Resurgence, page 21
part #10 of Necroscope Series
‘Call me… oh, Yuri! But yes, go on, go on!’
‘Locating the bomb in Moscow was easy, because we don’t get much nuclear stuff in here. Even the missiles in our annual parade are dummies; they have no live warheads. Of course not No sensible government wants this stuff in their highly-populated cities. Especially centres of commerce and control.’
That’s where your man looked for them? In the cities?”
‘Yes. There is one “hotspot” in London … Hyde Park, we believe - or “Jekyll and Hyde Park” as we refer to it now.”
‘And the other—?’
‘—Lets the Chinese off the hook, very definitely. For it didn’t move too far. It’s still in Chungking. Not far from a certain address on Kwijiang Avenue!”
Their ESP-Centre?’
“Yes. The same signature. And now we see it all.’
‘Really? Then be so good as to “see it” for me!”
‘At some time in the near future - maybe a time of high tension between East and West, or problems on the Sino-Soviet border - one of the bombs would be detonated. The world would go into shock, briefly, before the accusations started to fly. Then, say thirty-six hours after the first bomb, the second - retaliation, obviously. Confused messages - of peace, dtiente, conunonsense, pleading, and threats, of course - are flashing all around the world. But those rubble-strewn centres of commerce were also the centres of communication! Now those communications are down. And in any case, no one is listening! Bomb number three follows in short order…
‘… And numbers four, five, six, seven. China throws in all she’s got. And her bombs are crude, dirty. One British sub wrecks Russia! France strikes at our satellites. The Americans decide to make it final and finish what they started at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And we - what’s left of us - reply in kind. And the Tibetans count beads, bang gongs, and begin rebuilding their monasteries. If s God’s will after all, for he said he’d destroy us by fire next time…’
‘We must tell the British, of course,” Andropov was sweating now.
‘Oh?’
‘But of course! They would certainly blame us - as would the Americans! And it’s as you said: afterwards, there’d be no proving who did it.”
‘Not so. There would be an atomic signature, too - pointing at China.’
‘And a war with China? On our doorstep? And China our next satellite, once she runs out of steam? No, it can’t be allowed. We’ve come too close to nuclear war in the past The purpose of these things is to stop us killing each other!’
‘Of course.”
Therefore we must tell London … and China.’ (But Tzonov saw how Andropov was less enthusiastic about that) ‘As for the British: they’ll owe us a big favour. And it will give us a massive bargaining chip with China! Tzonov - er, Turkur? - you’ve done extremely well!’ The head of the KGB was on his feet now, coining out from behind his desk, holding out his hand.
Tzonov took it, shook it, said: ‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’ And he looked Andropov directly in the eyes.
‘Not only am I pleased, but the Politburo - and Brezhnev, who has been giving me a hard time - will also be pleased. He may even stop blocking my right…’ He stopped, freed his hand and began to turn away. But too late.
‘… To succession? Oh, I assure you he will, er, Yuri. He must, and soon, I think…’ Again Tzonov looked deep into the other’s eyes.
Andropov went back behind his desk, sat down again, faded to a dark blot against the haze of light “Your precog?’
‘Did I not tell you my people consider you a very special man?’ Tzonov answered. ‘I’m sure I did…”
There was a long pause then, but as Tzonov took the electrical apparatus and replaced it in his briefcase, so Andropov said: ‘If - and I mean if - it comes to pass that I am elected to the Presidency, you have my word that I shall reinstate ESP-Branch. And you, Turkur Tzonov, shall be the head of that branch, responsible only to myself.’
‘I shall be forever in your debt,’ Tzonov answered. ‘But a debt that I’ll repay many times over, be sure.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Andropov smiled thinly. ‘And now I have much to do.’
‘Likewise,’ Tzonov answered. He brought his feet together, bowed slightly from the waist, walked to the doors.
‘And Turkur… not a word!’
‘Of course not’
‘I'll be in touch.’
Tes, Yuri. Except…’
Andropov leaned on his desk, looked at Tzonov across the room where he had paused at the doors. Tes?’
