Siege of Stone Page 17

  Sometime after midnight he awoke, his eyelids fluttering open. And there, a yard above him, was a figure dangling in the air, twisting and turning slowly, its face coming around to look into his with open and knowing eyes.

  Chapter 28

  FBI deputy director Quentin McIntyre was working later than usual. He usually liked to leave the building before seven o'clock, since he always came in at six in the morning, but there had been more things to take care of than usual, and too many damned meetings for his liking. Things never got done in meetings, they got done by people painstakingly working one or two at a time the way he and his assistant, Alan Phillips, did.

  McIntyre had just put some files in his briefcase to read before he went to bed when Phillips entered his office with some papers. "I know it's late," he said, "but this is something you're going to want to see."

  It was a request from the counterterrorism division of MI5, asking the FBI to cross-check their photograph and fingerprint files for an ID on a terrorism suspect. McIntyre recognized the man in the enclosed photograph immediately.

  It was Joseph Stein, one of the three CIA agents who had been working inside the United States against the CIA charter. McIntyre had been unable to find out what exactly they had been up to, but he knew that they were being run by Richard Skye, a petty bureaucrat who, to McIntyre, demonstrated the seediest aspects of the Company. From earlier run-ins, he had good reason to dislike Skye, and this new team he was running didn't further endear him to McIntyre, who thought that the three had been responsible in some way for the disappearance of Agent Brian Foster, who had found them in Arizona.

  And now here was one of them, out of McIntyre's jurisdiction, admittedly, but still at his mercy. What was that bastard Skye up to now, over in England?

  McIntyre considered the situation. If he informed MI5 that their suspect was CIA, they would let him go with a caution to the U.S. government to keep their nose out of Great Britain's internal affairs. It would certainly do Skye no good, but it would also be an embarrassment for the country.

  Better perhaps to stay silent for the time being. That way Stein and the other agents would stew, as would Skye, not knowing if his whole operation was going to fall. And if Skye had to cut Stein loose, it would serve him right. He'd have a lot of explaining to do to his superiors, and depending on what the other two members of the team reported when they came in . . . well, it could be a real mess for Richard Skye, and that was something that Quentin McIntyre would dearly love to see happen.

  "Let's run it through our files," McIntyre said, handing the photograph and copy of fingerprints back to Phillips, and looking at him knowingly from under furrowed brows. Phillips smiled, getting the message. They both knew that Stein, having no criminal record, would not be in their files. The search would turn up blank, and Stein would remain in a British prison, a wonderful liability for Richard Skye.

  And it was Richard Skye at the CIA to whom MI5 had sent the photograph in a sealed envelope. When he saw it, he came as close as he ever did to panic. But then he made himself relax, and tried to see how this situation might be worked to his advantage.

  When he found no way, he considered his options. Claiming Stein as one of his agents was out of the question. Apparently Stein had not revealed his CIA connections to his captors, so that made things easier. He could simply leave Stein out to dry and work with the other agents, or possibly they might find a way to help Stein escape, unlikely as that was.

  At any rate, he need do nothing for now except draft a message to MI5 disavowing any knowledge of their mysterious prisoner. That would at least give him time to consider what to do next.

  Chapter 29

  Joseph's heart felt as if it had leapt into his throat. He remained pinned by the gaze of the apparition as it stopped turning and looked down at him. This wasn't at all like the vision they had seen on the road. It had form and detail, and an expression on its face, from the gaping mouth to the mad eyes to the long, gaunt neck that seemed to be stretched by an invisible rope. Joseph could even see the whiskers on the man's face.

  Then that face seemed to shift, and the figure slowly descended from where it hung in the air, sinking until its feet were on the floor of the cell. The body was changing too, from the filthy rags of a prisoner to a spotless white shirt and a pair of neatly pressed trousers. The neck contracted to normality, and the face, instead of grimacing in a rictus of pain, now smiled at him beatifically. It was the face of the Prisoner, the man he had seen in his dreams.

