Sepulchre

by James Herbert

  Halloran stood by the telephone in the large open hallway, his hand still resting on the receiver. He was concerned about Dieter Stuhr's absence, well aware that it was out of character for the German to be missing during a major assignment (or even a minor one, for that matter). Maybe, as Mather had suggested, he was having problems getting into the office that morning. Less likely was that he'd been detained at some other address; the Organizer didn't run his life that way—he'd have at least let Shield know where he could be contacted no matter how impromptu the situation. Halloran ran his fingers across his as yet unshaven chin. Maybe Kline—and Neath itself—were getting to him. He was beginning to feel uneasy about everything.

  There were footsteps on the staircase behind him. He turned to find Cora approaching, her descent faltering momentarily when he looked into her eyes, her hand touching the wide balustrade for balance.

  "Good morning, Liam." Her greeting was subdued, as if she were not sure how he would react toward her.

  "Cora," he responded. He moved to the foot of the stairs and waited. Neither one smiled at the other, and both were conscious that this was not the usual way for lovers to say hello after a night of intimacy.

  "Have you had breakfast?" she asked, the question put to break the awkwardness between them rather than out of any real interest.

  "I'm on my way in," Halloran replied. He touched her arm to stop her from walking on. She looked up at him, startled. "Cora, why didn't you warn me about Kline?"

  She could not conceal the tiny flicker of alarm that showed in her eyes.

  "Why didn't you tell me he had the—I suppose you'd call it power—to hypnotize? We took a little trip this morning, out on the lake. He made me see things there, things I never thought possible. Creatures, Cora, monsters that seemed to be living in the slime beneath that water. I don't know whose imagination he dredged them from—his or mine—but they scared the hell out of me even though common sense told me they couldn't really exist. He froze me, and it's been a long time since anyone did that."

  "He was playing games with you." She had moved closer and her voice was quiet, almost mournful. "It was Felix's way of showing you how manipulative his mind is, how sometimes he can direct images into the minds of others."

  Halloran shook his head. "Thought transference—it's the same as hypnosis."

  "No. No, it isn't. He can't make you do things, control your actions. He can only suggest images, make you feel something is happening."

  Halloran thought back to the white room at the Magma building, remembering his first encounter with Kline, the linger prodding him in the darkness when no one was near, reaching out and touching withered skin when only he and Kline were in the room . . . "At least it makes a kind of sense," he said aloud, although it was more a rationale for himself.

  Her laugh was brittle. "Don't look for sense in any of this," she said. Cora slipped from his grip and made her way toward the dining room.

  A creak from the balcony above. He looked up sharply and was just in time to see the bulky shape of Monk stepping back out of sight. Halloran was sure the big man had been grinning.

  "Well, I can see your appetite hasn't been spoiled by this morning's little upset." Kline waved away the Arab who had been pouring him more coffee.

  Halloran glanced up from his plate and returned his client's smile. "It takes a lot to do that."

  "Oh yeah? For a moment there in the boat I thought you were going to puke. Couldn't figure it—there was hardly a ripple in the lake. Unless all that mist out there disoriented you. It can often make you giddy, y'know, that and the drifting sensation. You had me worried." He sipped from his cup. "Youssef, give Miss Redmile some more coffee. She looks as if she needs it. Make it strong, leave the cream. Cora, you've got to eat more than you do, you're going to waste away otherwise. Don't you think she looks kinda drawn, Halloran? You not sleeping well, Cora?"

  Halloran had to agree: she looked pale, the dark smudges under her eyes even more pronounced.

  "I think that business yesterday is having some effect on me," Cora said. "Delayed reaction, I suppose."

  "The attempted kidnapping?" The incident sounded pleasurable to Kline. "There was no problem, not with our hero along to protect us. Those bastards didn't stand a chance. Am I right, Halloran? Not with you around. I bet they couldn't believe their eyes when they saw our car reversing away like a bat outa . . ." He didn't complete the sentence, gulping coffee instead.

  "Hopefully your own driver, Palusinski, will have learned the technique by now. That and a few others to get away from a roadblock fast." Halloran continued eating, a surprisingly good English breakfast provided by the two Jordanians. He noticed that Kline, for all his jibes at the girl, hadn't eaten much either. Monk probably made up for the pair of them in the kitchen.

  "Were you an army man, Halloran?"

  The question from Kline was unexpected.

  "Most of your outfit are ex-military, aren't they?" Kline went on. "You ever killed anybody? Shot them dead, knifed them? You ever done anything like that?"

  Cora was watching him, along with her employer. Halloran leaned back from the table. "What makes you ask?" he said.

  "Oh, curiosity. Wondered if you had the capability. Can't be an easy thing taking someone else's life away. No, got to be the hardest thing in the world to do. Or is it? Maybe it's easy once you have the know-how, the experience. Have you had the experience? Could you do it?"

  "It would depend on the situation."

  "Hah! Let me give you a situation then. Suppose those creeps yesterday had managed to stop our car. Suppose they came at me with guns—which, presumably, given the chance they would have. Would you have used your own weapon?"

  "That's why I'm here, Kline."

