by Nick Baker
Fifteen minutes later, the men re-emerged on to the rooftop, and from the looks on their faces, it was obvious that things had not gone well.
‘What happened?’ Fox barked.
The senior officer shuffled forwards. ‘Well … er …’ Richard Lynx faltered, looking beyond his boss.
Price stepped out of the shadows. ‘What’s going on?’ he said in a voice that was flat and emotionless.
‘We couldn’t find Black’s men,’ replied Lynx nervously, looking at Price rather than his superior. ‘They escaped through an exit out the back. We found one of our men lying unconscious there.’
Fox appeared oddly out of place still dressed in his formal clothes, but nothing could hide the ferocious look that appeared on his haggard face. ‘What?’ he snarled.
‘Surely you had more than one officer guarding the exit, Nicolas?’ said Price.
Fox shook his head.
‘There’s something else,’ said Lynx. ‘We found Black’s body. I think you should come and see.’
The men followed Lynx in silence through the shattered doorway, utilising a makeshift stepladder that was propped up against the frame. They traipsed down the decrepit stairwell in single file, following Lynx to the ground floor where he shepherded them into a cavernous room filled with an assortment of odd-looking machinery. The men were assailed by blasts of icy air as they pursued Lynx through the factory to a door that opened onto wasteland. The door was swinging lazily on its hinges, and the lock lay ruined on the floor. They exited onto a sheltered walkway and Lynx directed them towards a man sitting propped up against the wall, his head slumped unnaturally on his shoulders.
‘He hasn’t moved since we found him. He’s still breathing, though,’ said Lynx.
Price bent over and placed a hand on the unconscious man’s forehead. He closed his eyes in concentration, but just as quickly looked up and addressed the expectant men. ‘He’ll be all right. He’s been sedated. He should come round soon enough.’
Price began a meticulous search of the vicinity, and almost immediately, stooped down to retrieve a small object lying at the feet of the comatose guard. ‘Someone must have fired this from the window up there,’ he said, holding aloft a feathered dart and pointing it in the direction of a narrow opening in the wall above his head. ‘You’ll need to submit it for forensic examination,’ he added, carefully handing the dart to Fox. ‘I think you’ll find traces of whatever was used to drug this man. Now, where’s Black’s body?’
Lynx led the band of men through a dense patch of vegetation that opened onto a small clearing adjacent to the steeply rising factory wall. In the early morning sun, there was no hiding the broken form of a man lying amidst a pile of shattered masonry.
‘Nothing’s been disturbed; this is how we found it,’ said Lynx as Price bent over the motionless shape.
‘My God,’ Price muttered. He shivered involuntarily as he scrutinised the body lying face down amongst the rubble. He peeled back a shock of matted hair to inspect the man’s face, yet there was no mistaking Pearly Black, despite the bruised and bloated features. Price turned his attention to a livid wound that extended vertically down from the scalp onto the back of the neck. The incision had been crudely made and passed deeply through flesh and muscle. The tissue had been prised apart to leave a gaping hole that glistened shockingly in the early morning light.
‘What the blazes has been going on here?’ said Fox, peering uncertainly over Price’s shoulder. ‘Is … is that something you did to him up there?’ he added hesitantly, looking reflexively towards the rooftop.
Price shook his head. ‘No. I’ve no idea what caused this. Whatever the reason, it happened after the fall. Look,’ he continued, pointing to the margins of the wound. ‘There’s no sign of any blood. This cut was made once Black was dead. I suggest we don’t disturb the body. Nicolas, could you arrange for a pathologist to examine the corpse here at the scene?’
Fox looked nonplussed. ‘Surely you must have some idea …?’
Price raised a hand. ‘I wouldn’t wish to speculate, Nicolas. Now please, do as I say.’
*
Price returned the Historoscope to its stand. He heaved a sigh of relief and slumped back in the chair. He was tired after reliving the grisly scene and was suffering from the same sense of loss almost as palpably as he had on that night. Try as he might, he could not shake the desperation that lay like a heavy hand across his heart. He knew there had been no choice in revisiting the events of that evening, yet despite the distress it had caused him, it had raised some crucial questions.
