The Lost Years Vol 1, page 62
part #9 of Necroscope Series
The Ferenczys and the last Drakul had their own problems, one of which was common to both: Harry Keogh - except they didn’t know him under that name. Or rather the Ferenczys did, through their father in his cavern pit, but Angelo Francezci seemed to have given them the wrong name! Two years ago the Francezcis’ many contacts had responded to a rare reversal, when the brothers had sent out pictures of their intruder, the thief in their treasury, requesting information! And over the next few months the answers had commenced to come in:
From long-established ‘Families’ in Italy and America, and also from more recent branches in Europe: nothing. To the Cosa Nostra, the man in the photographs was an unknown quantity; he wasn’t on file. From the brothers’ contact in the CIA; nothing. Indeed, ‘their man’ in the CIA returned their substantial ‘gift’ in crisp dollar bills with the recommendation that the Francezcis ‘suspend their inquiries’ concerning this man -which only served to make them more curious yet. And from their long-time contact and senior lieutenant in Edinburgh: a very disappointing nothing. He had seen this man only once, since when Bonnie Jean Mirlu had tightened her security. It was now more difficult than ever to keep track of her and the members of her pack. And as for the man in the pictures - he left no tracks at all! The Francezcis had answered by telling him to try harder, which accounted for his increased surveillance; and so far only sheer misfortune had kept him from tracking B.J. from her wine bar to the Necroscope’s house near Bonnyrig. Misfortune, and the fact that she was now doubly vigilant.
But from the KGB, some eleven months after the Francezcis dispatched their initial request for information, at last a positive but baffling response. Yes, their high-ranking go-between with the KGB knew the man in the photographs; to prove it, he enclosed a microfilm of his own. The pictures had been taken two years earlier in the Chateau Bronnitsy, the Soviet ESPionage centre, on the night of the Chateau’s destruction by some unknown agency. As for the man in these pictures:
He was Alec Kyle, Head of E-Branch, the British equivalent of the Russian organization whose HQ had been the Chateau Bronnitsy! As a result of ‘extreme methods of interrogation,’ Kyle had been brain-dead (which, with no life-support system, meant as good as physically dead) when the pictures were taken. But he had been most certainly dead later that same night, when the Chateau was reduced to so much rubble, and a great many of its staff with it! There was no way he could have avoided that holocaust! As for the cause of the destruction: it remained to be ascertained, but sabotage seemed probable.
And a connection, however tenuous: the name ‘Harry’ rang a bell. One Harry Keogh had been an agent of this same E-Branch, but he too was dead. And as circumstances would have it, he too had died at the Chateau Bronnitsy, also during a time of crisis and sabotage in which he had definitely been instrumental. But that had been prior to the actual destruction of the place. The two incidents were probably connected, but if so the connection was ‘restricted beyond this agent’s need to know.’ In short, he didn’t have access to the relevant files…
The brothers had pressed for further information on British E-Branch. Three months later, a list of names (Branch operatives and contacts) had arrived at Le Manse Madonie - and also a warning: this organization was the most secret of the British secret services, and certainly the most effective. In the field of extrasensory or parapsycho-logical intelligence-gathering, no comparable opposition existed; not since the destruction of the Bronnitsy complex - which perhaps said a lot in itself. But in any case, these people should be considered untouchables.
Which gave the brothers pause. Until now they had thought that their organization - their web, with their diseased father at its centre - was the only one of its sort. And so it was, in the field of criminal endeavour. Indeed the report in its entirety gave them pause. For unless the man pictured on a mortuary trolley at the Chateau Bronnitsy had an identical twin, he was quite definitely the intruder in their subterranean vault; and he was the man in the street outside Bonnie Jean Mirlu’s place in Edinburgh!
But if the report was wrong and Alec Kyle was still alive - and perhaps alive in his capacity as Head of E-Branch? - then what was he doing with B.J. Mirlu? Was it possible that the dog-Lord Radu Lykan had started recruiting in advance of his return, and that he was recruiting such as these top-level British espers? What if the Bronnitsy affair had been some kind of elaborate subterfuge to make it appear that Kyle was dead? And on the subject of death, what had been their diseased father’s meaning when he said that this ‘Harry’ spoke to dead people?
