Stealing Sacred Fire (11 page)

Ishtahar only smiled and, reaching for
his hand, began to lead him through an orchard, where some trees
were in fruit, others not. She chattered constantly, but Daniel
could only pick up fragments of her speech. ‘The Watchers are in
flight. The sand weighs heavily on the past. Listen to the sound of
her feet.’

Daniel knew better than to ask
questions. Ishtahar was a dream vision; he must let her speak as
she willed, and hopefully remember her words for later
analysis.

As they walked, Daniel sensed a
change occurring, a shift in the dream reality. He realised that he
was holding the hand of a child. When he looked down at her, he
recognised Ishtahar’s face, but now she looked no more than seven
or eight years old.

Back in time, Daniel thought.
Younger selves. Ours? Is that where the answer lies?

The child chuckled and planted
her feet firmly on the ground, so that Daniel had to stop walking.
She tugged on his hand to make him squat down before her.

‘Gadreel,’ Daniel said to her,
hoping to provoke some information.

Ishtahar wrinkled up her nose.
‘Hidden in cloth,’ she said. ‘Angry yet proud.’

‘Gadreel is?’

She nodded. ‘On a horse with
tassels. Running hard, ahead of the smell of blood. Hot, cruel
land. Don’t like it.’

‘Who else?’ Daniel asked
gently. ‘Any more?’

‘He works with knives. Unhappy.
He’s forgotten everything, because they made him forget.’

‘What’s his name?’

Ishtahar pursed her lips and
shook her head. ‘It’s the key to the Chambers of Light.’

‘Knives?’

She giggled. ‘No! The key’s
waiting to be found. It was in the Cave of Treasures, but now it’s
in the sky.’

‘Where, Ishtahar?’

‘In the place of beginning,
where the Anannage held dominion.’

‘Here, then,’ Daniel said, his
heart sinking. ‘Eden. What do we do with the key?’

‘Open.’ She giggled again.
‘He’s born for it. He will know.’ Then, she let go of his hands and
went running away swiftly through the trees. Daniel watched her go,
feeling the dream disintegrate in her wake, casting his
consciousness back to a hotel room in London.

In the morning, Daniel
discovered that Shem had already instructed Salamiel to book
flights to Istanbul. ‘We’ll fly into Turkey and take it from
there,’ he told Daniel over breakfast. Salamiel was still in his
bedroom, phoning Grigori agents in an attempt to find last minute
seats. Daniel had no doubt Salamiel would be successful. Everything
was developing as he’d feared.

‘Shouldn’t we think about this
first?’ he suggested. ‘You know, discuss it?’

‘We can talk on the flight.’
Shem paused. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Dreams?’

Daniel sighed. ‘I think you may
be right about Gadreel, and also that there might be others. The
only other information I picked up was that we have to find the key
to the Chambers of Light. Does that mean anything to you?’

Shem shrugged. ‘Anything
else?’

‘Apparently, it was in a place
called the Cave of Treasures, but the information I received was a
bit fragmented. Something about it being in the sky now. Doesn’t
make much sense. I picked up that you should know about the key.
You were born for it.’

Shem leaned back in his chair
to think, then spoke slowly. ‘I think we should make contact with
Gadreel and then concentrate on locating this cave. You can work on
it psychically while we’re in Turkey.’

‘What is the key for, though?
What are these Chambers of Light that you have to open?’

Shem stood up and began to pace
around the table. ‘It could be a reference the Hall of Records,
where the Anannage allegedly hid the store of their knowledge
before withdrawing from the world.’ He stopped pacing. ‘I’m not
sure. You work it out. All I want to do is get to Gadreel and find
Eden.’

Daniel was unnerved by the
feverish gleam in Shem’s eyes. ‘It will be dangerous, though. We
might be killed before we find him.’

Shem shook his head in
amusement. ‘Daniel, what has happened to you? Where’s your sense of
wonder? What we began in Cornwall was only the small, first step. A
trial run, if you like.’

‘There’s one thing you haven’t
considered,’ Daniel said. ‘What about this self-styled King of
Babylon. Doesn’t he believe he’s a descendent of the Anannage too?
How will that affect us? Remember we will have to cross his lands
to find Gadreel.’