  "Okay. Let's change the scenario a little. Say they held a gun at Cora's head and threatened to blow it off if you made a move toward them. You got your own gun in your hand and it's pointed in their direction. They're dragging me into their car and the guy with Cora is blocking your way. What would you do in that situation? Would you risk her life to protect me? I'd be interested to know." He smiled at Cora. "I'm sure she'd like to also."

  Halloran looked from one to the other, Kline grinning, enjoying the moment, Cora uncertain, as though the question was more than academic.

  "I'd let them take you," he replied.

  Kline's grin faded.

  "Then I'd negotiate the ransom for your release."

  His client's fist hit the table. "That's the wrong fucking answer! You're being paid to look after me, Halloran, nobody else! Not her, nobody!"

  Halloran kept his tone level. "By shooting the one who held Cora—and I could probably do it without her being harmed—I'd be endangering your life. Everyone would get gun-happy, and undoubtedly you'd be the second target after me. It'd make sense to keep things peaceful, bargain for your release later."

  Kline was noticeably quivering. "Bargain for my release? You crazy fuck. They could take the money and then kill me."

  "It doesn't work that way. These people are normally professional in what they do. To break a negotiated contract would mean they'd lose credibility next time."

  "You talk as if the whole thing is nothing more than a business."

  "That's just what it is, a multimillion-pound business. Kidnap and ransom has become one of the world's few growth industries. Sure, every once in a while you get amateurs trying their hand, but they're few and far between, and generally frowned upon by their own but more competent kind—their bungling makes successful transactions more difficult for the professionals. It doesn't take organizations like mine, or the police, to discover which type we're dealing with, and I have to admit I prefer to be up against professionals—they're more predictable."

  "And that bunch yesterday? How would you classify them, Halloran?" Kline's fists were clenched on the tabletop, and his lips were drawn tight.

  "I'd say they knew what they were doing. The car they used wasn't traceable, they were patient
and waited for exactly the right moment. Fortunately for us we had them spotted before they made their move."

  "They weren't that good. They failed, didn't they?"

  "Only because we were better. And the fact that they managed to get clean away confirms my belief that they were competent. Once the first attempt failed they didn't compound their mistake by giving chase. That could have been too messy. My guess is they'll be patient awhile longer, wait for the right opportunity to come along. Or, at least, engineer that opportunity themselves. Now they know we're on the alert they'll be even more cautious."

  "They'll try again?" It was Cora who had asked the question.

  Halloran looked at her in surprise. "Of course. But at least we have the slight advantage of knowing our client is a definite target."

  "I already told you that!" Kline was glaring at him, but although his words were spoken angrily, the shrillness had gone from them. "Why d'you think Magma hired your company in the first place? You think I'm on some kind of ego trip? Or suffering from paranoia? This is a real situation, Halloran, I told you that from the start."

  "Okay, so let's go back to an earlier question: who or what organization do you think is behind it? I still can't accept that you've no idea."

  "Have any of your previous so-called targets known just who was out to get them? Why d'you expect me to?"

  "Because you were aware before an attempt was ever made."

  Kline's sigh transmuted into a groan. "After all I've shown you, you still don't believe."

  "It's precisely because of what I know about you that I don't understand why you can't sense who your enemies are."

  For the first time Kline looked unsure. His eyes went to Cora, then back to Halloran. "There's the mystery, Halloran," he said. And then, as if to himself, he repeated, "Yeah, there's the mystery."

  Once more Halloran was checking through the house, prowling the corridors, ensuring that no outside door or window had been left unlocked. Even in daytime he wanted Neath shut tight. It was when he was passing along the second-floor hallway overlooking the inner courtyard that he paused. A door was opening on the other side of the decayed fountain.

  He waited by the window and watched, curious, as Khayed came through. The Arab was carrying a round metal container with handles on either side, and by the way Khayed's body leaned backward the burden had some weight. He scuttled across the yard, calling out to someone behind. Youssef Daoud appeared at the same doorway and he, dressed in the robes of his country as was his companion, carried a similar metal container. Both men were laughing and apparently joking as they went through another door leading to the front of the house.

  On impulse, Halloran hurried downstairs and went out into the courtyard. He quickly crossed over and went through the door the two Arabs had emerged from. He was in the short passageway he had entered the night before, at one end the stairway, at the other the sturdy closed door. He walked to the latter and tested the handle. It was still locked. Or, if the two men had brought the containers from there, locked again.

  Halloran stooped to examine the lock and immediately felt cold dank air from the keyhole on his cheek. He touched the stone floor at the base of the door, and the chill draft was even more noticeable. It had to lead to a cellar of some kind, perhaps where Kline kept his best wines.,

  Noises outside. The Arabs returning. Halloran straightened, taking one last look at the lock as he did so. It was old and strong, with a large keyhole needing a long key. Shouldn't prove too difficult to open. But he wondered at his own curiosity. And why not ask Kline or Cora what was down there? He also wondered why he was reluctant to do just that.

  The voices outside were louder, approaching.

