Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Kathleen Ryan

  “How did you meet Professor Kettridge?”

  “At a dig in Lebanon. Baalbek. It’s a long story.”

  “Are you going anywhere?” She grinned at him.

  “No.” Hesha waited, giving her the opportunity, but when Elizabeth neither asked for the truth nor looked for it with her eyes, he went on freely. Jordan Kettridge might not have recognized the events described in the Setite’s version, but Hesha made a thrilling story of them. Professor Kettridge shone as an honest archaeologist swept up in international events. Thompson made brave stands against unnamed terrorists; Erich Vegel protected the dig alone, by night, against overwhelming odds; and Hesha (with a fair amount of modesty) took the stage as the linguist, local guide, and quiet man behind the scenes. By the end of the account, Kettridge had discovered Hesha’s secret, overreacted, and fled quite plausibly.

  “And you haven’t spoken to him since?”

  The Setite paused. “I suspect I give him the same kind of nightmares I gave you,” he looked up at her, “though for different reasons—” and the soft, embarrassed glance in his eyes was a masterwork of misdirection. With a slight, visible effort, he shook off the sentiment. “Kettridge is a scientist. I am…difficult to explain. I don’t force the issue on him.” Hesha set his tools down on the tabletop. “I think I’m done for the night,” he said, stretching. Elizabeth watched his body move under his shirt, found herself staring, and looked quickly away. “You should get some rest, too.”

  They stood up together. Walking slowly, side by side, they traversed the length of the museum. At the point where Elizabeth would turn toward Vegel’s room and Hesha would turn toward his own, she hesitated, and was relieved to find him still standing next to her. His hand reached up to her shoulder.

  “Go,” said Hesha, hoarsely.

  Elizabeth bit her lip. She pulled her key from her pocket and took the steps down to her door. She listened to his soft footfalls take him farther, to his own threshold, and she turned the key in the lock. For another second she hesitated. Go to bed, Lizzie. Don’t think about it. She snapped the key out of the wards and opened the door. Against her better judgment, she looked back—

  —and saw him lying crumpled on the floor.

  “Hesha!”

  She screamed and ran at the same time, arrived breathless, and skidded to a stop on her hands and knees.

  “Hesha!” Elizabeth’s hands shook helplessly. No pulse to take, no breath sounds to listen for. His eyes—his eyes were shut; the lids and irises motionless. She struck the floor with her fist and jumped up again. The bookshelf—she flew to it and tried to slide it open. “Thompson! Thompson!” She kicked furiously at the heavy wooden case. “Damn it, Ron!” She whirled around, trying to remember…there were microphones everywhere, but where was the nearest intercom? Her apartment? Hesha’s study? “Thompson!” she yelled again.

  Elizabeth turned to run to her room. Behind her, the bookshelf slid aside, and Thompson and the Asp dodged around her to reach their master. She was nearly knocked down; she hardly thought about it.

  Ron Thompson knelt by Hesha—carefully, without touching him or his clothing—and held the other two off with a gesture. “Sir?”

  No one breathed.

  “Sir?”

  The Setite’s left hand crept to his collar. From the cords hung round his neck, at a glacial pace, he selected the newest. “Eye,” he said.

  Thompson waved Raphael in. “Take his legs.” The Asp obeyed, and together they lifted Hesha’s unresisting carcass off the ground. “Liz, get the door to his room.”

  Wednesday, 14 July 1999, 3:56 AM

  Laurel Ridge Farm

  Columbia, Maryland

  “Light,” said Thompson. “Sir? We’re on the last step. We can’t go any farther without…”

  The creature in his arms hissed. Sibilant echoes filled the chamber.

  “Thank you, sir.” Thompson started moving again. “Careful where you step, Raf. They won’t bite after he’s said the word, but shuffle your feet just to be on the safe side. Turning right, now. Easy.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and waded—gently—into the ankle-deep confusion of snakes. The procession passed by the Eighth Hour and the Seventh. Elizabeth had to stop often to find a clear place to rest her feet. She felt as though the stars above moved with them and that the tangle of reptiles had eyes on her.

