by Brian Lumley
“Wait!” Manolis stopped him. “I checked this out when I was here dealing with thee woman with thee leech. There are no missing locals, tourists, nothing. And thee island is far too small a place for thee peoples to go absent without being noticed.”
For a moment Trask was silent, but then he nodded and said, “And so you’ve proved your point: that your presence isn’t only of use to us but probably indispensable. For that’s one line of inquiry closed, saving time that we would certainly have wasted … for which my thanks. But it does leave a major question unanswered. If Vavara has been here for the better part of three years, then what—or who—has she been living on?”
And Ian Goodly put in, “We know that these creatures aren’t required to take blood—it isn’t an absolute necessity—but it is an inescapable fact that they do enjoy taking it. As they are wont to say: ‘The blood is the life.’ It keeps them strong, and over a long period of time they would surely weaken without it. Also, I simply can’t imagine them denying their leeches. So perhaps what we’re looking for—”
And again Manolis jumped in, “Is a small village or community of say one hundred or less peoples, all of whom have fallen under thee bitch-vampire’s spell. And my friends, let me assure you that there are several such villages on this island! For I, too, have given thee problem some thought, and now I ask you to look at your maps.”
His finger stabbed at his map, which lay unfolded on one of the tables. “Here in thee Ypsarion Oros mountains, thee village Panagia, whose men quarry thee local marble. Population, a mere seventy, according to thee legend. And here at Theologos, fifty diggers at an archaeological site predating thee Roman occupation. Also thee mountain resort at Kastro, where people bathe in thee hot spring to cure their aches and pains. Permanent staff: seventeen. Vavara could be in any of these places, and in twice as many others just like them.”
“Chung and I had come to more or less the same conclusion,” Trask nodded. “Even in the more densely populated towns, still the numbers only run to a few thousand. Not only does everyone know everyone else, but also his business! If Vavara was there—what, this strange, beautiful, foreign woman who is only ever seen at night?—she’d be taking a big chance. So we’re agreed on that point: it would seem most likely that she has inveigled her way into a closed or remote, probably mountainous community and gradually taken it over. That way she’s had no need to kill any of her recently recruited thralls, who are simply there to, er, supply her loathsome needs. Ughhh!”
“Then we’re decided on how to start,” said Goodly. “We must visit these places—in full daylight, of course—and see if we can detect anything out of the ordinary.”
“We have to visit all such places,” Trask nodded. “Not only the ones Manolis has pointed out, but every other location that might fit Vavara’s requirements. And we have to be very careful how we go about it. Until our backup forces arrive from London we’re only eight strong, and I’m not going to be calling anyone else in on this until we have definite targets. So I suggest we split up into three teams.”
“What about vehicles?” said Liz.
“Chung and I have already hired a car,” Trask told her. “We need two more. And Manolis, you and your men need some suitable clothing—touristy stuff, you know?—to put a finishing touch to your disguise. Can your men handle that?”
“No problem,” said Manolis. “They can even do it now, while we talk. I noticed a sign where we got off thee bus, a car hire firm in Skala Astris.” Giving Andreas and Stavros instructions, he sent them off into the village. It took but a moment.
“Teams, then,” said Trask. “But I want to keep our talented members split up as much as possible.”
“Talented?” Manolis raised a querying eyebrow, then snapped his fingers and said, “Ah, yes—of course! Thee locator, thee telepath, and thee, er—?”
“Precog,” said Goodly.
“And the one who knows things,” Lardis tapped his nose.
“No,” Trask told him. “It’s not you I’m concerned about. If these bastard things weren’t able to track you down at night, I fail to see how they’ll detect you here in broad daylight!”