“When exactly will it be? I mean, I read it in your mind, you understand? And I agree it has to be done. For we must have a strong leader, after all - especially in times like these - and Brezhnev is little more than a vegetable. It’s almost like doing him a favour. So when, exactly, in November, will it be?’
Andropov thought about it for a long time, before slowly answering, ‘You realize, of course, that while I now accept your weird talent - and those of your group - parapsychology is not generally accepted? And certainly not in evidence.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m aware of that’
Andropov nodded. Then you teD me when, exactly, in November, Brezhnev will die. For after all you read it in my mind.’
The tenth,’ Tzonov answered at once. ‘Hell be given the final dose on the morning of the tenth.’
“Very… clever,’ said the slightly shaken voice of the figure in the haze.
‘And on the eleventh, I shall be head of ESP-Branch.’
But Andropov’s silhouette only nodded and said, ‘Good day, young Turkur Tzonov.’
Outside Andropov’s office, Tzonov narrowed his eyes, gripped his briefcase and commenced walking the marble flags to the stairs. And on his way he thought You’d better keep your word, you arrogant bastard! Having delivered terrific power into Andropov’s cold hands, he wanted something of it back - and soon. It would have to be very soon, yes. For, as Tzonov was only too well aware, Russia’s Premier-elect wasn’t destined to last all that long himself…
Three days later, at E-Branch HQ in the centre of London, Ben Trask had just spoken to - or rather confronted - Darcy Clarice in his office.
‘Just how did this come up?’ Darcy asked him, when he was through.
‘I had a little time to spare,’ Trask told him. ‘I’d finished with the police case I was working on and thought I might catch up on some old files. I never had read everything in connection with that case up in Scotland - those Tibetan monks - and I’d never been too happy with the result of that telephone conversation you talked me into having with Harry Keogh, to see if he’d had anything to do with it You said it had to be done, but I didn’t like it anyway. Hell, we’re all on the same side, you know?’
Were,’ Darcy told him. “We were on the same side. Except Harry left us, remember? Oh, I know the argument - we don’t spy on fellow mindspies, etcetera; our own, that is - but I had my reasons, believe me.’
‘Stuff you couldn’t talk about?’
‘It was all on a “need to know” basis,’ said Darcy. ‘I needed to know, and you didn’t’
‘And even now, there’s still something you’re not telling me,’ Trask accused.
‘Security,’ the Head of Branch answered. And: ‘Look, Ben, I like the Necroscope as much as you do, as much as we all do, but when he left the Branch…’
‘He became a security problem?’
‘Could have become one … which is as much as I’m going to say.’ Darcy knew Trask’s talent for getting at the truth of a subject - the fact that he was a human lie detector - and so tried to change the subject or at least divert it ‘So, what did you find in the files?’
‘Something that the police had covered up, from the general public anyway,’ Trask answered. ‘Probably because they’d been asked to do so, and probably by us.’ Looking at Clarke’s face - his changing expression - he knew that he was right He read the truth of it in the other’s frown, the way he blinked his eyes.
The crossbow bolts,’ Clarice said.
‘Right,’ Trask answered. ‘Silvered bolt-heads. One buried in the door of that burned-out station-wagon, and another in the heart of a Sunday roast that used to be a man. The same kind of bolt-heads that were used in the garage that time. The same ones that Harry used, or so we believe. But we never did find the actual crossbow.”
You’ve a good memory,” Clarke told him. ‘But didn’t you ever stop to think I might be covering up for Harry?’
‘Does he need covering up for? The way I see it, he did a good job that time. He always did a good job!’
That’s howyo« see it,’ said Darcy. ‘But the police see it differently. To them, murder is murder unless it’s a state execution, and we stopped doing that a long time ago.’
‘What are you saying? That because Harry had quit E-Branch, because he no longer had our cover, the police could have dragged him in for the Scottish job?’
‘Maybe,’ Clarke shrugged. ‘If he’d left clues to tie him to it.’ ‘And did he?’
‘No, just those bolt-heads - which tied the job to us instead, because the police knew it was one of our agents who’d put the whammy on that auto-theft gang!’