He had been so wrapped up with the loss of Saskia, he had not dwelt on the mutilation that had been served on Black’s body after his death. After Natacha’s revelations, he now wondered whether the events of that night held even greater significance than he had suspected at the time.
As he sat pondering this, he recalled the pathologist’s arrival soon after Fox had put out the call. The doctor had spent some time examining the body at the scene before the corpse had been taken to a local mortuary for further evaluation. Once the pathologist had completed the task, the body was refrigerated in preparation for transfer to the headquarters of Internal Security the following morning for a more detailed post-mortem.
Bizarrely, and much to Fox’s embarrassment, Black’s body was stolen later that night. There were no clues to the motive, but Price had always assumed it was linked to the Order, although quite what they would want with the body was another matter.
Price lent forwards and unearthed a sheet of paper lodged beneath a book on the desk. He recalled with relief that the pathologist had had the foresight to conduct a meticulous examination of the body and sampling of the wound before it was stolen. The paper was the written report of Dr Philip Cantonus MD MRCPath, the country’s pre-eminent forensic pathologist of the time. Price scanned the pages until he found what he was looking for.
A 12" linear incision is present in the midline of the posterior aspect of the neck extending from the superior occipital protuberance to the spine of the sixth cervical vertebra. The margins of the wound suggest that the incision was made through a pre-existing scar. The incision extends through skin and subcutaneous tissue to the level of the postvertebral fascia and muscles. The muscles have been split longitudinally to expose the inferior aspect of the occipital bone, the posterior arch of the atlas and the laminae of the upper cervical vertebrae. The posterior arch of the atlas and the spinous processes and laminae of the axis have been removed to expose the spinal cord and medulla oblongata in the region of the foramen magnum.
The first and second cervical vertebrae have been stabilised with an atlanto-axial arthrodesis using a laminar screw system. There is evidence of new bone formation at the smooth bony margins of the ostectomy suggesting that the surgical procedure was conducted some time, possibly years, before death.
There is a well-formed soft tissue cavity measuring 1.5" in diameter at the site where bone has been removed adjacent to the exposed Dura Mater of the cervical spinal cord. The smooth appearance of the cavity’s lining suggests that a foreign body was in intimate contact with the exposed covering of the spinal cord and medulla. The appearance also indicates that there was no time for healing, implying that the object was removed immediately after death. There is insufficient information to allow speculation on the exact nature or function of the object, but given the lack of an inflammatory reaction, it is likely that it was small and smooth, and made of an inert, biocompatible substance.
Microscopic examination of the cavity lining shows a mass of proliferating neuronal tissue arising from the cervical spinal cord. The nerve cell axons pass out of the cord and end abruptly at the site where the object was located before its removal. Electron microscopy of the interface confirms the tissue to be a mass of proliferating axonal dendrites and synapses, suggesting some form of a neural network had formed with the object before its removal.
Price returned the sheet to the desk and closed his e
yes. He scratched absent-mindedly through the fabric of his shirt at the stellate scar indelibly etched across his chest. While he did not understand the complex medical terminology, the message was clear. The conclusions he had drawn after his conversation with Natacha seemed to prove that there was an inextricable link between the Esoteric Brotherhood and Pearly Black.
Now, with the pathologist’s suggestion that an object had been implanted at the base of Black’s brain and then subsequently removed at the time of his death, it was precisely as depicted in Bosch’s paintings. As to the nature of the object or how it functioned, he could only speculate. Bosch had referred to the item as the Stone of Madness, but Price knew that, whatever else, Pearly Black had not been insane.
Price opened his eyes. Great swathes of tiredness washed over him. He was deeply troubled by this strange object and realised that if he was to solve the mystery, the recovery of the only other copy of Piotrowski’s manuscript was now more important than ever.