He turned to the others. “But out there on the road when we go looking for them, I don’t want you clustering your minds too close together. Liz, you have to keep a tight rein on your telepathy. Malinari has been into your mind once and I’ve no doubt he could do it again. Chung’s talent is similar: it reaches out from him to locate things, and might itself be located.” And to Goodly: “Ian, I’m not too concerned about you; your thing comes and goes, true, but as far as we can tell it has never betrayed you. While the future is a devious thing which will try to hide itself even from you, it’s yet more elusive where others are concerned. In short, your talent isn’t detectable—thank goodness for small mercies! The same goes for me. But we are espers all, and for all we know Malinari, or Vavara, for that matter, could be spotters: creatures who may recognize the psychic signatures of people like us. If that’s true, then Liz and David Chung are especially at risk, and we must keep them apart. So here’s what I suggest:
“The teams will be made up as follows. Manolis, Lardis, and Liz; David Chung and Stavros; Ian Goodly, Andreas, and myself.” He waited for comments and there were none. “One team, still to be decided, will concentrate on local information-gathering and act as odd-jobbers … there are bound to be some odd jobs that have to be done. The other teams will split up, one going east, and the other west around Krassos. The roads are mainly coastal with lesser tracks and trails leading off into the mountains. Manolis, I hope your men choose four-wheel-drive vehicles, as I Did!”
“I’m sure they will,” said Manolis.
“But all this is for tomorrow,” Trask continued, “and we’ll use the remainder of today to settle in, rest up, acquaint ourselves with these maps, the topography, the local who’s-who and know-how—including any relevant items of gossip, of course—and so on and so forth …”
As he finished speaking, the locator, David Chung, appeared in The Shipwreck’s shady doorway.
“As for local knowledge,” he said, “—or gossip if you like—I’ve just this minute overheard Yiannis chatting with a pair of departing Germans in the lobby of the admin building. “Seems there was a fatal accident the night before last, and the circumstances are just a bit suspicious. As for news from London—well, that’s suspicious, too.” He entered, flopped into a chair, wiped his forehead and said, “Phew, this heat!”
“What kept you?” said Trask.
“Would you believe sunspots?” the locator answered, shaking his head in disgust. “It would appear that communications worldwide are going haywire. Pocket telephones are out of the question. They’ve always had their problems, as we know, but now … anything more than twenty miles, all you get is static. It’s all come on very sudden, apparently. It took a while to get through on the regular telephone in the lobby, and then I had to decode John Grieve’s doubletalk. What he told me isn’t reassuring.”
“Go on,” said Trask worriedly.
“Jimmy Harvey found a device in the restaurant downstairs,” Chung said. “A bug—low-powered and short-range—it couldn’t possibly transmit outside the four walls of the hotel. So Jimmy checked with reception to see if it was an inside job. The only likely candidate was some French bloke who’d checked in shortly after we got back from down under. The register has him down as one Alfonso Lefranc, and HQ’s first thought was that it must be an alias. So, they checked it out with Interpol and … what do you know! Lo and behold, the guy’s a nark for Luigi Castellano! Then our lot did a check with the airlines, and as far as they can tell Lefranc is still is town. They’re out looking for him now. And that’s only that one …”
Trask’s head whirled. Castellano? Jake’s hang-up? What the hell was going on here? But he logged the information and said, “What else?”
“A scrambled message has come in from Gustav Turchin,” the locator answered. “He thinks that by
now his man must have infiltrated Castellano’s organization. He says he’s got a lot of faith in this person, and fully anticipates that he’ll soon be able to tell us just precisely where this Sicilian scumbag is. After that it’s up to us. But he’s anxious that we begin looking into his personal problem back home … presumably meaning Russia, or more specifically Perchorsk.”
“Yes, it does,” said Trask. “And is that it?”
“No,” said Chung, squirming a little in his chair. “There’s one more item, and you’re not going to like it.”
“I haven’t liked anything yet!” said Trask.
“You’ll like this even less,” Chung said, “but it may teach us a lesson. If only we’d learned to stick with our ghosts; but no, we mess with our gadgets, too. The trouble with them is the more we use them the more we rely upon them; we let them do our figuring for us—even when common sense is shoving the answers right up our silly noses! Okay, someone at HQ was playing about with the extraps, and it seems they punched in the right question … or, depending how you view it, the wrong one.”
“Go on. What was the question?”
“Well, not really a question,” Chung said, “but a scenario, or a simultaneous equation, certainly. You know how it works.”
