Sepulchre

by James Herbert

  "Still, none of us are infallible, are we, Halloran? We all have our weaknesses and foibles that make us vulnerable. We wouldn't be human without them. Can't help wondering what yours are."

  "Along the inside road you could do with one or two ac-cess-control points where vehicles can undergo thorough checks. Closed-circuit television is essential for the main gates, incidentally, with a guardhouse by the side. That'll have to be built with hardened walls and glass, and will require a telephone line direct to the house. Reliance on your man at the lodge isn't good enough."

  "What makes you so inscrutable, Halloran? What goes on behind that mask of yours?"

  "As well as closed-circuit TV points on entrances to Neath, you ought to have bars mounted on all windows that provide easy access. It goes without saying that intrusion alarms will have to be installed on all windows and doors, too."

  "Do you believe in God, Halloran?"

  He stared back at Kline. "I'll draw up a list of firm recommendations and submit copies to the Magma Corporation and Achilles' Shield," he said evenly. "If we don't receive your or

  Magma's consent to carry out these precautions, there's not much my company can do for you."

  "My question rattle you? You should see your face. I thought all the Irish were God-fearing, no matter what particular brand of religion they followed."

  "I'm not Irish."

  "Your old man was. And you may not have been born there, but you were raised in the old country."

  "How did you know that?" He realized immediately that Cora must have told Kline.

  "You still haven't answered my question."

  "Information about myself isn't part of the contract. All you need to know is that I'm capable of doing a good job."

  "Just curious, that's all. You suddenly look even more dangerous, d'you know that?"

  There was an abrupt vision between Kline and himself. Father O'Connell's big, ruddy face was contorted with anguish, his tear-soaked cheeks catching the flames from the fire. Only these reflections were of flames from another time. Halloran cleared the image from his mind. But the sounds of the priest's wailing as he ran into the burning church were more difficult to erase.

  "You still with me, Halloran? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

  The Shield operative blinked. Kline was watching him intently, and the slyness of his smile somehow suggested he had shared Halloran's vision.

  "The Sumerians had lots of gods—lots of goddesses, too," Kline went on as if nothing unusual had occurred. "A whole team of 'em. Anu, god of the heavens, Su'en, the moon god, Enlil, god of the storm, Marduk, god of Babylon, Ea, one of the good guys, and the goddess, Inin, later known as Ishtar— now she was something else. She was a whore. Then there was Bel-Marduk, the one they came to despise." His smile had become venomous. "They misunderstood his cruelty, you see. But there was always someone—excuse me, some deity —to pray to for any cause, or to blame for any wrong. Delegation was the idea, spreading the load. Don't put too much pressure on the one god or goddess in case they get vexed and turn nasty. Or was it because they didn't believe in putting all their trust in one master? Maybe a lesson learned from their past. And that's the weird thing about these people, Halloran: we know hardly anything at all about their origins. Now, like I said before, that's odd, considering the Sumerians invented the written word."

  Halloran scarcely heard, for he was still numbed by the strength of the vision of moments before. And tiredness also was beginning to weigh heavily upon him.

  "It seems," Kline continued, his enthusiasm not curbed by lack of interest from his audience, "that kings, princes— maybe even the high priests—hid or destroyed all records of Sumerian early history. Yet they'd been setting things down as cuneiform writing on clay tablets since 3000 B.C.! What d'you suppose they needed to hide? I mean, to wipe out centuries of their past like that, they must have had some terrible dark secret they wanted to keep from the rest of the world, don't you think?" He was leaning forward again, hands resting on his knees, his face bright in the glow from the fire.

  Halloran struggled to rouse himself, the warmth of the room and Kline's almost mesmeric tone abetting the weariness. "There's something more I need to ask you," he said, and then had to concentrate to remember what it was. In the gloom of the far corner, the stone woman's eyes seemed larger.