  “Straight shot over to the sandbox, Raf. Liz? Crossing here.” They stepped out into the empty center of the tomb. Elizabeth trailed after them, certain now that something was following her.

  “Good. Set him down.” Thompson laid his master on a long, thin, squat bench—nearly a cot—at the edge of a large, circular patch of white sand. From a tiny chest of drawers beside the circle, he took a bronze amulet on a black cord and a small bag shut tight by a drawstring. He handed them to Hesha without a word, and the Setite’s fingers sprang into life.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Elizabeth whispered.

  “Quiet,” Thompson ordered. Looking at her face, he relented. “He’s all right, he’s just…concentrating. He doesn’t have any energy to spare. Don’t distract him.” He pulled her up against the wall and cleared space for the two to sit. On the other side of the sand, the Asp did the same.

  Hesha’s hands stopped. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he sat bolt upright on the bench, stretched his hands out clenched tightly together, and moved his mouth as if he were speaking. The three mortals heard only a faint whistle, like a breeze. Hesha’s right arm stuck straight out, steady as stone. Hesha’s left arm descended, slowly, holding the bronze figure. The white eye of the statue had been tied into the knot above it. The tip of the amulet touched the sand; the Setite’s left arm fell back to his lap, and though his body moved not at all, the pendulum began to sway wildly.

  Elizabeth watched, fascinated. The little bob disobeyed half the laws of physics—after a quick whip to one side that stretched the cord to its full length, it zipped back just as fast to the center, changed direction, and swung sluggishly through a short arc. Slow, fast, short, long, making sharp turns, wide angles—like a magnetic top, she thought. Like a toy. She drew her knees in and braced both hands against the floor, sitting up straighter to see better. Fine black lines appeared on the sand wherever the amulet went—

  When it stopped, it stopped suddenly. The eye and the weight made one last desperate pull toward the long line, and stayed there, quivering, dripping dark powder onto the sand. Hesha reached out and grasped the amulet, and the line between his hands went slack.

  “Kettridge is in Philadelphia,” he said, in a perfectly ordinary voice. “Have the agency provide protection for him. He is not to know the team is there; he is not to be interfered with—but he will need more eyes and firepower than I suspect he can muster on his own. Who saw him there?”

  “Pauline Richards, sir. With your permission, I’d like her to head the team. She’s one of the candidates I’ve been considering as a replacement.”

  “As you will.” Hesha opened his eyes. Kettridge took my advice. Interesting. The other red eye remained in New York City. He suspected that a warlock owned it; if true, it was completely inaccessible—but if true, why was it…unattended? There was no presence connected with it. The Eye itself lay in Atlanta. Very well. It could stay where it was, now that he understood the source. Hesha rubbed the white bead between his fingers. He took it off the cord and tied it again around his neck. The long line; the line too faint and too shaky to trace the first night in New York—now he knew where it ended.

  He turned to the Asp. “Thank you for your assistance. Can you take the desk while Thompson and I conclude arrangements? Time is short.” As an afterthought, he added, “Show her the safe way out, if you would.”

  “Yes, sir.” Raphael danced nimbly away between the copperheads’ bodies. Liz hesitated, hovering toward Hesha. “Good night, Elizabeth,” said the creature, sternly. Her jaw clenched tight, but she rushed to catch up to her guide and
they vanished up the stairs.

  “Thompson. The Eye is in Atlanta, but the Eye’s source of power lies in Calcutta. We leave for India immediately.” The Setite found his feet and made a beeline for the sarcophagus. The snakes opened a path for him. Ron walked in the wake. “Call Janet as soon as you leave me; prepare equipment for yourself and the Asp. Expect the worst. Conference at sundown as usual, but have Miss Dimitros attend.”

  “Sir? Are we…we can’t take her with us.?!”