Shem nodded thoughtfully. ‘I
have a feeling I will meet this man.’

‘Shem, he’s a dangerous
mad-man! Is that wise?’

Shem grinned. ‘Daniel, many
people think I’m a dangerous mad-man too. I’m intrigued by King
Nimnezzar. I want to find out if he’s authentic or not.’

Daniel shook his head in
disbelief. ‘Are you mad? Authentic? He’s a murdering dictator! Do
you really think he has Grigori blood?’

‘Daniel, I’m surprised to hear
you say that. The fact that he’s a murdering dictator makes it more
likely he’s the genuine article! Remember Peverel Othman.’

Daniel groaned. ‘This trip will
be hell. I know it.’

London

Melandra Maynard watched television as
she carefully cleaned her selected weapon. She had many, and had
been tutored in the use of sniper rifles, revolvers and automatics,
but as she planned to get in close to Shemyaza, the equipment she
had chosen for this task was a semiautomatic fitted with a
suppressor. It was designed to be fired at close range, ideally
with its muzzle actually touching the skin of her victim, so that
any detonation not muffled by the suppressor would be absorbed by
the soft tissue of the target.

The windows of the hotel room
were shut, but the air conditioning effectively cooled the air. She
laid out the pieces of her weapon on the bed. Plastic: designed to
be hidden in luggage and escape airport detection. It did not need
cleaning, but this was a ritual she performed before every
task.

The news reports on TV were
full of the troubles in the Middle East. Fundamentalists were
running riot in Egypt. Only a fool or a potential suicide would
want to visit the place as a tourist nowadays. Western
holiday-makers were fair game, and subsequently non-existent, so
the terrorists had turned their attention to the ancient monuments
that attracted people from all over the world to their country.
Several sites had been bombed, and there had been international
outrage over the severe damage perpetrated on the Osirion at
Abydos. Stones that had stood for millennia now lay in rubble. Even
Melandra was disgusted by it. In thousands of years’ time, the
creeds that approved of such vandalism might be forgotten, but the
brooding monuments of the past would have continued on, perhaps
until the day when no humans were left upon the earth, and the
desert sands would blow over the last of their bones. Melandra
shuddered. The thought was too disquieting.

Shemyaza had been traced to a
house in London. Melandra had received an encrypted e-mail message
via her notebook computer, which had given her a script for the job
to come. It appeared her target was booked into his hotel under the
name Michael Jacobs. Melandra would pose as an employee of a
company called Prussoe Estates, which she presumed was a Grigori
outfit. She would arrive at the hotel under the pretence of
delivering some documents to Jacobs, and intended to talk her way
into his room. It sounded too easy, but she had prepared herself
mentally for unexpected developments.

Melandra wondered from where
Fox got his information. Surely the Grigori would be aware of any
human infiltration, and the only other explanation was that a
Grigori themselves was leaking data to the Children. That seemed
even more unlikely. Some things didn’t quite add up for Melandra,
and it made her uneasy. Still, she trusted her instincts and had
faith in her Lord. A silver cross hung at her throat; her
protection. She would prepare herself with prayer before she left
her room.

Lighting a cigarette, Melandra
went to the window, where she lifted aside the nets. Down on the
street, traffic surged up and down. He was out there somewhere. Did
he know about her? She shivered and dropped the net. Later that
night, she would find him and kill him, or die in the attempt.

Melandra walked through the
city streets in the early evening. She felt tranquil, almost
euphoric. The light was benign, the air balmy. Music filled the sky
from the bars and cafes whose doors were thrown open to the summer
night. She had effected a disguise, which she called her ‘secretary
look.’ Curly, mid-brown, shoulder-length wig with blond streaks;
high street store fashion clothes; make-up copied from the pages of
a glossy women’s magazine. She wore unflattering, but apparently
fashionable, spectacles and discreet gold jewellery.

It took her half an hour to
walk to her destination. For a while, she stood opposite the old
building, smoking a cigarette in the arched doorway to a dusty
dress shop, conveniently situated near a bus stop, so it would look
as if she had left work for the evening and was waiting for her bus
home.

He must be in there. It did not
look like a hotel; it did not look like anything particularly,
except perhaps the offices of a registered charity, who set up camp
wherever the generosity of patrons manifested itself.

