Sepulchre (35 page)

'For God's sake, let's away from here!'

Danny recognised McGuire's voice, distorted by terror though it was.

'No,' he said, loud enough to be heard over the storm. 'Whatever it was back there can't harm us now.' He was shocked, stunned by what had happened and the loss of two good men. But Danny Shay was a determined man. An executioner who had already tortured and killed one person to locate his intended victim.

He rose and grabbed the shoulders of his exhausted companions, hauling them to their feet.

'Get yourselves moving,' he told them. 'The house isn't far and there's a bastard there deservin' to die.'

42 SEPULCHRE

As in the dream, there were large, staring eyes watching him. Unnatural eyes. Stone eyes.

Halloran held his breath as pain ached through his head. He raised a leaden hand to his forehead and held his temples, exerting soft pressure with fingers and thumb. The ache eased only slightly. He blinked, taking in the statues, a gathering of them, thirty at least, standing a few yards away. Observing. A few were in groups, man, woman and child. Some were at least five foot high. Their fixed gaze was inescapable.

Among them in a high-backed ornate chair was a figure, this of flesh and blood, for it shifted slightly when Halloran pushed himself up onto an elbow. The figure settled back, a formless shadow amidst the sculptures.

The floor was wet where Halloran lay, grimy water seeping through the cracks in the flagstones. The dampness brought with it a putrid smell, a different odour underlying that. Melting wax. The chamber was lit by hosts of black candles, their glow soft and unsteady.

'Help him to his knees,' a voice said. It might have been Kline's except its rasping quality reminded Halloran of the lodgekeeper.

Hands pulled at him roughly and his mind was too dulled for him to resist. As he knelt, something passed around his throat, and a sudden sharpness there jerked him erect. He tried to twist away and the pressure increased. His hands went to the cause, but there was nothing they could grip.

'Struggle and the wire will bite deeper,' the same voice warned.

Halloran couldn't see the person behind him, but he could feel whoever it was leaning into his back. A spiciness wafted down among the other smells.

'Youssef is master of the garotte,' came the voice again, and this time he was sure it was Kline sitting there in the shadows, even though the tones were roughened. 'Try to resist and you'll find out for yourself.' There was a weariness to his words that made Kline seem very old.

When Halloran took his hands away they were smeared with his own blood.

'Let him see, Youssef. Let him see where he is.'

The pressure slackened and Halloran was able to look around, although his view was restricted. The room was long and high-ceilinged, and the walls glinted in the candlelight as if water was trickling through the brickwork. A solid stairway led upwards and Halloran saw there was a passage but no door in the darkness at the top. There were archways around the sides of the chamber as though the place might once have been used as a wine-cellar; there was no way of knowing what was inside those cavities now, for they were cast into the deepest shadows. As well as the candles, there were oil lamps here and there helping to light the place, these close to pedestals on which stood delicately worked statues and effigies in shiny metals. On one near to where Halloran knelt there was what appeared to be a goat rearing up on hind legs against a tree of gold, the animal's fleece of deep blue stone and white shell. The small statue was exquisite, but Halloran's eyes did not linger on it for long.

At one end of the room was a large rectangular slab of stone which rose up from the floor, its surface a matt-black. A parody of an altar. Spread across it, and lying perfectly still, was .an obese, naked figure, thick curling hair covering its body. Halloran wondered if Monk were dead.

The rasping voice broke through his thoughts. 'Impressive, Halloran. You paralysed him, he can't move, can't raise a finger. Useless to me as a bodyguard, but valuable in another way , . .'

From outside came a belly-rumble of thunder, the sound muted, a long way away.

The shadow stirred again, shifting in the seat. 'A bad night up there,' Kline said, something of his old, excitable self in the remark despite the distortion in his voice. 'Hope your knees aren't getting too wet, Halloran. So many underground streams running through the estate, you see, with all these hills around. Where the lake swells, so do they -'

'What is this place, Kline?' The question was quietly put, but Halloran's tone stopped the other man.

