Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (72 page)

Now he could get on with the more serious stuff … So he thought. But Bonnie Jean Mirlu had other plans.

She had decided it was time that Harry went into training in earnest. Real training.

For a man in his early thirties (she of course worked on the not

unnatural presumption that his body was his own, that his mind and body were the same age) Harry hadn’t been in the best possible shape. Concern over his wife and child might explain some of that, and long idle periods between jobs would account for the rest: the fact that he’d done little or nothing in his field since his people ditched him.

But when he was working … well, she had evidence of his general efficiency. The way he’d been able to handle that situation in London; the episode with Big Jimmy (who would never be a problem to anyone ever again); the fact that he had been able to enter secured, guarded premises -
her
premises - find what he sought and get out again without being detected … it said a lot for his skill in every department. And even B.J., who had known a good many men in her vastly extended time, had to admit that he was good in other departments, too. So good indeed that she considered herself genuinely fond of him. Or as fond as she could be of someone with his strictly limited future potential.

But the thought of actually sending him out into the world - into Radu’s world of hideous dangers such as he ‘could never imagine,’ except as she had told him about it - was a matter of some concern. Not so much for Harry (if he failed and fel foul of Drakul or Ferenczy, so be it) as for herself and her Master. Not that he could talk about them … he didn’t even
know
about them, not consciously. But anyone who cared to backtrack Harry Keogh’s recent activities was bound to come across BJ. somewhere along the line, and possibly, in the course of things, Radu Lykan. On that front the secret watcher was problem enough (despite that his purpose was as yet undetermined) without any further complications.

Also, BJ. hadn’t yet quite satisfied herself that Harry was all he appeared to be, or something more. She had reasoned that he wasn’t in thrall to any Other … or if he was, then it was beyond her power to detect. Radu, however, would soon sniff out whatever she might have missed. Nor was she convinced that his previous employers were quite done with him - or with her. What if she was being watched through Harry - without his consent or knowledge? With that in mind she had ordered him not to scrub messages on his answering machine, which so far were few and far between. And then she’d monitored them for coded or in any way cryptic content. But so far, nothing.

As for E-Branch itself: well, he’d said it was an esoteric organization, one of the ‘secret’ services. And so it appeared; she’d been unable to discover anything at all, not a single reference or clue, to any such authority. And despite that Harry was completely in B.J.’s thrall -beguiled at the snap of her fingers, or the utterance of a simple phrase, ‘Mah wee man’ - still he refused to divulge anything more than he’d already told her. He would simply tense up, sweat, tremble, and offer no further information. If they’d brainwashed all of their operatives the same way, it was hardly surprising that this E-Branch remained secret!

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But there again, the dog-Lord Radu had his own methods; if there was something her Master should know, be sure he would get to know it.

Except, of course, she must first get Harry into the lair. He must somehow be made to climb into the ‘unexplored’

heights of the Cairngorms, along with B.J. Which was why she’d needed him fit, and why she must now train him …

In early July Harry woke up one morning to find B.J. gone from his bed. It was a Wednesday; she’d recently been a litle neglectful of work in the wine bar; he found her note in the kitchen, where she’d thoughtfully laid out the makings of his breakfast:
Harry—

What with your home-maintenance drive, your cycling, and all your fit-making activities, you are almost a new man. I want
you to give serious thought to what we talked about - that holiday in the Highlands? It will be different, something for me,
really. But something I would like to share with you. Surely you can afford a few days, before you start searching again? After all, I
don’t know that if you’re successful, it won’t be the end of us. Do I?

All Love— B.J.

The conversation she mentioned sprang immediately to mind (though he couldn’t remember where or when they had had it). A holiday, yes, in the Highlands. B.J. liked to hunt, climb, live off the land: healthy exercise, for body and mind both. And she had suggested that he might like to go with her, live rough for a long weekend, make love under the moon and stars. Especially the moon … or was that last one of Harry’s inspirations?

It inspired him to go, anyway. Thus it was
his
decision to go, if only to please her. So he thought.