One further request of their Moscow contact - with regard to the Harry Keogh mentioned in the first report - produced a yet more thought-provoking result. Their informant was ‘embarrassed’ that he must pass on such dubious information; but then, in his estimation, the whole world of ESPionage was a very grey and dubious area. The brothers could readily understand his reluctance. As a hard-boiled KGB double-agent, a very much down to earth secret policeman, his mundane perception of such matters was bound to be a narrow one. But to them… his information was worrying indeed.
For this dead Harry Keogh, an ex-member of E-Branch, was believed to have been a necromancer; a man gifted or cursed to commune with the dead in order to know the secrets of the tomb! The coincidences were too many; and anyway, the brothers Francezci were no firm believers in coincidence. Whatever was going on here it involved them, B.J. Mirlu, the dog-Lord Radu Lykan in his secret lair, and apparently certain members - dead or alive - of Britain’s security services.
Enough! It had been time to set wheels turning. Eighteen months had gone by since the incident in their treasure vault, and their progress towards a solution and retribution seemed slow indeed. They had to know more about this E-Branch, about Alec Kyle, and about Harry Keogh.
But how might they investigate E-Branch, an organization of trained espers, without alerting them more substantially to their presence and their interest? Their father could probably help… the Old Ferenczy in his pit was after all their seer, server, oracle. But he was ever more difficult, given to rambling, less in control of himself. And if Angelo knew anything at all, why hadn’t he already told them? They must see if they could find some special tidbit for him, something to goad him to greater effort.
Also, there was the list of E-Branch operatives and contacts, and on that list the name of a man’ who was not an esper as such but who was very skilled in the art of hypnotism. Sufficiently so that E-Branch used him from time to time. Surely he would know something about the organization? And if he did… then the Francezcis could get to know about it.
His name was Doctor James Anderson…
And meanwhile, on the Roof of the World:
Daham Drakesh, the last Drakul, had a certain advantage over the Ferenczys. He had known of the world’s ESPionage organizations from the start. Indeed, he was ostensibly ‘employed’ by one such: the People’s Army’s Parapsychology Unit in Chungking, under the command of Colonel Tsi-Hong. Through Tsi-Hong, he had been one of the first outsiders to learn of the destruction of the Chateau Bronnitsy. Also, he had been kept up-dated on what little was known of the activities of British E-Branch. This last was very important to him, for Radu Lykan lay sleeping somewhere in the British Isles. While seeking out his den, Drakesh must take care not to cross tracks with E-Branch. For just like the Ferenczys, he knew what would result if men suddenly became aware of the ‘monsters’ in their midst! Until now Drakesh had been the most anonymous and secure of them all; he would like to keep it that way.
But some two years ago - by some weird process of synchronicity, at about the same time the Francezcis had been studying grainy photographs of their intruder - Drakesh had likewise received a set of pictures, a series of snapshots, from members of his ‘sect’ in England. And he had at once recognized several faces: Darcy Clarke, current Head of E-Branch, Trevor Jordan, a Branch telepath, and—
—Alec Kyle?… But that was impossible!
Comparisons with photographs in one of Drakesh’s numerous files had decided the matter. Despite a deal of evidence to the contrary, Alec Kyle wasn’t dead. And the last Drakul had jumped to an understandable but incorrect conclusion: that for reasons known only to E-Branch, Kyle was now working undercover. In all likelihood he’d been ‘killed off to free him from mundane duties and obscure the fact of his involvement with more important matters - or perhaps he had ‘died’ in order to protect himself? But from what?
It had been a mystery that not even Tsi-Hong could solve; but then again, British E-Branch was a mysterious organization. And since Drakesh was in no way involved, the pictures and the report that accompanied them - about a peculiar event in London’s Oxford Street -had been filed for future reference…
… Until recently.