13
THE STONE OF MADNESS
Atropos
PRICE SLEPT UNEASILY, TOSSING and turning but never attaining the rest his tired body craved. Troubled dreams intertwined with memories of the previous day’s disturbing events wove into an intricate fabric of fiction and reality. In the moments before waking, he dreamt of Saskia, her happy face looking down on him as he lay caught in an inextricable mesh of wire. He desperately wanted to ask her something, but no matter how hard he tried, the question eluded him. Throughout the dream, Saskia never spoke but smiled beatifically at him, something he found both reassuring and disconcerting in equal measure. At last, he awoke feeling tired and frustrated and gave up on further attempts at sleep with much to do in preparation for the forthcoming day.
The morning of the Council meeting convened by Isaacson had finally arrived. As usual, it was to be held at Internal Security headquarters, and once the meeting was over, he had a plane to catch for Amsterdam. He had dined with Lily the previous evening but his sombre mood had ensured the conversation was sparse, and he was acutely aware that he had managed to evade all of her probing questions. Lily had reiterated her concern about his trip abroad and attempted to persuade him to allow her to accompany him, but he had remained resolute and would not be swayed by her attempts to play on his emotions. The recent bitter recounting of Saskia’s demise had been all that was needed to reaffirm his decision to refuse her demands.
Price got up and packed some personal belongings in an aged, brown leather holdall. He showered and dressed, but before he left, he glanced around the bedroom, dwelling briefly on a picture of Saskia looking longingly at him from the bedside table. As he studied her face, he groped once more for the question he had been trying to ask her. Eventually, he gave up in frustration and descended the stairs to the hall, where he deposited the bag before setting off for the kitchen in search of breakfast.
It was early, and Price was surprised to see Lily already seated at the kitchen table. He sat down opposite her and picked up a brimming coffee pot, proffering it in her direction. She responded with a nod from beyond an ancient-looking tome and Price filled her cup before pouring some of the aromatic liquid for himself.
Mrs Brimstork was busying herself at the sink with some washing-up while aimlessly looking through the window. She had not seen Price come in, but when she turned round to find him sitting there, she mumbled an excuse and bustled out of the kitchen.
Lily was deep in concentration, and not wanting to disturb her, he drank his coffee in silence. He noted with approval that she was reading an ancient text of great importance by the Swiss psychologist, Carl Jung, entitled Alchemical Studies.
Lily eventually looked up from the book, her piercingly blue eyes looking dull and tired. She smiled wanly, but Price could see that she had been crying from the blotches around her eyes.
‘Do you believe in alchemy as a practical or psychological science?’ Lily enquired.
Price returned her smile, realising her ploy; she was avoiding the subject of his imminent departure by launching into what appeared to be a straightforward question. He immediately understood, however, the barbed nature of the question and inwardly rejoiced that she was prepared to engage him in conversation.
‘I’m sure you’ve already discerned that Jung viewed alchemy from an entirely psychoanalytical perspective. He saw transubstantiation, not as the changing of physical, but of psychological, matter. He taught that self-development comes through the process of individuation and that this is achieved via the intermingling of alchemy and psychoanalysis. It is a rather simplistic view, of course.’
Lily smiled thinly at the contradiction in her father’s words but did not interrupt.
‘You already know from your lessons that alchemical science is a fusion between the physical manifestations of what is achievable and the internal power of the psyche.’
Lily looked puzzled but waited patiently for an explanation.
‘The relationship is complicated and is difficult to define. It’s no surprise that only a handful of alchemists has the ability to create demonstrable effects through the fusion of these intangibles.’
‘Are you saying that our powers are unique?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. Despite my belief that there are many people with the intelligence to learn the intricacies of alchemical science, there are few remaining who know how to apply that knowledge. There seems to be a schism, in a way I can’t explain, between the assimilation of learning and the ability to internalise and channel the skills that are necessary to produce the demonstrable effects that you and I take for granted.’
‘Is that why so few people are studying at the Academy these days?’
Price shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than that, Lily.’
Lily raised her eyebrows but did not probe any further. ‘Can I go there to study when I’m older?’ she enquired.