“Pretend I don’t,” Trask answered, “and get on with it!”
“I … I just want you to stay calm,” said Chung. And then, without further pause, “Very well, the equation was this: Bruce Trennier equals Australia equals Malinari the Mind. Denise Karalambos equals Greece equals Vavara. And therefore Andre Corner equals England … equals …?”
Trask gave a start and sat bolt upright in his chair. “Good God almighty!” he said. And then, hoarsely: “How could we be so blind? Malinari took Bruce Trennier for his lieutenant because Trennier knew Australia.”
And Goodly came in with, “Vavara took Denise Karalambos for her knowledge of Greece or the Greek islands, namely this Greek island.”
Which left Liz to finish it with, “Szwart took Andre Corner—a psychiatrist, formerly of Harley Street—for his knowledge of … of London!”
Only Manolis, who wasn’t in possession of all the minutiae, failed to appreciate the situation. But he knew it was serious when Trask bounded from his chair and almost upset the tables.
“Millie!” he croaked, his face more gaunt than ever. “God, I have to get onto London right now! I have to talk to Millie!”
Chung was on his feet, too, and quickly said, “I knew you would. So I made arrangements that they’d call us back in just fifteen minutes. If you’ll just slow down and take it easy, by the time you get over to the lobby—”
But Trask was already on his way.
Liz followed after him; Lardis, too, because his Lissa was at E-Branch HQ, but Chung and Goodly stayed behind to explain the situation as best they could to Manolis. It didn’t take too long, and when they were through Manolis nodded and said, “Ben, he still has thee poor Zek on his mind. And now this. Thee new lady in his life could be in danger.”
“Exactly,” said Chung. “Someone’s tried to bug the HQ and we don’t know how much they got, and it’s possible that Szwart, who or whatever he is, is in London. And one of the last things Ben did before we left was to warn everyone of the possibility that the Wamphyri—”
“That they might try to make thee preemptive strike, yes,” said Manolis.
Then, toying with drinks diluted by melted ice water, the three sat silently, lost in their own thoughts, and waited for Trask and the others to return …
In the mazelike cellars of Luigi Castellano’s Bagheria villa, Castellano and his man—or his familiar creature, his thrall, Garzia Nicosia—stood in a musty, cobwebbed room with a low, vaulted ceiling, and spoke in voices that reverberated eerily from wall to wall, echoed out into the labyrinth of subterranean rooms and corridors, and returned as sighing whispers.
The room was carved from the bedrock, and regularly spaced columns supported the claustrophobic ceiling. In nitre-streaked walls, two-foot-square niches had been cut three feet deep around an oblong circumference of about 180 feet, each of which—more than two hundred of them—contained ancient, crumbling remains. In addition, however, many niches contained remnants that weren’t nearly so old, which had been stuffed in among the collapsed wood of coffins and the mouldering rags and skeletons of the rightful occupants.
“The burial chamber of the Argucci family,” said Castellano, his face ruddily lit by a flaring faggot held aloft in Garzia’s hand. “They were a large family, and for two hundred years when they owned the ground above and all the many acres around, they incarcerated their dead in this vault. A great family, yes, who planned to remain a family, and keep themselves together as one unit even in death. These vaults—or cellars as they are now—were hewn accordingly.
“But various disasters followed, feuds, many trials and few tribulations. Their fortunes waned; the Arguccis were split up; they travelled abroad into Italy and farther afield. The estate was sold off and became an olive grove, and when that failed I, Luigi Francezci, called Castellano, bought it up.
“As for a detailed history of the Arguccis—a progressive family tree—it’s written on bronze plates over each of those niches there, under all of that powdered coffin wood, grime and spider debris …
“Ah, but prior to selling the old place off, and determined that his forebears should never be moved or disturbed, the last of the Arguccis fashioned the ingenious doorway to this burial chamber. And back in a time when the estate was the centre of a small but flourishing olive-oil empire—long before you and I came here, Garzia—the enterprising proprietor discovered it, probably by accident.