But now, suddenly, E-Branch was hot again. The Ferenczys were known to be buying information on Alec Kyle and other members of E-Branch from their contacts world-wide; they had even sent two of their lieutenants into England to strengthen their presence there.
Drakesh had started to put two and two together:
One: the dog-Lord’s rising was close now, he could feel it in his vampire bones. Two: the Ferenczys must likewise be aware of this. Three: for some time now the British E-Branch had involved itself in a great many hush-hush affairs - not least the Bronnitsy thing. Now they’d attracted the attention of the Ferenczys, in what connection Drakesh couldn’t say. And in conclusion, four: since from now on it might well prove too dangerous to keep an eye on E-Branch, Drakesh should watch the Ferenczys’ people in England instead.
Drakesh’s emissaries, expert in discovering vampires, had found little difficulty in tracing the extra thralls sent into England by the Ferenczys. Through them they had also found the Ferenczy sleeper, and through him Bonnie Jean Mirlu. Moreover, they had succeeded where the sleeper had failed - for through Bonnie Jean they had also found Alec Kyle!
Both Radu’s keeper, and the supposed ‘ex’-Head of E-Branch together! Now finally it all made some kind of sense, and Drakesh believed he had the whole picture:
E-Branch were indeed aware of the menace in the midst of humanity! - something of it, anyway - aware of Radu and possibly the Ferenczys, too. But E-Branch did not yet know Radu’s whereabouts, else they would have put him down and all subterfuge done with. Alec Kyle was their undercover agent, who had somehow found his way into the female thrall’s confidence. Or, Kyle had been recruited by her… and if so, how many others of these damned espers had Radu got at? As for the Ferenczys: perhaps they were still safe, and were simply keeping a wary eye on the whole thing to see which way it went.
Well, Daham Drakesh knew which way it would go. It would appear that he was the only unknown factor in this entire equation, and he intended to stay that way. But for some time now he’d searched for a way to play the role of agent provocateur, and finally the opportunity had fallen right into his hands.
He had a triangle of forces here, all in deadly opposition, just waiting to be unleashed at each other’s throats.
II
IT BEGINS…’
September… Harry and Bonnie Jean were driving north through the Grampians, en route for the Cairngorms. In the boot of her hired car: surprisingly little by way of climbing gear; Harry had turned out to be ‘a natural,’ and B.J. was mainly scornful of such equipment. And in any case she was planning to use the easy route to Radu’s lair, on the Badenoch flank of the Cairngorms. That way she could save time by making a kill, food for Radu’s waking warrior, on the way up.
Harry was in ‘conscious’ mode; he was for the moment himself, and not under any mental constraints other than the deep-seated post-hypnotic commands of James Anderson, and those of Bonnie Jean herself, of course. In short, he continued to hide his talents as best he could, and B.J. continued to be an ‘innocent’ but strong- or wrong-headed young woman. She was also his lover, and Harry was loyal to a fault, or things might not be so easy for her… or so hard. Radu had been partly right: there were other ways to enthrall a man - but some swords are two-edged.
Physically, the Necroscope was fit and well. But mentally or subconsciously…
He was constantly uneasy. His worries, mainly unspecified - which seemed something of a contradiction in itself! - were many. And despite that he hid it from B.J. as far as possible, he often felt… paranoid? That was the only way to describe it: the omnipresent feeling that he was the victim of some malicious plot. His memory, however, was much improved - especially since giving up his search for Brenda on a personal level. On the other hand, his sleep continued to be plagued by grotesque nightmares he could never remember in his waking hours but which he knew had grown worse than ever.
All he ever recalled of them was that they involved the Great Majority, the teeming dead, who were desperately trying to convey some message which he wasn’t allowed to receive; and a picture of his beloved Ma, her face filled with concern, and her arms thrown wide open as if to protect him from the tumult of their thoughts. And lingering over as he struggled to bring himself awake, always there would be that familiar moon motif, with a howling wolfs head in silhouette.