‘Perhaps, we’ll see. Why do you ask?’
‘I enjoy studying here, but I’m sure learning with people of my own age would make it more stimulating.’
‘I understand that, Lily. It’s just that the Academy may not be the right place for you. Now’s not the time to discuss it, though; perhaps when I get back?’
Lily did not reply. Price knew that she was fed up with him always postponing their discussions. It was a delaying tactic of his, and he could tell she resented him for it. A palpable silence lingered before Price stirred and got up from the table, having drained the dregs from his mug. ‘I have to leave now,’ he said, looking uncomfortably at his fob watch. ‘I hope to be back in a few days. Make sure you work hard, and when I return, we can spend some time together.’
Lily’s smouldering look remained, but she still got up from the table to hug him. ‘Be safe,’ was all she said.
After an awkward silence, Price kissed her once on the cheek before leaving the room without a second glance.
*
Price stood on the footbridge looking across the grand old river that bisected the capital like a serpent sidling through an overgrown jungle of concrete. He stared with unseeing eyes at a giant dredger in the middle of the river and the surrounding buildings that rose like statues against a backdrop of leaden skies; the heart of the city was a pattern as unique as any fingerprint, but with his mind elsewhere, it hardly registered. He lifted his head and felt a cool breeze purge the sense of emptiness he had awoken with. He glanced down at his watch and realised with a start that if he did not leave now, he would be late for the meeting.
He hesitated, reluctant to move on from the bridge he and Lily referred to as Saskia’s Bridge because of the time they had spent watching the architectural marvel take shape before her death. He had always felt a special affinity with the place and took comfort from the eye-pleasing shape of the curvilinear suspension bridge. The avant-garde design looked majestic even on a blustery day like this, but that was nothing compared to the hours of darkness when the bridge was lit up like a blade cutting a swathe across the river. He
finally tore himself away from the unfathomable depths flowing silently below him and moved briskly towards the city.
*
The alley was gloomy and damp. Price looked up and caught a glimpse of a forbidding sky high above the sheer brick walls that rose above the claustrophobic confines of the narrow enclosure. He could barely make out the outline of the door at the far end of the alley such was its length, but when he reached the barrier, he halted and waited patiently without knocking. In the moments that followed, he marvelled at how this place could exist within such a busy part of the city and yet go unnoticed. He could not comprehend how the populace in their thousands passed the alley on a daily basis, yet seemingly failed to observe the comings and goings that marked the entrance to the headquarters of the clandestine organisation known as Internal Security.
He knew his approach would not go unnoticed, and when the heavy metal door eventually opened, a small, shifty looking man was waiting there to greet him. He ushered Price into a further, dimly lit, corridor that was so old and crumbled, it made him imagine that he was passing through a miner’s tunnel hewn from rock. The walls were damp and the atmosphere musty, and it was no surprise that the man leading the way repeatedly coughed, a harsh echoing sound that reverberated unnaturally within the confined space. At last, the tunnel came to an abrupt end at yet another heavy door, allowing access to a more welcoming inner courtyard.
‘You know your way from here, sir,’ said the man matter-of-factly, slamming the door shut behind him before slipping into a snug security cabin abutting the entrance.
After the unpleasant humidity of the corridor, the courtyard was surprisingly light and airy, with a central, neatly manicured square of grass surrounded by cloisters that was more in keeping with an ancient seat of learning rather than the covert organisation associated with Nicolas Fox. He headed across the deserted courtyard to a corridor leading into a maze of tightly packed buildings. He followed the passage until he came to a set of double doors. He stopped to compose himself before he entered the spacious, wood-panelled chamber that habitually hosted the monthly Council meetings. He opened the doors but did not go in, standing in silence at the threshold while observing his fellow Council members. No one seemed to notice his presence and he realised with some disquiet that the men were separated into two disparate groups at opposite ends of the room. Isaacson, however, sat alone, concentrating on a great sheaf of papers laid out on the table in front of him.