  “No?” Hesha perched on the edge of his stony couch. “We cannot leave her here alone, Thompson; we cannot send her back to New York until we are sure of her. The doctor is in Alaska. I doubt if her second-in-command would be quite so amenable to our usual storage solution…even if I cared to risk Elizabeth’s health by placing her in a coma for the weeks or months of our absence. We could kill her, of course…but I think we will find her useful in Calcutta.

  “Unless you would like me to reconsider, Thompson.”

  “No.” Ron’s ruddy face was pale. “No, sir, thank you.”

  “Leave me,” said the monster, lying down. “The sun rises.”

  Elizabeth appeared—uncertain but poised—in the door between her room and Vegel’s carved crypt. Thompson stood, indicated the empty chair beside his own, and smiled reassuringly. He handed a thick stack of documents to Liz, including her own genuine passport, shot records, and university records, which she had left in her apartment in New York. He opened his notebook—a new one, dedicated to Calcutta and nothing else—and sat back with an air of expectation. Raphael took a seat, and after a theatrically appropriate interval, Hesha himself joined the group.

  “Good evening,” said the Setite, taking his place on the stone bench. “Janet?” He said to the ceiling.

  “Here, sir.”

  Hesha faced Liz and gestured to the disembodied speaker. “Elizabeth Dimitros, Janet Lindbergh. Circumstances forbid a more personal introduction, I’m afraid. Miss Dimitros, we leave for Calcutta this afternoon.”

  Elizabeth’s brows climbed in surprise. Her chin came up sharply, defiantly. The golden glints in her eyes flashed at, through, and beyond the Setite’s face, and she withdrew slightly. Still, she said nothing, and Hesha, who had had a quick and quiet speech ready to convince her if it became necessary, set those words aside and went on:

  “Thompson and the Asp go with us; Mrs. Lindbergh and the Asp stay here as rear guard. Reports, please. Janet?”

  Janet efficiently ticked off the arrangements and assumed identities they’d each be traveling under, including a diplomatic passport for the Asp.

  “Diplomatic seal on all his baggage—including you, sir.”

  “Excellent,” said Hesha. “Hotel?”

  “The Oberoi Grand. Central, expensive, traditional but refurbished—and with an available suite exceeding Thompson’s basic requirements, sir.”

  Ron spoke up. “We’ve hedged our bets with rooms under cover at various more appropriate places throughout town. I’ve got agents en route to take occupancy on schedule and form parts of the guard team. And there will be a H. M. Ruhadze making the appropriate border crossings to account for your public appearance and disappearance as needed.”

  “Munitions?”

  Thompson glanced toward Elizabeth. He and the Asp had their choices ready, but…they were somewhat revealing. Instead of reading the list out loud, he passed his notebook to his employer. Hesha scanned it without expression. He reached toward Thompson without looking, and Ron handed the pencil to him.

  “Bring extra supplies of the circled items; we may need them for trade on the black market. If not, we can distribute them for goodwill before we return.

  “As for personal belongings: Be ready for anything. Asp, you can pass for local if you don’t speak. I want your maximum range of costume ready as soon as we land. The same goes for my kit. We can pick up additional indigenous clothing once we reach the city, but we cannot do it without suspicion unless we blend in before we enter the shops.

  “Thompson. Western dress. Tourist gear, business wear, bodyguard for any level from gutter to glitter. If you can pick up the accent we may add an Anglo-Indian range.

  “Elizabeth. Pack your bags back up, but don’t take all your books. Look over your supposed itinerary and select such volumes as would aid research on your dissertation at those places. Take from Vegel’s library as you need, and bring anything we have on Bengali myth. You will study that and the hieroglyphs for most of our stay. As for clothes, I want your own things in your own cases. Thompson, see that she has a tourist, business, and jet-set wardrobe available at the Oberoi Grand when we arrive.”

  “I don’t have jet-set clothes? Hesha,” Elizabeth put in. “I suppose your men could steal my suits and things from my apartment—like they have my passport—but my silver dress is the only—”

  He cut her off. “We will attend to that.”

  Elizabeth subsided. Thompson flipped to a new page in his notebook. The master of the house drilled them over baggage claim, shipping crates under separate labels, and the meeting dragged on.