Kline studied the operative for a while before giving an answer. When he drew in a breath the sound was wheezy, as though his throat was constricted. 'A hiding place,' he said finally. 'A sepulchre, Halloran, my very own sepulchre. A room no one would ever find unless they knew of it, and even then they'd have problems. Oh, it's always been here at Neath, I didn't have to create it. I had to disguise its existence, though. This place is a sub-cellar, you see. A passageway extends to the real one, but I had it bricked off so no one'd ever know.' His giggle was dry, a scratchy sound. 'Ingenious, huh? Just like the old Sumerian tombs. Impossible to get in, and impossible to get out unless you know how. You could rot in here, Halloran, and no one would ever find you.'

Halloran tried to rise, but the wire around his neck tightened instantly.

'Two, maybe three, seconds, is all it'd take for Youssef to kill you, so don't be bloody stupid.'

'For God's sake, why, Kline? I'm here to protect you.' Still Halloran did not raise his voice. A coldness was in him, one he knew so well. A deadness of emotion.

'God? God has nothing to do with this. Not your God. Only mine.' The wheezing breath, a movement in the shadows. Then he said: 'You killed the Keeper.'

'The gate-keeper? He was dying, he'd lost control of the dogs

- the jackals. They tore him to pieces. But how did you know he ;‘

was dead . . . ?' _.

'You still doubt my abilities?' Kline was shaking his head. 'More than just our minds were linked, Halloran. He was surrogate for my ills, my weaknesses. He took my years. Through him I was allowed to live without blemish, without ageing, free to use

my faculties without hindrance.' -

'The old man said you'd used him.'

'I was allowed that gift.'

'Allowed?'

'The power to discharge those physical things we all dread, the disadvantages that come with the years and with debility, was bestowed upon me. Now that power is waning. Something has happened and nothing is right any more. You killed my Keeper, you broke the link.'

'I told you he was dying before the jackals got to him. The strange thing is he seemed glad to be dying.'

'He was a fool.'

'Listen, Kline, I want you to tell this idiot to take the wire away from my neck.'

'After what you did to Monk?'

'I'm going to hurt him if he doesn't.'

'I don't think so, Halloran. I don't think you're that good. Besides, you want your curiosity satisfied, don't you'? You want to learn some more history. Last night I only meant to whet your appetite.'

'Kline . . .' Halloran warned.

'Be quiet!' Kline's hands clenched over the chair arms. He shuddered, as if it had hurt to raise his voice. 'You're going to pay for what you've done. You're going to help stop what . . . what's . . . happening to me.' He slumped back, and Halloran could see the rise and fall of his narrow shoulders, could hear the squeezing of his breath.

When he spoke, Kline's voice was low again, the sudden verve gone. He sounded ancient, like the old man in the lodgehouse. 'Be patient and listen, Halloran, because I want you to understand. You deserve that at least. Let me tell you about the god who walked this earth three thousand years before the Christ God. I'm sure you're no devotee of the Scriptures, but no doubt you had them drummed into you by your Catholic priests when you were a boy in Ireland. Let me make some sense. of their fairy-tales, allow me that.'

'Do I have a choice?'

'Yes. Youssef could kill you now.'

Halloran said nothing.

A dry snigger from Kline. 'How precious time becomes when there's little of it left, even for those who have lived so tong . . '

The candle flames swayed as though a draught had swept in.

'The man-god was called Marduk by his chosen people, the Sumerians,' Kline began, while Halloran wondered how long the Arab could keep the garotte tensed. 'He civilised the Sumerians, advanced them, taught them the written word, revealed to them the secret of the stars, instilled order into their society. It was from him that they learned to cure by cutting into the human body, how to forge metals dug from rock, to make tools and instruments, to use vehicles for carrying. Was that evil? How could it be? It was knowledge. But for those mortals who ruled, such learning was regarded as a threat, because it usurped their power. That was the fear of the Sumerian kings and certain high priests. And hasn't that always been the fear of your Christian God?'

The question was put slyly, Kline's tenor changing constantly, a shifting of character that Halloran had become used to, but the change never before as abrupt as this. It was as if Kline had little control over himself.

'But perhaps it was the other knowledge that these rulers feared most, because that gave power. I mean the knowledge of magic, the ways of alchemy, the understanding of the Cabala, the art of witchcraft.