Melandra threw her cigarette
end into the gutter and crossed the road. No traffic about. A group
of young people ambled past her, their voices high with excitement.
They did not appear to notice her. Why should they? She looked like
a thousand other young women on the streets of London.

She had her orders, her
instructions, her methods, her bolt-hole ready. When the job was
done she would disappear as quickly as a cat, and within a few
hours be on her way back to the States.

She mounted the three shallow
steps that led to the closed front door. There was a peep-hole in
one of the panels. She would be looked at through it. She rang the
bell.

All seemed silent and dead
behind the door. She could not sense life. Was it empty? She
pressed the bell again, and the intercom beneath it buzzed into
life. ‘Yes?’

‘Hello, this is Nancy Oakes. I
have some documents for one of your guests.’ Each statement sounded
like a question. She exaggerated her own accent.

There was silence for a moment.
Then, ‘none of our guests are expecting visitors.’

‘Oh,’ Melandra answered. ‘Well,
I believe my employers did call. I work for Prussoe Estates. I am
expected.’ This was a crucial moment. If they checked with the man
himself, he wouldn’t know what they were talking about, but
someone, somewhere, had called this establishment earlier to
provide back-up to her story. She shouldn’t have had trouble at
this stage. ‘Will you check at the desk, please?’

After a moment, the door opened
a little. Melandra pushed it and walked inside. There was a tall
woman waiting for her, an incredibly tall woman. Was this one of
them? Her heart wanted to increase its pace, but she wouldn’t allow
it. She mustn’t think about the implications; it was too
awesome.

‘Hi!’ She smiled widely and
held up a document wallet. ‘Hope there wasn’t a problem.’ She held
out her hand for a friendly greeting, but the tall woman only
looked at it in disgust. She extended a hand of her own, but not to
shake Melandra’s.

‘Perhaps I’d better take those,
Ms Oakes. Who is it they’re for?’

‘Michael Jacobs. I’m sorry, but
my instructions are to hand them directly to Mr Jacobs.’

The tall woman assessed her.
‘Well, I’m afraid you’re too late. Mr Jacobs checked out a short
while ago.’

‘What?’ She knew she’d let her
voice and expression change too much.

The tall woman’s eyes narrowed.
‘Perhaps you’d better call your employers, Ms Oakes.’

Melandra chewed her lip, hoping
to reassert her disguise. ‘Oh dear, this is kind of inconvenient.’
She laughed. ‘Trouble is, I’m late for the appointment. It’s my
fault I’ve missed him. Do you know where Mr Jacobs has gone?’

‘No.’ The woman walked to the
door and opened it again. ‘I’m afraid you must go now.’

‘Hey, I’ve been travelling all
day! I have to find Mr Jacobs. There must be someone here who knows
where he is.’

The woman laughed coldly. ‘My
dear, this is a private guest house. We do not pry into the affairs
of our visitors. Mr Jacobs has left, and so must you. I’m sure your
employers will understand.’

Melandra sighed and tapped her
foot for a moment, then reached into her large shoulder-bag. The
woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun. ‘Shut the door,’ said
Melandra.

Hesitating for only a moment,
the woman did so. ‘Explain yourself!’ Her voice was deadly
calm.

‘I have to find Mr Jacobs,’
Melandra persisted. ‘Now, you know and I know that if we should
have a little accident, if this gun should accidentally go off,
no-one here will call the police. You’ll just die. Is Jacobs worth
that? I’m quite prepared to kill you, lady, so just tell me: where
is he?’

The woman seemed to grow in
stature. ‘How dare you threaten me, you little...’

Melandra shot her in the leg
before she could finish. The sound of it was louder than she’d
liked, but then she hadn’t been that close to the target.

The woman slid, still graceful,
to the floor, stared aghast at the blood pouring from the
wound.

‘I can shoot you quite a few
times before you die,’ Melandra said. ‘Where is he?’

The woman looked up at her with
an unreadable expression. ‘Whatever you’re planning, you’re wasting
your time. He’s at Heathrow, on his way out of the country by now,
no doubt.’

‘Where?’

‘How should I know?’

Melandra fired again, taking
the woman in the arm, nearly severing it. ‘I think you do.’