Oddly, these dreams didn’t come when he slept with Bonnie Jean; she seemed to act as a buffer against them. And something of a paradox, too, that in the conscious, waking world he found the dead less inclined to his company, while sensing in them an air of expectancy hard to define…
‘Penny for them?’ said Bonnie Jean, luring the Necroscope from his inward-probing thoughts. She spoke mainly to fill the unaccustomed vacuum between them, an emptiness which - in her case, at least - felt like an ache in her bones, growing there from the moment Radu had told her to bring Harry to him.
‘A total blank,’ he lied, not wanting to worry her. ‘I was just lying back enjoying it.’
‘The ride? You can drive if you like.’ (On the other hand, it would be better if he didn’t. They were travelling north and it was past noon. If she let him drive, she would be uncomfortable in the warm sunlight coming through his window).
He shook his head, elevated his seat a little, sat up and glanced out of the window. Almost unnoticed, summer had slipped quietly away and made room for autumn. The trees were beginning to shed their leaves: red, gold, and umber, slipping by outside the car, and the occasional glossy blur of an evergreen. ‘Where are we?’
‘I chose a different route… er, from my usual one,’ she began to explain, then realized there was no need; Harry hadn’t been out this way before. Anywhere north of the Firth of Forth would be new to him. ‘I just thought - I don’t know - a change of scenery?’ She fiddled with her sunglasses, adjusting them on the bridge of her nose. The real reason she was taking a different route was to break the routine and confuse anyone, such as the watcher, who might try to follow her. Also, since she had rarely if ever sensed an intrusion during daylight hours, it had seemed a good idea to make the trip in daylight.
‘A change of scenery?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s why we’re here. But I asked where.’
‘We’re through Blairgowrie, heading for Pitlochry,’ she told him. ‘Does that help?’
‘Shouldn’t have asked,’ he shrugged. And, showing a rare flash of humour: ‘It’s all Irish to me!’
‘Scottish!’ she admonished. But the smile as quickly fell from her face, too. And she wondered what he was really thinking, the man inside this man. For the man inside knew why they were here, where they were going, and who he would be meeting. But the man inside was a prisoner in his own mind-cell, and he couldn’t be set free - couldn’t think his real thoughts - except by special command.
To Bonnie Jean… suddenly Harry seemed much less than a whole man. He felt like some kind of zombie sitting here beside her - or a puppet waiting to jerk into life the moment she pulled his strings - and she felt guilty; she didn’t like it. But the fact of the matter was he would only become a zombie, or a puppet, if and when she commanded it. Then he would know, would remember, everything she had told him… and not be able to do a damned thing about it! He was so much under her control that she felt sorry for him.
But at the same time… maybe something of understanding had surfaced at that. The atmosphere between them felt unusual, uneasy, unnatural. And now and then, if she looked at him suddenly out of the corner of her eye—
—Was that an accusing look on Harry’s face? If she were a faithless wife, it might be just exactly the sort of curious, vaguely doubting look she would expect from a husband who half-suspected. Or was she just imagining it?
‘Oh?’ Harry raised an eyebrow. He’d caught her giving him just such a look as she’d imagined!
‘Just wondering,’ she said. And before he could ask what: ‘After Pitlochry, within the hour, we should be back on my usual route and into the Forest of Atholl. Plenty of places along the way to stop and picnic, if you like? Or maybe a little cafe in the woods, for tea?’ It all sounded so weak, so … treacherous? Even to her own ears, yes. Or especially so, ‘Whatever you say,’ he said - which for some reason irritated her out of her mind. Bad enough that it was “whatever she said” when he was totally under her influence. But here he was like… like a lamb on his way to the slaughter! And maybe not now, not this time, but soon, too soon, he really would be!
‘Do you put that much bloody faith in me, then?’ she blurted, glaring at him. ‘Whatever I fucking say?’
He was taken by surprise. ‘Why, yes. Why not?’
Oh, mah wee man! B.J. cried out… to herself, yet still managing to surprise herself. If only it were possible to break the chains on his mind and set it free - set him free - to fly, fly like a small frightened bird! It would be worth… almost anything! She thought it, and at once denied the thought:
