Sepulchre

by James Herbert

  The couple was lying beneath a eucalyptus, and it was their murmurings that caught the attention of the two Arab intruders. Asil and Youssef looked at each other in surprise, their eyes wide and clear in the starlit night, then crept closer to the source of the breathed sounds. The things they saw the youth doing to the girl sent shivers of excitement running through them, for never in their lives had they witnessed such wantonness, and never before had a female's hidden flesh been exposed thus. Because of the urgency of their lovemaking, the young couple did not hear the Arabs' approach.

  Asil quickly disposed of the girl who, apart from curiosity over her secret places, held little interest for them. He slit her throat while Youssef rendered her lover unconscious with a hefty stone picked up from the ground. Between them they dragged him back through the opening they had made in the rough perimeter fence. Once they were a safe distance away they tore strips from the Israeli's clothing to tie and gag him. Then they enjoyed themselves with his body.

  But they did far more to him than they had ever done to each other.

  Their sadism was spoiled only by his abrupt finish, a lesson well learned by them, for in later years they practiced curbing their extremes so that the exquisite pleasure would last for hours, if not days. The corpse was barely recognizable as human when they had done, and their coup de grace was to cut off their victim's private parts and bring them back in a goatskin pouch to their masters in the fedayeen (who, although irritated that their orders to destroy the water tower had not been carried out, realized the dismemberment and castration of a Jew held true significance).

  Asil and Youssef had proved they were worthy soldiers of the jihad, as well as revealing their skill in passing through well-guarded enemy lines without detection. It wasn't long before they were sent to a terrorist training camp in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon. There they lived in a cement shack and were taught how to use Russian firearms, rocket launchers, and mortars, how to make bombs and use them with altimetric, movement, and time detonators, assassination techniques, how to enter locked buildings quietly, stalk their prey through the streets, and methods of escaping pursuit. They ran six miles every morning, then did four hours of physical training. All this was followed by daily indoctrination classes.

  They were taught that their destiny (not merely their duty) was not only to kill Zionists and their close allies, but members of any nation showing friendliness toward the non-State of Israel. Within a year or two, Asil and Youssef were traveling to other countries as an efficient and respected assassination team. However, they had a weakness they strove to keep from their associates (although not as cleverly as they thought; fortunately their masters allowed certain indulgences as long as operations were never jeopardized). That ecstatic thrill of their first sadistic murder of the Israeli youth at the kibbutz near Bira had never been forgotten. They sought to relive and refine that excitement time and time again in the foreign capitals they visited. There are many hundreds of missing persons reported in cities all over the world every year, and most of them never appear again. At least not alive. It was relatively easy for Asil and Youssef to pick up men or boys, or sometimes even girls (for the two terrorists, the latter was a perversion of a perversion), and lure them to some quiet place where they could abuse, torture, and finally kill their prey. And sexual crimes, where there is no other motive involved and no previous connection between victim and murderer, are perhaps the most difficult to solve.

  The bomb had gone off prematurely.

  Asil and Youssef had left the package with its quietly ticking contents beneath a bench at the Gare du Nord, leisurely strolling away from it through noisy and earnest-looking travelers toward the arches that led out to the streets of Paris. The explosion from behind stunned everyone into an eerie three-second silence (or perhaps the roar had deafened ears to the screams). Pandemonium broke loose, commuters and tourists curling up against walls, running out into the streets—incredibly, some going toward the source of the explosion—or clutching at each other and waiting for the worst to happen.

  The two terrorists knew that the European clothes they wore and the fact that they were among a cosmopolitan crowd would not help if they panicked and rushed from the scene, even though others around them were doing precisely that. At that particular time, Parisians were regarding any Arab or Algerian "type" with suspicion, for the French authorities had arrested a known PLO activist a few weeks before under a charge of conspiracy; an ultimatum had been delivered by Al Fatah that unless the "hostage" was released and allowed to leave the country, then France could consider itself at peril. The French authorities had a reputation in those days for "going soft" under such pressure, and the bomb planted at the Gare du Nord was meant to show how serious the terrorists were.

  Asil and Youssef forced themselves to walk calmly away from the train station. Unfortunately it was their apparent coolness that gained the attention of an astute gendarme who was making his way into the station. The police, including the CRS and CSP, had been put on special alert since the arrest of the terrorist, and this particular gendarme had taken note of his preduty briefing on exactly what to look out for before and after an outrage such as this. He hurried after the two smartly dressed Arabs, stopping them with a sharp, "Alors, messieurs!" when he was close.