The Wamphyri have long believed that wherever possible the destiny of men should be in their own hands: that whatever they enter into, it should be of their own free wil. But no harm on occasion to offer a litle encouragement along the way …

Later he rang her and they set a date: a month from now, in August. Meanwhile, they’d practise at least once a week in some good spots in the Trossachs, just a few hours out of Edinburgh. B.J. knew a lot of good rock climbs that would be ideal for an enthusiastic amateur. Wel, maybe so, but the Necroscope didn’t intend to be
that
much of an amateur.

Also, she’d only asked him to put off his search for a while; which to his mind didn’t include his planned operation
to fund
that search. And in any case, it was something that would only take a day or two, depending

on circumstances yet to be encountered in Sicily. Since he was seeing her only once or twice in any week, it was something he could fit in in between dates.

As for his preparations: they were simplicity itself. The Necroscope made a jump to an Army Ordnance Depot in the south of England, entered in the dead of night via the Mobius Continuum, and equipped himself with a lot of devastating weaponry. He could have gone to Darcy Clarke for his supplies but wanted to avoid implicating E-Branch in anything he did. This wasn’t simply because Darcy had asked him to, but mainly because he’d quit the Branch and couldn’t afford any more favours. He’d managed to keep himself out of debt so far, and liked it that way. Even if they found Brenda for him they would only be balancing the books on what he had done for them.

The Necroscope was scrupulously fair-minded. At the ammo depot, he knew the squad on duty would catch hel; they’d be in it up to their necks. So before geting out with his heavy-duty loot he deliberately tripped an alarm. Let the M.O.D. and Military Police try to figure out how it had been done. That’s what they were paid for. Doubtless they’d blame the IRA.

Next (and most obvious and easiest), he obtained a recent map of Sicily, and more especialy of the mountainous Madonie. Then, the next right, riding the Mobius Continuum to the Mediterranean in a series of cautious exploratory jumps, he checked flight ETAs at the sleepy airport in Catania, and synchronized his watch to local time.

Finaly he used the toilets in the reception area, secured his stall’s door on the inside, made doubly sure of his co-ordinates and returned home.

And when he’d very carefuly packed his suitcase, then he was ready …

An hour later, at 9:30 that same night, he ‘phoned B.J. to tell her he’d be away for a day or two.

‘Looking for Brenda?’ She seemed anxious, maybe even suspicious.

‘No, other things. Business … ”

‘I didn’t know you had any “business.” Not any more.’

This is financial. I have to move my bank accounts, sort things out in general. I’ve got nothing fixed up localy. It’s your fault, in a way. You’ve occupied my free time, not to mention my thoughts. I’m doing some important personal administration, that’s al. Stuff I’ve let slip. But it doesn’t interfere with anything, and I’m not due to see you until Saturday.’

There was a long pause, until B.J. very softly said: ‘Are you sure? That it won’t interfere with anything?’ And before he could answer, even as he framed words to answer: ‘Now listen to me, mah—’

‘—Of course I’m sure!’ he cut her off, and was surprised to find

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himself perspiring. ‘B.J., it’s Thursday night. I’ll be back tomorrow night, or Saturday morning at the latest.’

And after another pause: ‘Very well - but remember, Harry, we’re climbing this weekend.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he told her …

After that:

Briefly Harry gave thought to what he was doing. Something puzzled him, and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Eventually it came to him.

There had been a time when he would have simply used the Mobius Continuum to jump straight into Palermo. Now—

—It seemed he’d developed a real need for his litle subterfuges, the secrecy, this esoteric camouflage for his metaphysical talents. But that was ridiculous:
of course
he needed to keep his skils secret!
Obviously
he did - but to this extent? It was odd; he was more concerned now about someone discovering his talents than ever before in his life. But why now (he kept asking himself), in a time of relative safety?

Safety? Scarcely that, considering what he had in mind!

But if there was an answer to al of this, it was going to have to wait. His course was set, his plans made. For the next few days, at least.

It was 9:45 in Edinburgh, 10:45 in Sicily.