  "Even one of the greatest archaeological finds ever failed to turn up any evidence of what went on in Sumerian society much before 2500 B.C.," said Kline, ignoring the pending question. "That was when Sir Leonard Woolley discovered a gigantic grave site near the city wall of Ur in the 1920s. Thousands of the graves had been plundered, but something spurred on the old boy to dig deeper, and what he found underneath that cemetery staggered historians all around the world."

  Halloran pinched the comers of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. What the hell was Kline rambling on about?

  "Know what was there?" Kline gripped the arms of the chair as if unable to contain his excitement. "Stone tombs. Sepulchres! Can you believe it? Woolley's team got to them by ramps leading into deep shafts. Inside those chambers they found intact skeletons of Sumerian kings, queens, princes, princesses, and members of the high priesthood, all decked out in full regalia of gold and semiprecious stones—and that's why it came to be known as the Royal Cemetery. Around them were golden cups, stelae and statues, beautiful vases, silver ornaments—all kinds of valuable stuff." Kline gave an excited laugh. "And know what else, Halloran? All their servants and attendants were buried right there with them. Court officials, soldiers, priests—even oxen with their wagons. No signs of violence, though. Those people had accepted their fate without argument. They'd taken poison and allowed themselves to be sealed in with their masters and mistresses." He grinned. "How's that for loyalty?"

  Halloran experienced a peculiar sense of relief when the other man turned away from him to gaze at the fire, as though Kline's intensity was a parasitical thing. Some of his tiredness lifted and he remembered the question he had meant to ask.

  But Kline was speaking once more. "For twelve years Sir Leonard worked that site, delving, dusting, probing, digging, yet nowhere did he find anything that told him of the early Sumerians. Some historians surmise that everything was destroyed at the time of the Great Flood—if there ever was such an event. No one's ever been sure whether or not that was only a myth, and one borrowed by another religion, incidentally. For Noah, read Utnapishtim, a hero of Sumerian legend. Anyway, no matter, flood or not, something should have survived from that catastrophe—unless those old boys didn't want it to. But what could be so bad, so diabolically awful, that they'd want the knowledge of it obliterated from their history? Answer me that."

  His head slowly came around so that he was facing Halloran again, and there was a meanness to his smile. The flames of the fire had died down, the room considerably darker. Halloran felt oppressed by the shadows, as though they were drapes closing around him. And the weariness had returned, resting on his eyelids so that they were difficult to keep open.

  The question. Not Kline's but his own. What was the question? Kline had reminded him. Underneath the cemetery. Under. Neath. Kline had even emphasized the word. He thought of the sturdy oak door that led to the cellar.

  But Halloran hadn't voiced the question. His head sagged with tiredness.

  "Not falling asleep on me, are you?" said Kline. "Ah well, it's been a long day, so go ahead, close your eyes."

  He didn't want them to, but his eyes closed. Halloran stirred in the chair, his limbs leaden. Sleep was approaching and it was irresistible.

  "Not just a cellar," he heard Kline say from a great distance. "Something more than that. Down there is where I have my very own sepulchre. Did you hear me, Halloran?"

  Barely. Kline must be a long way away by now . . .

  " . . . My sepulchre, Halloran . . ."

  . . . yet the words were suddenly near, a whisper inside Halloran's mind.

  27

  A DREAM AND BETRAY
AL

  "Liam. Wake up."

  He felt a hand shaking his shoulder, and consciousness quickly drew him away from the unreality of his dream. Hal-loran's body was tensed and ready before his eyes opened, his fingers instinctively curling around the butt of his gun. Cora was leaning over him, her face anxious.

  "Liam, we have to go back to London immediately."

  He looked past her at the empty chair opposite. Only gray ashes were in the fireplace, and daylight did its best to penetrate the heavy curtains over the windows. Stone eyes still watched him from the corner of the room.

  "Liam," Cora urged.

  "It's all right." He stood, all drowsiness gone, his senses fully alert. He was angry with himself when he glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was nearly 8:40. Why the hell had he allowed himself to fall asleep in this room, and why hadn't one of the bodyguards woken him at the proper time? "What's the problem, Cora?" he quickly asked.