  The mistimed blast had considerably shaken Asil and Youssef, for if the bomb had exploded just a few moments earlier, it would have been their own bodies spread across the station concourse. Now they were being apprehended by the police! Without even waiting to be questioned, Asil drew a knife from a hidden sheath in his jacket and stepped toward the uniformed man. He was expert with the blade, as Youssef had become expert with the garrote, and knew that the policeman's belt and buttoned tunic might prevent a clean thrust into the stomach. The heart was equally as difficult, because their pursuer had raised his left arm across his chest, intentionally or unintentionally blocking a lunge. Asil went for the next best target, aware that it would take his victim a minute or so longer to die, but at least he would drop instantly and lose consciousness within fourteen seconds. The knife slashed across the gendarme's upper left arm, the thrust outward and deep, severing the brachial artery. The wounded man stared in disbelief, then fell to the pavement.

  A woman screamed, but in the hubbub of similar cries and the blaring of sirens, no one took much notice. The Arabs fled, no longer concerned whether or not they were more noticeable. They ducked into the Metro, hastily purchasing tickets and anxiously waiting on the quai for a train—any train—to come in, expecting shouts from the barrier at any moment. When one arrived, Youssef shuffled along beside it, pulling at the latch which opened the compartment door before the train had fully stopped. They collapsed into seats, praying to Allah that the doors would shut and the train move off before any blue-uniformed men tumbled in after them. They changed at the next station, Gare de l'Est, going on to Chaussée d'Antin and from there to Montmartre. They had journeyed no great distance, but enough to throw off any pursuers and not long enough for the police to set up checks at Métro exits (even if that were possible with so many stations). They emerged into the soft glow of evening and the distant sounds of sirens.

  They strolled down the wide, tree-lined boulevard toward the river, mingling with tourists, their hearts still beating wildly, although outwardly they managed to appear nonchalant. They passed streetside restaurants, sniffed at roasting meat and spicy sauces, politely declined when approached by smiling prostitutes, not stopping until they reached the Seine, where they watched the passing bateaux-mouches crammed with sightseers.

  Only then did they look slyly at each other and giggle.

  They had a "safe house" to go to, an apartment in one of the small courtyards in the Rue Mouffetard area close to the outdoor market across the river. But there was no need to make their way back yet; indeed, training had taught them it was often better to stay lost in the crowd for as long as possible.

  They wandered along the riverbank for a short while,
then headed back into the streets toward St. Denis, taking their time and watching the street entertainers—singers, dancers, jugglers, even fire-eaters. They felt frightened but exhilarated. They felt alive. The operation had been successful, and there was the bonus of one dead gendarme. Their clothes were too nondescript for easy identification, even if witnesses to the stabbing had come forward; and at the height of the tourist season, with students of all races gathered in this city of culture and romance, two young Arabs of murderous natures would be almost impossible to weed out.

  The only disappointment came when they were seated at a streetside cafe drinking white wine (so wonderful to be away from the strictures of a Moslem society) and learned from the conversations around them that nobody appeared to have been killed in the bomb blast that day at the Gare du Nord, although five people, a child among them, were seriously injured.

  Asil and Youssef drifted on, soon finding a creperie where they took delight in decadent European cooking. As they consumed the food and wine, it was with each other they flirted. The bustle and the festive atmosphere (despite the bombing) around them heightened their excitement; the killing and maiming served as a stimulus for their passion.

  Eventually they crossed the river at the Île de la Cité, going toward the market quarter and their apartment, but stopping once again to take more wine at one of the cafés on the Place de la Contrescarpe. After two more glasses they decided that the night still held further adventures for them. The crowds had dwindled, most of the tourists having tottered back to their hotels and pensions, leaving the streets mostly to students and winos, the clochards. Asil and Youssef finally went in search of yet another victim, one who would fulfill a certain need in them.

  They rejected the first two male prostitutes because they looked too old—in their twenties at least—and too tough. The third was an effeminate boy who looked no more than seventeen. He led them into a dark cul-de-sac where he assured them they would not be disturbed. Youssef did not have his beloved garrote with him, but the tie he wore would do; prolonged torture would not be possible here, but Asil would have fun with his blade while the boy's skin turned purple and his tongue swelled from his mouth.

  Unluckily for them, the "boy" was neither as young as he appeared nor what he claimed to be (and certainly not effeminate).

  Light from a distant lamp glinted on the pistol he produced from beneath his jacket. "Police," he informed them, holding up an ID in his left hand.

  The bullet scraped along the bone of Asil's lower arm as he lunged with the knife, this time his victim's stomach exposed and an easy target. The fake prostitute dropped like a stone, the gun firing into the pavement before falling from his grasp.

  Asil screamed with the pain in his arm, the knife slipping away, lodged in the policeman. Somewhere not too far away a whistle blew, for the gendarmerie was out in force that night because of the bomb outrage, and the gunshots had been heard. Youssef dragged his friend away, hurrying him through the narrow streets in the direction of their apartment. A car screeched around a corner ahead of them, its lights blazing.

  The two terrorists ducked into an alleyway, breaking into an awkward run, convinced they had been spotted. They had. The police car came to a halt at the alleyway entrance; doors flew open, uniformed men jumped out. They shouted, "Arretêz!" before aiming their weapons and firing.

  Bullets smacked into the walls around the fleeing Arabs and one ricocheted off cobblestones to tear through the outer edge of Youssef's calf. Both men were handicapped, although they were able to keep on the move. Youssef was weeping as he limped along, the whole of his leg numbed with the shock, pain not yet registering.

  They emerged into a wider street and saw other uniformed men coming toward them. There were still a few pedestrians around, one or two cars crawling close to the curbs. All came to a standstill as the shouting gendarmes weaved through them. Asil and Youssef started in the opposite direction, running as fast as their wounds would allow, cursing themselves for their foolishness, knowing how angry their masters would be at the risk they had exposed themselves and the organization to. They silently implored Allah to lend them wings.

  Rounding another corner, they stumbled over the bodies of three clochards huddled on a Metro vent (these raggedy men relished the underground warmth whatever the season). Asil struck his head against the pavement, stunning himself. The complaining winos kicked out and Youssef rolled into the gutter. He quickly sat up and was horrified when he saw the inert body of his friend. Running footsteps drawing near, headlights and blaring sirens approaching fast. He scrambled to his feet and pulled up his dazed companion, urging him to run.

  Into an alleyway opposite they went, the smell of an underground river that had been turned into a sewer strong in the confines of the narrow space. A saxophone played bluesily overhead, the musician uninterested in the commotion below. Garbage was piled up in heaps against walls near the back doors of restaurants. Run, Asil, run, Youssef! But to where? Paris was not familiar, and now they were disoriented. They would never find their way to the apartment that night.

  The numbness had left Youssef's leg. It felt as though it was on fire. Asil's head had not yet cleared, and all he was really conscious of was the searing pain in his arm. He had to rely on his lover to lead him onward.

  Out into another street, this one wider than the last, but with little cruising traffic. Across the road, into a courtyard, shouts and footsteps behind. Both men were near to exhaustion, their wounds draining strength. They knew they could not go much further.

  Akhoo sharmoota! No way out! The courtyard was a closed trap! Beloved Allah, show mercy to loyal soldiers of the jihad!

  Shouted commands outside. Whistles blowing. Tires screeching to a halt. Doors slamming.

  But Asil was pointing, and Youssef could not understand how his dazed companion had seen the tiny opening between the buildings, a dark cleft as if the houses had been eased apart.

  Yatamajad ism al rab! The way had been shown!

  They staggered across the courtyard, where lights from windows were coming on to throw reflections like searchlights down on them, and entered the pitch-black opening, where there was just enough room inside for them to lope along helping each other. A dim glow seemed to rise from the ground ahead, and they soon found themselves at the top of a steep flight of stone steps. A single street lamp lit the exit a short distance away.

  Voices in the courtyard behind. No time to linger. Down they went. But blinding pain gnashed through the muscles of Youssef's calf and he slipped, grabbed for Asil as he fell, taking him along, over and over, the edges of the worn steps scraping skin, jarring bones as they plunged then slid, slowing to a tumbling roll as they neared the bottom.

  They lay there, tangled together, sobbing and moaning, with no strength to carry on, and no will either.

  The exit was not far away. Yet it was too far.

  Echoing footsteps from above. The policemen would punish them severely for killing one of their own. And when they realized they had killed yet another earlier in the day, that they were responsible for the bombing at the station, what then? Asil and Youssef shuddered, the thought shared. They reached for each other's hand and waited, shivering with hurt and fear.

  But something was moving across the opening in front of them. A shiny blackness. Sleekly slow. They thought it would pass by, but the vehicle stopped when the rear door was level with the passageway.

  The door opened. A voice whispered to them down the close walls of the alley.

  "Ta al maee wa sa ta eesli lee taktol mara sani ya—come with me and you'll live to kill again," it said.

  The promise gave them enough strength to crawl into the black limousine.

  (And it was a promise that Kline certainly kept.)

  31

  RETURN TO NEATH

  Kline stirred, shifting in the seat so that his face was away from Halloran.

  The Shield operative watched him, his attention momentarily away from the passing
countryside. The psychic had hardly moved since the Mercedes had left the Magma building an hour or so before, yet he had seemed too still to be sleeping. No rhythmic breathing, no total limpness; it was almost as if he had gone into some kind of self-induced trance. Maybe he had, Halloran considered. Wasn't that what psychics did?

  Not for the first time during the journey, Halloran looked over his shoulder through the rear window. A couple of cars behind but, as far as he could tell, nothing to worry about: they weren't being followed. The Granada containing his own men came into view, keeping well back, ready to accelerate into action should a problem arise. He checked ahead before settling back into the seat, remaining alert, but reasonably sure there were no immediate worries. Although Monk and the Jordanians had been left back at Magma, evidently to collect some items for Kline from his penthouse, he considered it no great loss of manpower. If the Mercedes were to come under attack, then he could rely on himself and the two Shield men without the blunderings of untrained bodyguards to hinder his own countertactics. The fact that his own men were armed now added to his confidence.