  He quickly went down the short length of the passage and stepped through the open doorway. The two Arabs stopped when they saw him. The one called Khayed was the quickest to regain his composure, his friend's look of hostility dissolving a fraction later.

  Khayed gave a small bow and regarded Halloran questioningly. "Assayed?"

  "I found it open," Halloran said, indicating the doorway behind.

  "Ah," said Khayed, then spoke to his companion in their own language. "Sadi koona hashoor." Daoud smiled at Halloran, who offered no more explanation than he'd already given.

  A smell of spices drifted toward him from the two men. They waited there and he guessed they'd stay all day without saying another word until he went on his way. It was in his mind to ask them again what was beyond the locked door, but he doubted he'd receive a reply. He noticed Khayed held a long key by his side.

  Halloran waved them through, but they remained where they were, politely indicating that he should pass them. "Min fadlak, assayed," said Khayed.

  With a shrug, he cut back across the yard, this time making for the corridor leading to the main hall and the front of the house.

  Coolness and gloom after the brightness of the yard struck him as soon as he entered, and his footsteps were hollow on the stone flooring. He frowned when he saw that the double-doors of the entrance were open wide and guessed that Khayed and Daoud were the culprits. He went to the door and passed through into the porch area.

  Outside he saw that the Rover's tailgate was up and inside were the two metal containers. He walked over to examine them more closely, tapping them both at first, the sound heavy, indicating they were full. The tops were tightly sealed.

  He was prizing at one with his fingertips when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Now there was no quick disguising of the alarm in Khayed's expression. He was alone, obviously having followed Halloran out while his companion went on about his business.

  "Kala, assayed," the Arab said, recovering well enough to smile.

  Halloran raised his eyebrows. He indicated the containers. "What's in them?" he asked.

  "Nothing to concern the good sir," came the reply.

  "I'd like to take a look."

  "Oh no, sir, there is nothing of interest for you in them. It is food, you see."

  "What?"

  "I said it is food inside the bins."

  His companion appeared on the porch and was holding yet another container. He halted to look at both men, then hurried over to the back of the car, politely edging past Halloran to place his load inside with the other two. He straightened and grinned at Halloran, his eyes full of amusement.

  "For the dogs," he said. "Akel llkaleb. They will eat well tonight."

  His snigger became laughter. Khayed joined in that laughter.

  23

  THE LODGE HOUSE

  Dusk was aided by a clouded sky, the fine day having changed its mind mid-afternoon, becoming overcast and broody, yet shedding no rain, as if sulking without tantrum, leaving the air warm and muggy. Halloran took off his jacket as he strolled away from Neath's front gate, no longer having to worry about exposing his waist holster now he was away from the public road.

  He had just completed briefing the two sets of Shield operatives, keeping them no more than ten minutes so that the roads around the estate would not be left unpatrolled for longer than was necessary. He realized even double the number of observer cars would still be inadequate because it would be easy enough for intruders to enter the grounds during surveillance "gaps"; nevertheless, even two cars could usually spot potential trouble—parked vehicles, loiterers, anything out of place or suspicious—and two were better than one, one better than none. Halloran wasn't happy with the situation but knew that only a small army would really be adequate under the circumstances, and at least the operatives were now discreetly armed; he could only hope that Kline's faith in his guard dogs was justified.

  It had been an odd day (no reason it shouldn't have been, Halloran told himself, considering the whole affair was odd), beginning with his hallucination on the lake that morning. But that had amounted to no more than Kline flexing his psychic muscles, showing Halloran his psyche's strength, a mild "frightener" to let him know he was dealing with a man who had a genuine ability, one that could be u
sed in any direction Kline chose. Fine. The experience had been unnerving, but at least had given his client some satisfaction, and that in turn might make him more amenable to following Halloran's strictures on security.

  Kline's outburst at breakfast had left the operative unperturbed: he already knew the man was an egomaniac, as well as being somewhat eccentric, so it wasn't surprising that he was concerned solely for his own safety. How Cora tolerated her employer's boorishness Halloran couldn't understand at all. The question had been in his mind most of the day: why was she so dependent on Kline?

  Halloran had wanted to talk with her alone, but she had avoided his company, disappearing to her room immediately after breakfast. He had gone to her, and she had opened her bedroom door only slightly, her eyes downcast, almost as if she were ashamed of what had happened the night before. Cora had told him she was suffering from a migraine headache, that she needed to lie down for a few hours, curtains drawn, if it were to pass. He'd left her, disappointed in her lack of response to him, for even though her sexual preference had surprised him (and, If he were to be totally honest with himself, dismayed him a little) a tenderness between them had followed the lovemaking. Cora had wept when he untied her, and had clung to him, body trembling, tears dampening his chest, for a long time before falling into a troubled sleep.

  Somewhere in the distance he heard the faint sound of church bells, evensong in some nearby parish, and his thoughts drifted back to the country of his childhood. The small town in Kilkenny, where the priest's authority was irrefutable, his word law, his temple the court, his judgment final . . . Halloran checked himself. It wasn't the time for such reflection—he needed to be alert, aware of what was going on around him at the present moment, not having his thoughts wandering around the past. That was happening too much of late.