  "Felix has just had a call from Sir Victor. He has to return to Magma right away."

  "On a Sunday?"

  She nodded. "It's serious."

  He made toward the door, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

  "Last night . . ." she said.

  So much had happened the night before that it took him a second or two to understand what Cora meant. Her expression was so solemn, her eyes so grave, that he couldn't help smiling.

  "We'll talk later," he told her, then kissed her cheek. They left the room together.

  The streets of the city were empty, save for the few tourists who took the occasion of such quietness to view London's financial sector. Light drizzle soaked the pavements and roadways, freshening them for the onslaught they would take during the rest of the week. Glass towers glistened as though newly varnished, while older buildings hued darker as they soaked up the dampness.

  A convoy of three cars, a black limousine, a Mercedes, and a Granada, sped through the deserted streets, the drivers of each checking their surroundings and rearview mirrors each time they were halted by traffic lights.

  Halloran was in the back of the second car, the silver-gray Mercedes, sitting next to Felix Kline, prepared to cover his client with his own body should anything untoward occur. Janusz Palusinski was driving the armored vehicle, and Cora sat beside him in the passenger seat. Monk was the driver of the car ahead, Khayed and Daoud, who never ceased looking back to satisfy themselves that their master was not far behind, were his companions. In the Granada, the last in the procession, were two Shield men who had been taken off patrol duty around the estate.

  Kline had been unusually silent throughout the journey, mentioning neither the events of the previous night nor the reason for the summons to the Magma building that morning. Halloran realized he was witnessing yet another facet of this strange man's nature, a quiet, brooding stillness that was in sharp contrast to Kline's irritatingly animated and talkative side. This mood was more akin to the soft-spoken, cultured role that Kline sometimes adopted, although again it was different, for there was no mocking in his gaze and no air of secret knowledge. The small man was withdrawn, thoughtful, seemingly unaware of any danger he might be in, with no agitation in his movements, no nervousness in his scrutiny. Yet Halloran could sense a deep anger burning inside him.

  The Shield operative remembered the dream Cora had roused him from, for Kline had been part of it. They had walked together, he and Kline, Halloran allowing himself to be led by the other man through a great blackness, his hand in Kline's as though they were lovers. Although nothing could be seen, he had felt a frightening vastness of space around and above them, as if they were inside a cathedral or a huge subterranean cave. Now and then something light would waft across his face so that he recoiled, fearing there were long, trailing cobwebs on all sides. Kline's whispered voice assured him that there was nothing to be afraid of, they were merely passing through thin, unseen veils. There was something in the distance, a tenuous mass that was blacker than the blackness around them, and Halloran could hear the sound of his own heartbeat as they drew nearer to that ultimate darkness, the thudding growing louder, joined by the beating of another's—Kline's—their life-surge keeping time, becoming as one. And then, all about the darkness, eyelids were opening in slow, drawn-out movements, so that a multitude of stone eyes stared as the two men drew closer to the void, the nucleus of the blackness itself. Kline had released his hand and was stretching his arms toward the core, creating an opening within its shell, their combined heartbeats becoming thunderous, joining—or so it seemed—with yet another whose loudness grew so that soon, very soon, it smothered their own, and although the rising sound appeared to emanate from the void before them, it was everywhere, filling the infinite space, deafening the two men. Kline was reaching inside that pitchy nothingness, arms trembling, his mouth gaping in a silent ecstatic scream, and Halloran had moved close to see what it was that the other man grasped, but he was blind in such blackness; he could feel a terrible heat, sense something there, something he was glad he could not see. Yet still he reached out with Kline, the two men joined in an unholy alliance, compelled by the mystery . . .

  "Liam."

  And Cora's voice had recalled him from the dream.

  "Liam."

  The Mercedes was passing the Mansion House, the Magma building not far away, towering above others around it. Cora had turned in her seat and was looking directly at him.

  Halloran blinked. He'd been completely lost in his own thoughts and once again was angry at himself for his negligence.