Harry made an international cal to the airport at Catania to check the sitrep on the incoming flight from Athens. It was descending, starting its approach run. He alowed it forty-five minutes to land and commence discharging its passengers toward customs, then took the Mobius route directly to the stall he’d booked in the men’s toilets. Two or three minutes later he was queuing to change pounds into lira at the cambio, then walking out of the airport reception area into the Sicilian night with a handful of rather more mundane travellers.

Now he was just another tourist with a heavy suitcase.

Heavy for its size, anyway …

II

DAHAM DRAKESH— LE MANSE MADONIE - DEAD SILENCE

The Necroscope took a taxi to Paterno, paid for a room at the Hotel Adrano two nights in advance, and by 12:30 was taking a shower before retiring. With a litle luck, the fan above his bed would keep him cool in the seventy-plus degrees of heat…

Hot in Sicily, yes … but some four and a half thousand miles away, on the Roof of the World, it was anything but hot; indeed, on Tibet’s Tingri Plateau at 7:00 a.m. the temperature hovered just one degree above freezing. But the sun was bright where its burgeoning golden blister threatened to burst on the eastern horizon, and Major Chang Lun was comfortable enough in his winter-warfare uniform, fur-lined boots and hooded jacket.

He and his Corporal driver had set out from the barracks at Xigaze ninety minutes earlier because they knew they had to reach Drakesh Monastery within an hour or so of the sun clearing the horizon. Any later and they’d be denied entry. No one was allowed to enter the monastery at Drakesh in ful daylight. Daylight was for contemplation, worship; darkness was for mundane man in his wickedness, the taking of food, the thinking of mundane thoughts, the maintenance of the body as opposed to the soul. The Major must consider himself fortunate indeed that the High Priest of the sect, the enigmatic Daham Drakesh, had seen fit to grant him audience during daylight hours.

Such would be the opinion of outsiders, anyway.
Hah!
Wel, Major Chang Lun knew differently. Powerful as this monkish creature was in his own spheres, the so-called ‘People’s‘ Army of Communist China was more powerful yet. But Chang Lun was under orders and must play Drakesh’s game.

The Major’s vehicle was a two-seater halftrack, a snow-cat equipped for the plateau’s uneven terrain. His driver parked it in the lee of boulders close to steps leading up to the monastery’s foreboding entrance, covered it with a tarpaulin, finally came erect and saluted.

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Chang Lun nodded his curt approval, turned and bowed from the waist to the string of red-robed priests where they stood stock still, arms folded, patiently waiting.

There were six of them; they indicated that the Major and his driver should take their places centrally in the line.

And with three priests leading and three bringing up the rear, the string set out at what was to the Chinese soldiers an awkward, unmilitary shuffle, climbing the steps single-file to the yawning stone mouth that formed the entrance to the monastery. The leading priest held his left arm tucked into his waist at the elbow, with the forearm held stiffly out in front. His jogging motion caused tiny golden bells to chime where they were stitched into the seam of his robe’s extended sleeve.

And so into the Drakesh monastery. As they entered, Chang Lun looked back. In the middle distance, glowing yelow where glancing rays of sunlight struck through the shade in the lee of ragged mountains, a nameless city stood gaunt and deserted behind high fortress walls. If it weren’t so remote the place would make an excellent military base, but what purpose would it serve to station soldiers in a region as barren and inhospitable as this? The southern borders with Nepal, Bhutan, and India were no longer in dispute.

Then a portcullis of massive timbers was lowered, shutting off the view and Lun’s thoughts both. The tinkling of the bells receded, along with the soft flutter of monkish robes; darkness settled; the silence was near-absolute. And as the Major’s eyes began to adjust, he saw that he and the Corporal were alone … if only for a moment. Then:

‘Welcome to Drakesh,’ said a voice as dark as the surroundings. It spoke a sibilant Chinese but yet without a trace of dialectal accent. ‘You have entered of your own free will - or rather, at the command of your superiors! Well, so be it.’ The voice held a none too subtle sarcasm.