Daniel’s, and fond of his lady-friend, too. Too fond of them, perhaps, to want to jeopardize them.
He was only a hundred yards short of the tile-topped wall when he saw the grey Mercedes dipping its way towards him through the mustard. As it ploughed its way through the field, its windscreen sent out warning heliograph flashes from the sun. Nicholas realized that it would reach him before he could reach the wall. It sent up a drifting cloud of dust and yellow mustard; and approached him in an oddly dreamlike way.
His chest tightened. He was fit, but he was fully clothed, and it was suffocatingly hot, and he was already cramped and tired. His first instinct was to run diagonally away from the Mercedes, but then he saw that it would easily catch up with him if he ran that way. So instead, he began to run towards it, hoping to pass it by as close as safety would allow, so that it would have to drive around in a U-turn to follow him.
He prayed that they wanted to question him; that they didn’t want him immediately dead. A single lucky shot could drop him as he ran. His throat was thick with phlegm, and he was gasping now with every step.
The Mercedes began to steer towards him. It was only forty yards away now. He could see that his original idea of running past it wasn’t going to work. He ran six or seven more steps, and then pitched himself sideways on to the dry, stalky dust, and immediately began to worm his way on his knees and elbows through the mustard, veering sharply off to the right.
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