  And I'm still dreaming, Joseph thought. My nightmare of Longneck Peter became the Prisoner, who has shared my dreams before. I'm just dreaming.

  "No. You're awake, Joseph. And I'm really here."

  Joseph gasped, sat up on the cot, and grabbed his left hand with his right, digging the nails into his palm to drive himself into wakefulness. The Prisoner shook his head. "No. You can't wake up from this. I'm really here. Sorry about the Longneck Peter thing, but he'd been in your dream so strongly, and I can't resist a little touch of theatricality."

  "How did you get in here?" was the first thing that Joseph could think of to say.

  "Through the wall, of course. It's quite easy for me, just as it would be easy for you, were you to accompany me out of here. I hope you'll wish to do that."

  "You're the one . . ." Joseph said slowly. Christ, his mind felt as though it were operating underwater, or under molasses. He didn't understand any of this. "You've been freeing the terrorists, haven't you? I saw you . . . go through the wall."

  "I know you did. I felt you as I entered. And of course I saw you as we made our desperate escape. And I summed up matters very quickly. The soldiers were after you, and once they captured you, they would most certainly put you into this prison."

  "But how did you know . . . did you find out where I was here?"

  "I simply reached out for you, Joseph. The connection between the two of us is remarkably strong, more so than any other I've felt, either while I was in captivity or now that I am free. Ironic, isn't it? I entered your dreams trying to bring you to me so that you could free me, and here I find you a prisoner." He looked around the cell. "And in a very unpleasant jail, too. I don't think you'll be getting out by yourself very soon. Even if you should admit to them that you're a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, I doubt they'll believe you."

  "You know I'm CIA?"

  "Of course. I know nearly everything about you, Joseph. And I know that what you want the most right now, the single most important thing in your life, is your freedom, and that you would do just about anything to get it back. Am I correct?"

  "Yes. Of course you are."

  "Would that include aiding me—granting me a boon, shall we say?"

  "A 'boon'? What kind of boon?" The descent to practicality was bringing Joseph back to his distrustful, cynical self. "I mean, I don't even know who you are. I know you were kept prisoner for . . . a long time. And I know that you can do things that other people can't." He gave a dry laugh. "That much is obvious. But rumor has it that you're not quite Casper the Friendly Ghost, whatever else you may be. If I'm not mistaken, the Catholic Church has called you the Antichrist for over a thousand years."

  "Yes, that same Catholic Church that sponsored the Inquisition and condemned Galileo. You know as well as I do that what people can't understand scientifically, they tend to label as the Devil's work. So when a being came upon them that their paltry medieval minds could not even begin to comprehend, what did they do? They sought to kill it, and when that failed, they tried to make it powerless."

  "And succeeded. Lead was your downfall, wasn't it?"

  "It was," the being said sadly.

  "So what was the deal—electromagnetic radiation of short wavelengths?"

  "It's a bit more complex than that, but you could put it in those primitive terms, yes. It was not, at any rate, magic. There is nothing supernatural about me at all."

  "Not even how you can read minds? How you can make people do
things they wouldn't normally do? How your commands are strong enough to bring somebody back from the dead, the way you did with Ezekiel Swain?"

  "Tell me," the being asked calmly, "do you know Newton's Second Law?"

  "F = ma. F is the force needed to give acceleration, a, to the mass m."

  "In other words, if you push something, it moves. What I do is just the same. I push. Things move. Science, not magic. Your rationalist belief system stands in no jeopardy from me. I'm not the Antichrist, Joseph. Nor am I the Christ. I'm just very much like you, with aspirations and fears and emotions. And I need your help. If I help you to leave this place, can I expect it?"

  If, Joseph thought, this man or thing had emotions and fears "just like" him, then he was also capable of hatred and duplicity. He could not promise carte blanche. "What specifically?" Joseph asked. "What kind of help?"