  "Should we drive straight down into Magma's underground carpark," Cora said, "or do you want us to be dropped by the front entrance?"

  "The carpark," he replied. "I arranged for it to be checked out by Shield before we left Neath. If there were problems they'd have contacted us."

  "Was there any news of those people who tried to stop us on Friday?" she asked.

  Cora's face was still pale, her actions skittish, the weekend in the country apparently having had little calming effect, Halloran thought wryly. "Nothing's turned up so far. Some-thing'll break soon though, it usually does. We'll be okay so long as we're prepared." He had addressed the last remarks to Kline, but the psychic's attention was averted; he was watching the streets, though Halloran had the feeling his client's vision was directed inward.

  The Magma Corporation's headquarters came into full view, and Halloran was once again impressed by its grandeur. The rain had intensified the luster of its bronze surfaces, the deep shade of the windows defining and enhancing the metal sections so that the building's complicated structure was drawn in bold and deliberately simple lines. The curved buttresses and various levels added to the forcefulness of design, a formidable edifice amid staid and less aggressive architecture.

  The limousine ahead pulled into the curb outside the main entrance, and Halloran instructed Palusinski to keep moving until they reached the garage entrance around the corner on a narrow side street. A member of the Shield team saw their approach and signaled for the entrance barrier inside the building to be lifted. The Granada followed the Mercedes down the ramp, the limousine now in the rear of the convoy. The Pole reversed their vehicle into a bay, and Halloran stepped out as soon as it came to a halt. He quickly went around to Kline's side, right hand inside his jacket. A figure was already limping toward them as Palusinski opened the passenger door for Kline, and Halloran raised a hand in greeting. Mather's countenance was unusually grim.

  "A word, Liam," he said as he drew near.

  "Go on ahead to the elevator," Halloran told the others. "I'll join you there." He went toward Mather, who ushered him a short distance away so that they would not be overheard.

  "How have things been at your end?" the Planner said, stopping by a concrete pillar. At the top of the ramp the Shield operative who had signaled the approach of the car stood with his back to them, observing the street outside.

  "Not good as far as security's concerned," answered Halloran. "Neath is wide open."

>   "But you've had no more trouble?"

  He hesitated before giving a shake of his head. "What's wrong, Charles?"

  "It's Dieter, I'm afraid." Mather looked down at his cane, unconsciously tapping it twice on the ground. "His body was recovered not more than an hour ago."

  Halloran saw the others were walking toward the elevators, Monk and the two Arabs following close behind. The two operatives from the Granada were standing by their car, waiting for further instructions. "What happened?" he said to Mather.

  "Shot through the back of the head. Gerald is with the police finding out a bit more at this very moment. What we do know is that Dieter was tortured before being killed."

  "Jesus, Mary . . ." breathed Halloran. "Who?"

  Mather shrugged. "I haven't a clue, Liam. No trademarks that we're aware of as yet."

  "Where was he found?"

  "Floating in the Thames. Whoever did it didn't even bother to weigh down the body."

  "Anything to do with this operation?"

  "We can't discount that factor. If there is any logical reason for his murder, and providing it isn't the work of some outraged husband, then torture obviously suggests information was being sought. Nevertheless, it's somewhat drastic to go to such lengths just to gain details of our plans for Felix Kline. It's reasonable to assume that any would-be kidnappers have sufficient knowledge of their target without resorting to that kind of violence. Another theory is that someone with a grudge from Dieter's past hated him enough to inflict such injuries before ending his life."

  "There's another possibility," suggested Halloran. Kline and his entourage were at the elevators and looking over to see what was delaying him. "It could be a way of warning us off."

  "From protecting Felix Kline?"

  He nodded. "It's our only major assignment at the moment."

  "Hmm, it's a thought, I suppose," voiced Mather. "Unlikely, though. In the event of a successful snatch, kidnappers would rather negotiate with K & R people than the authorities, who're invariably against payment of ransom money."