Trask cocked his head a little and pursed his lips. Darcy Clarke was telling the truth, he knew, but he stifl wasn’t telling all of it. And that galled. ‘So,’ Trask mused, ‘since you already knew that the Necroscope was involved with these Tibetans - in fact that he’d taken them out - why did you require me to check him out? What else were you worried about, Darcy? And what are you still worried about?’ Clarke slumped a little behind his desk. ‘Is it that obvious?’ To me, yes. Has been for more than three years now, ever since Harry walked - or “went” - out of here. But especially in the last three months or so, since this incident with these Hari Krishna types. I mean, why can’t you talk about it? Is it the old Department of Dirty Tricks again?’
And even before Clarke could answer, his expression said it all, said yes, it was that department again.
Trask nodded. ‘Now tell me about it,’ he said. ‘Because I really do “need to know.” I need to be reassured that I’m working for the right side. Or at least the best side!’
Clarke sat up straighten and sighed. ‘All right, Ben, I’ll tell you. But since you expect straight answers from me, first let me ask you something. Do you really think that if you or I or any one of us should decide to leave the Branch it would be as easy as that? I mean, like snapping your fingers? What, you should be allowed to walk out of here - knowing all we’ve done, something of what we still might do, and everything we’re capable of doing; with all the weird stuff you have seen and still got stuck in your head - and no questions asked?’ Trask saw it at once. ‘We “fixed” him,’ he said, and his jaw jutted a very little. ‘How was it done?’
‘Ben,’ Darcy said, Think it over, will you? Without getting too excited? We’re not just talking about an ordinary man or talent here. There are no ordinary talents, not in E-Branch. But we are talking about the most extraordinary talent of all - the Necroscope, Harry Keogh. He can go … anywhere, instantly! He talks to … to dead people, for God’s sake! Of which there are a Great Majority who’ll do just about anything for him. And we could just let him walk? Well, maybe we could, but there are others higher up the ladder who couldn’t’
‘How was it done?’
‘Ben,’ Darcy was reaching the end of his tether. Tm the one who’s had to live with it Why can’t you leave it at that? Put it this way: this was the soft option…’
For a long moment there was silence, until Trask exploded, ‘I don’t believe it!’ But the trouble was he did, because he of all men knew it was the truth.
‘We recruited him, remember? Keenan Gormley recruited him. And if he could do it nicely, then someone else might try to do it nasty. And anyway, it’s no big deal,’ Darcy felt like he was lying, but had no choice. ‘Harry’s lost nothing, except he just can’t talk about it anymore. He can still do his thing, but no one else is ever going to get to know about it.’
And now Trask understood. ‘Hypnotism!’ he said.
And Darcy nodded. The soft option. But still, and as you yourself pointed out I’ve worried about it ever since.’
And Trask saw the truth of that, too. ‘If s been on your shoulders like a tangible weight’
‘An extra weight’ Darcy answered. ‘A few extra ounces on top of the ton or so that’s already there.’
‘You knew it was wrong - or that it wasn’t right - and I sensed it in you. You felt that you’d lied to Harry…’
‘… No,’ Darcy said. ‘But that I hadn’t told him the whole truth? Yes.’
The reason I felt it was because it wasn’t you. The moment Harry’s name entered a conversation, you didn’t read quite right’
‘All right so I’m guilty!’ Darcy snapped. ‘And what about you, if or when it’s your turn to run the show? Do you think it will be any easier for you? With your talent? Well it won’t be. Ifll be hell, Ben!’
The other thought about it and said, ‘And there’s nothing we can do about it? We can’t put it right?’
‘No … yes! Not for Harry, no. But for me? You’ve already done it Ben. A load shared is a burden halved. Now you’ll have to carry it, too. But you’ll get used to it And at least well be able to tell ourselves that Harry’s still alive!’
For a moment they glared at each other, then gradually relaxed… and Darcy’s intercom came cracklingly alive. ‘Sir?’
Darcy thumbed the Duty Officer’s button. Tes?’
‘Minister Responsible. Urgent Do you want it on screen?”
‘Yes. Thanks.’