  "With your CIA connections, you have access to information that would be valuable to me. I could gather it in other ways, but that would take time and energy. I consider you a valuable resource, Joseph Stein."

  "What information? Like I said, I want specifics. Otherwise, I have no choice but to stay here and take my chances. I know that you're involved with terrorism . . . so I just want to know how deep I'm digging my grave."

  "All right. If you want specifics, fine. You know from what I've done that I'm no saint. I can tell how you feel about me, so I might as well be honest with you. Fifteen years ago, the British government buried containers of nerve gas somewhere in Scotland. I want that gas. Now, I'm sure you don't know where it's buried, but I'm equally sure that you could find out where it is with a little digging around in your CIA computer files. Even if England didn't share that information with your organization, I'm sure that they came by it somehow."

  "Why do you want it?" Joseph asked, a sick feeling in his stomach.

  "For the betterment of the world. So. Do you want to come with me? Or would you prefer to stay here?"

  It was a Faustian bargain, Joseph knew, but one that he did not necessarily feel obligated to fulfill. He was as frustrated at the circumstances as he was at his moral dilemma. Here at last he was, face to face with the creature who had eluded them all these months, but the situation was much different from what he had imagined. It had become far worse than a simple reversal making Joseph the hunted. He was already caught, and the former Prisoner offered him his only hope of escape.

  That was the crux, wasn't it? Agreeing to help this creature, whatever he was, was Joseph's only alternative to staying in prison indefinitely. Better to agree now, he thought, and extricate himself from the web later on. After all, his will was still his own. He could walk away, or run, if it came to that, as he felt certain it would. The devil does not look kindly on those who break their contracts.

  "I'll come with you," Joseph said. "But I hope it won't be as obvious as your last breakout here."

  "Nothing of the sort. You're far enough away from the rest of the prison population so that we won't have to stroll through their midst. No, they'll simply not find you in your cell the next time they look. Another miracle to add to their growing list." He nodded toward the cell door. "I believe we'll go through there first, then walk up the incline until we reach street level, at which point we'll go through the wall. I think that you would find passage through earth even more unpleasant than you will moving through stone. Are you ready?"

  "I think so. But you never told me—what's your name?"

  "Nothing you would find pronounceable. I suggest you call me Mulcifer. Now, give me your hand . . ."

  It was a good thing, Mulcifer thought, that Joseph Stein had followed them to Carlisle and Hixton Prison. During the ride down from Scotland, he had felt the presence of someone else nearby, someone with whom he could establish a rapport, but he had not reached out then. He had wanted to save all his energy for the escape.

  Contrary to the belief of his revolutionary comrades, one could not engage in these kinds of activities indefinitely. There had to be time for the strength and the abilities to refresh themselves. But it was best if they thought his powers were always on call. Then they would hesitate to challenge him. And even at his weakest he always maintained enough power to control humans like Rob and Angus, with their puny, easily overcome wills.

  When he had sensed the presence of Joseph Stein, just before he had passed through the walls of Hixton to free Kevin Brady, his joy had nearly been overwhelming. In fact, knowing that Stein was nearby had seemed to increase his strength so that his waltz through the walls and cells and hallways had been joyous, and he had swept out the terrorist and turned the other inmates and officers against each other as effortlessly as if he had been instructing a child to throw a stone through a window.

  Outside, he had hurried Brady into the van, and they had made their usual breathtaking escape through lines of soldiers grown suddenly and inexplicably quarrelsome with each other, preferring to shoot at their comrades rather than at the fleeing vehicle. They had taken Brady to a safe house, where Mulcifer had privately given him his instructions for two days hence, and then seen him on his way with enough money to procure the essentials.

  But instead of returning to the castle and awaiting the glorious day that was intended to free Scotland but would have, Mulcifer knew, quite a different effect, he insisted to the others that they go back to Hixton the following night. "Christ, man, dinna you care how you tempt fate?" Rob had said in anguish, knowing that he could not disobey.