“Well, good for him, and good for us. For since he is long gone now, we’re the only ones who know of it.”
Castellano glanced at a wooden table where piles of ancient ledgers, notebooks, and manuscripts were long fallen into decay. And sitting on a rickety chair, he went on. “Enterprising, yes, this old olive-oil baron. He kept his ‘regular’ accounts in the house upstairs, but the true measure of his profits was stashed away down here!
“Well, give him his due—he may have been less than honest when it came to fiddling the books and declaring his taxes, but he never once disturbed these dead and mummied Arguccis.”
Garzia swept his torch lower, until the niches in the walls came alive with dancing shadows, jumbled old bones, and yawning skulls; skulls that seemed to protest, albeit silently, through jaws fused in rictal shrieks. And:
“Indeed,” Garzia agreed. “It appears he desecrated nothing, that olive-oily old man, but left all such to us!”
“The perfect retreat,” said Castellano. “Spacious overhead, and secret places underground. It’s almost a fortress—walled and well-protected—with our men in the grounds and, as a last resort, ourselves: stronger than other men and less inclined to injury and pain. I’ve often wondered just exactly what it would take to kill one such as you or me … but I’m not ready to find out just yet.”
“Perhaps later,” Garzia said, “when the men we’ve infected have had time to stabilize? For then they’ll be vampires, too.”
“Well, perhaps,” Castellano considered it. “For I would be interested to find out, certainly. To know how much punishment creatures such as ourselves can take before giving up our ghosts. But for now … let’s get done with this.” He stood up.
On the dusty floor between them lay the naked, drained, and mutilated body of the Russian double agent, Georgi Grusev, with his jaws wide open in much the same fashion as many of the mummified figures in the walls. Having hung by his heels in Garzia’s torture chamber overnight and all through the day, rigor mortis had locked Grusev’s jaws in that position; likewise the unholy, inverted cross of his outspread arms. Garzia had taken care of that—by breaking the arms at the shoulders and folding them down.
Now the vampires took up the body, Castellano at the head, and Garzia at the feet, and without pause fed it headfirst into the nearest niche. As
it went the crumbling bones of some elder Argucci, entombed two hundred years before, fell into dust and gave it passage. And the silent screams seemed louder yet, but Castellano and Garzia didn’t hear them.
Then, as the nightmare pair dusted themselves down and left the burial chamber, Garzia looked back in satisfaction. Several dozen pairs of feet—none of them Arguccis, but all with their flesh in various stages of decay or completely sloughed away—protruded from their niches like Georgi Grusev’s … except his were firm as yet, however cold, and their toes pointed upwards.
And as that secret door swung shut on its hoard of violated dead, becoming a solid stone wall once more, the monster Garzia paused to scuff out certain telltale marks on the floor—twin tracks where Grusev’s heels had dragged in the dust—and then extinguished his torch and followed the darkly flowing shape of his master as Castellano led on …
14
THE SUN, THE SAND, THE SEA—AND THE SCREAMING?
Ben Trask was momentarily absent, busy on the phone talking to London. But after he had been gone for only a few minutes, his second-in-command, the precog Ian Goodly, had begun to fill in for him. Always aware of the future’s relentless encroachment, Goodly had rarely been known to waste time.
“Manolis, I recall your saying something about weapons,” he began. “It was while we were on the ferry. You told Liz you had special weapons. Now what was all that about?”
“Ah!” said Manolis. “But Ian, you weren’t in on thee Janos Ferenczy affair, were you? We learned a few things that time.”
“I know,” said the other. “Those files are required reading for everyone in E-Branch. But all of that was twenty-five or so years ago. What does it have to do with the here and now? Apart from the fact that we’re back in the Greek islands, that is.”
“What weapons have you brought with you?” Manolis answered the precog’s question with one of his own.
“Standard E-Branch stuff,” Goodly shrugged. “Basically nine-millimeter Brownings with a few special adaptations. We’ve had three years to develop them. Silver-tipped bullets, mainly. And now there’s a new one that shatters and releases a quantity of concentrated oil of garlic into the target.”