'For more than a thousand years he influenced them, and how the Sumerian people enjoyed his control. All he asked in return was their worship, their veneration of his ways. Burnt offerings pleased him, the roasting of men, women and children. Defilement of the other gods he demanded. The torture of innocents was an appeasement to him, for they also feared Marduk as much as their rulers did. The kings and princes, the other high priests, were powerless to act against him. Until King Hammurabi, that is, who united all the state leaders against Marduk, whom he declared was an evil god who should be known forever more as Bel-Marduk.'

Halloran glanced up at the stairway. He thought he had heard movement in the passage.

'The king denounced Bel-Marduk as a fallen god,' Kline went on in a voice that lurched with anger. 'Much later the Jews referred to him as the Fallen Angel.'

Halloran frowned.

'Ah, I see a glimmer of understanding,' Kline remarked. 'Yes, I do mean the Fallen Angel of the Bible, later to become known as the Devil.'

The lilt of Irish was in Halloran's mild comment. 'You're crazy, Kline.'

A silence.

Then a low chuckle.

'One of us might be,' said Kline. 'But listen on, there's more to tell.'

The staring eyes of the stone effigies around the shaded figure seemed threatening. Halloran tried to close them from his mind.

'Bel-Marduk was destroyed for preaching the "perverted message". His limbs were torn from him, his tongue cut out, so that his immortal soul would be trapped inside a body which could only lie in the dirt. The priests rendered him as a snake, and they called him Serpent.'

The dark figure leaned forward. 'Does it sound familiar to you, Halloran? Didn't your Catholic priests teach you of Lucifer, the Fallen Angel, who was cursed to crawl in the dust as a snake for his corruption of the innocents, for revealing the secrets of the Tree of Life to the unworthy? Don't you see where those stories of the Bible come from? I told you last night that the traditional site of the Garden of Eden was the land between the rivers Tigris

and Euphrates in Sumeria from where, according to tablets found in Mesopotamia, the Jewish race originated. It was from Ur of the Chaldees that Abraham led his tribe north into Syria, then through Canaan into Egypt. They took with them stories that later became the myths of their Bible. The Great Flood, the baby Moses found among bulrushes - borrowed history! The Hebrew account of the Creation and the first chapters of Genesis - they were based on old Sumerian legends. Legends because the old kings had ordered all records of their early history to be destroyed, their way of ensuring Bel-Marduk's corruption would not be passed on to other generations. But they didn't understand how, evil can be inherited, not learned from the written word.'

There were figures at the top of the stairs, but Kline appeared not to notice.

'We Jews even adopted the Cabala as our own, claiming it was passed on from Noah to Abraham, from Abraham to Moses, who initiated seventy elders into the mysteries during their years of wandering in the wilderness. Bel-Marduk's teachings were never discontinued, nor was his revenge on mankind! Even the other man-god, Jesus Christ, who chose the Jews as his people, couldn't stem the flow! He came to undo the Serpent's work, the only way of redeeming earth's people. And look what happened, Halloran. He was executed, just like his predecessor, Bel-Marduk! Makes you wonder why he bothered, doesn't it? Look around you today, Halloran, and you'll see the conflict still goes an. You're part of it, I'm part of it.'

Kline leaned forward once more. 'The question is,' he said craftily, 'on which side of the struggle are you?'

Halloran could give no answer.

Kline pushed himself back into the chair. 'Bring her dawn!' he called out.

There was movement from above and Halloran raised his eyes to see Cora, flanked by Palusinski and the other Arab, descending the stairway. She wore her bathrobe, its belt tied loosely at the front, and her step was unsteady. When she reached the bottom and looked around the soft bewilderment in her eyes was obvious. He wondered if the drug had been forced upon her.

'Liam . . .' she began to say on seeing him.

'Concerned for your lover, Cora dear?' came Kline's voice from the shadows. Now there was fear as she looked to-wards the source.

'What are you going to do with her, Kline?' Halloran demanded.

'Nothing at all. Cora won't be harmed. I haven't groomed her for that. But I need a new ally, you see, someone who'll watch for me. I always knew a replacement would be necessary one day; I just didn't realise how imminent that day was.'