  Mulcifer, always recognizing a beautiful set-up line, replied, "I am fate," gave Rob's little mind a little push, and experienced no further protests.

  They had gone back to the prison, and Mulcifer had brought out Joseph Stein with none of the theatricality that had marked his prior missions. Now they were in the van heading back to Scotland, driving north toward Glasgow on the A74, and Joseph Stein was seated in the backseat next to him, wearing the new clothes that they had bought for him earlier that day.

  The man was very tired, and Mulcifer also sensed that he was hungry, so when Joseph asked to stop for something to eat, Mulcifer ordered Angus to pull the van off the A74 and stop at the first open eatery they saw. It happened to be a small all-night café that was nearly empty.

  They ordered eggs and sausages, and when Joseph said that he had to use the bathroom, Angus started to go with him, but Mulcifer gestured to him to sit back down. "What's with you?" Angus said when Joseph had rounded the corner to the toilets. "You're not afraid he'll scarper?"

  "He'd like to, but he won't."

  "What did you get him out for?" Angus went on. "Ain't he the one who got caught when you took out Brady?"

  "Yes, he is."

  "What do we want with him, then?"

  "He's going to be very useful, Angus. Don't you be concerned. Yes, very useful indeed."

  The men's room had a large enough window to climb out of. Joseph raised it far enough to look out. There was a drop of only a few feet, and woods that began fifty yards behind the restaurant. He could lose himself in it easily enough, then, when he felt he was in the clear, get to a phone, and dial Laika and Tony at the cottage.

  But when he tried to push the window up the rest of the way, he found that he could not. It was not that the window was stuck, but he found himself unable to exert any pressure upon it. His fingers were wrapped around the bottom rail, but he could not bring himself to raise it.

  Joseph tried to think of why he could not raise the window far enough to climb through. It had to be Mulcifer. Had the man implanted some fear within him? Was he expecting some huge maw to force its way through the window and devour him, or a hand to crush him?

  No, it was nothing like that. As much as he wanted to, he simply could not lift that window, even though he told himself it was absurd. There was absolutely nothing to keep him from just sliding it up and slipping through.

  Nothing except Mulcifer.

  He took his hands away from the window and looked at them bitterly. If was as if they weren
't his anymore, but under the control of someone else. All right then, he thought. The bastard was in the next room, thinking about him, maybe thinking at him, or whatever it was that he did.

  But he couldn't do it all the time. He couldn't exercise his control twenty-four hours a day. Sometime it would lapse, and then Joseph would get as far away from the son of a bitch as possible. He just hoped it would be before he had to find out where the nerve gas was hidden.

  That was information that Joseph knew he could get, and Mulcifer probably knew it too. When it came to chemical and biological weapons, the CIA kept just as close tabs on their allies as they did on their enemies. And the older secrets were, the less securely guarded they seemed to be. The gas had been buried fifteen years before. Joseph could access that data easily enough.

  Maybe, he thought, he could pretend he wasn't able to, although he didn't know how far pretense would go with Mulcifer. The man seemed as though he might be very difficult to fool. That would seem to be standard operating procedure for beings who could read your mind and make you do things without telling you.

  So he would do what Mulcifer wanted him to, right up until the time he had to dig up the data on the nerve gas. Maybe by then he'd be able to figure out a way to not only resist Mulcifer's wishes, but to turn his powers against him. And in the meantime, he'd be finding out just who was behind the escapes.

  But Joseph had the feeling he already knew that. He would have been willing to bet his life that they would go back to Castle Dirk. Though he had suspected it before, he felt sure of it now, and wondered if it was because Mulcifer had somehow put that certainty into his head, shared that knowledge with him.

  He sighed. There was only one way to find out, so he did what he had no choice but to do. He went back to the table where the three men sat. Or, he thought, the two men and something else. Something very different, the manifestation of the last words of Conrad's The Secret Agent: "unsuspected and deadly, like a pest in the street full of men."