A moment later his desk screen came alive, flickered for a second or two, got angry with itself in a crackle of static, then snapped into sharp focus. It displayed this legend:
Origination: MinRes. Destination: Director INTESR
Duty Officer INTESE FOR YOUR EYES ONLY! Message follows…
Trask had come round to Darcy’s side of the desk. ‘I better not look, right?’ The way he said it, Darcy felt the edge of sarcasm in his voice. And:
‘Oh, don’t be fucking silly!’ he snapped.
The message followed:
For public consumption (Press, BBC, ITV, etc.) ‘A treasure-seeker with a metal-detector has found a World War II bomb in Hyde Park. The area has been secured and all buildings in the immediate vicinity are being vacated…’
Mr Clarke: this isn’t as it’s made out to be. A man from my office has been fully briefed. He and other experts are on the scene right now. Take some of your best men and get down to Hyde Park. I shall need your first impressions and best opinions.
Good luck -MinRes ?’ as a PS
‘Good Luck?” Trask murmured. And: “What the hell., printed itself under the message:
Mr Clarke, in the event that I or any other Minister should be required, the usual Whitehall telephone numbers will not suffice. You may contact me on:
Followed by a number. But there was something about the number that Darcy Clarke didn’t like. Or if not him, his talent He waited until the screen cleared, punched in the number and queried it. The computer asked him for his security clearance, the first time that had ever happened!
He punched that in, too, and finally got his answer:
An allegedly ‘decommissioned’ nuclear bunker in Uxbridge, fifteen miles out of the city.
‘Christ!’ Darcy gasped, as he felt the short hairs rising on the back of his neck. ‘It’s clean underpants time again!’
That bad?’ Trask’s query - his tone of voice - said it all: the other stuff was over and done with and he was Darcy’s strong right arm again.
IV
RADU: HE DREAMS ON
Radu dreamed his olden, recurrent but frequently fading dreams of blood. As ever, he strove to restructure and reinstate them in the eye of a memory occasionally filmed over by six centuries of sleep, his undead hibernation. He dreamed of ages past and the life he’d known then, and of the many lives he’d consumed since then. Crimson dreams of his beginnings in a vampire world; of his conversion to something other than a man; of his eventual banishment into a new, entirely different world, and his everlasting and soon to be on-going bloodwar against those who had dared to rape and ruin what little he had loved.
Less than vivid, his dreams, unless they were recounted, reinforced, revisited over and over to bring them into nightmare definition in Radu’s yet more nightmarish mind. For these were things that he desired to remember forever. They were his one recourse, his only means of keeping his hatred alive while he waited out his time in a resin tomb, sleeping but not dead.
He recalled names from the swirling mists of a far-distant past: Giorga, Ion, and Lexandru Zirescu; and the Ferenczys, Lagula and Rakhi. In another time and world, the Zirescus had been his direst enemies, and the Ferenczys were Olden Lords of Starside. Now they were all long dead, and Radu relished fond memories of how he had dealt with them … and thoughts of how he would next deal with any survivor or descendant when once more he was up and abroad in a changed and ever-changing world. For the dog-Lord knew that there were such descendants, definitely…
… Abroad in the world, aye. And indeed, upon a time, he and his various packs, his pups, had been ‘abroad’. Sufficient to start, or certainly to reinforce, legends as old as mankind itself of the werewolf and the vampire - or of both. For Radu Lykan was both -Wamphyri!
His dreaming mind went back, back, back… to how it had been in those earliest days of his coming here…
In Starside he had been found guilty of treason. As punishment, Shaitan the Unborn, self-styled High Magistrate of all the Wamphyri, had had Radu and a handful of his retainers - a lieutenant or two and a few thralls - thrown into the so-called Hell-lands Gate, from which no one ever returned.
It had been like a long, slow fall into some weird white hell, and for a time Radu and the others had thought that this was all there was to it: to drift downward (or sideways, or up? … the Gate was a strange place!) forever, or until starvation put paid to them and they shrivelled to husks. But that wasn’t to be die way of it The real hell began where the Gate opened into this world, in a subterranean cavern carved by an underground river. Lit by the glare of the Gate, the cavern’s narrow ledges were cold and damp; the river was in flood and rushed through its borehole in a frenzy of black water. Along the course of the river where it left the cave, the walls bottlenecked and there was scarcely a gap between the water and the ceiling.