  A feeling like nostalgia settled into the old cop’s bones. There was Hesha, captain of the expedition, his mind wrapped around every detail. The Asp, murderous but familiar, sleek and silent. Janet, sharp, thorough, thinking of everything almost as quickly as the boss himself. And if Vegel wasn’t there to give efficiency a little twisted warmth, at least Elizabeth was finally on the team instead of pulling against it. He could see her, a year from now, working in the museum, chatting with poor lonely Janet, kidding around with the twins, learning from himself how to scan and shoot and run the system at the farm. He glanced down at the sleek, brown head beside him and smiled. Little sister, he thought. Close enough.

  part three:

  calcutta

  Friday, 16 July 1999, 8:06 PM (local time)

  The Oberoi Grand Hotel

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  Hesha woke rapidly. The sun now setting over the Ganges delta had abandoned Baltimore some ten hours earlier; the long journey had taken them into and out of the night an unsettling number of times. Freed from sleep in the cargo compartments of the jets, he had had time to himself. Since the ruin of Atlanta, his prayers to Set had been too rare, his meditations interrupted too often by the Eye and all that came with it. He let his mind dwell a moment on the dreams his god had sent him— painful but promising visions—and the plans now concrete in his thoughts.

  Rolling over, the Setite stretched himself. The casket, lined in suede and filled with fire-retardant gel, only gently confined his contortions. In a short time, he had hands, feet, and proper ears again. With a slickly scaled claw, he felt through the darkness. There was a small plug of gel and leather near his head; he pulled it aside and listened.

  “Raf? What in hell did you bring these for?”

  “Black market. They’re very hot over here.”

  “Fine. You stow them. C’mere, Liz.”

  Hesha opened a tiny hatch that the plug had hidden. The light outside was dim and slightly blue. Satisfied, he prepared to make his appearance.

  Thompson’s assured baritone continued outside. “Calcutta has no phones worth speaking of, right? We wouldn’t use them anyway. Take this. There’s a list of numbers you’ll need to memorize, I’ll give them to you in a second. But the first and last security protocol for our phones is: no names. Ever. Someone dials up and calls you Dimitros, Elizabeth, Liz, Lizzie, anything—or asks you for any of us by name—you hang up. It’s a trap call. After we’ve got the codes beaten into your head, I’ll go over whether you leave the phone where it is, call us, call scram, or what. Now. First rule?”

  “No names.”

  “Last rule.”

  “No names.”

  Hesha slipped from the aluminum travel-case into blue-curtained dimness. His personal items were strewn convincingly around the room. His truly private bags sat next to the gel-filled casket and had, by order, not been touched. The bedclothes, rumpled
, testified to a jetlagged traveler. The bathroom showed enough signs of use; he seemed not to have had a shower before napping. He proceeded to take one now, and in half an hour a clean, rested Hesha, dressed well but lightly, opened the connecting door to the rest of his suite.

  “Good evening.”

  His retainers stopped in their tasks. The Asp set an elaborate machine-gun back into its case. He dropped down beside it on a couch now cluttered with armament. Thompson put down a computer hook-up and found a chair near an empty sideboard. Elizabeth looked up from the central table. Her new phone, a notepad, guide-books and a stack of local newspapers lay piled in heaps around her place.

  “Report, please. Thompson?”

  “Janet’s news is waiting on your laptop. Everything here—so far—has gone without a hitch, sir.” He made a short, dismissive gesture with his hands. “We’re only half-settled in, of course.”

  Hesha picked a pistol out of one of the Asp’s cases and weighed it in his hands. “Reports at dawn, then.” Discarding the weapon, he turned and left them.

  Friday, 16 July 1999, 11:27 PM

  The Albert Hall Coffee Shop

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  Hesha walked into the old, smoke-filled cafe with a book in his hand. It was a worn-out, rebound, foxed and tattered copy of Calcuttan folk tales. The Setite obtained a cup of coffee, a small table, and a straight, slat-back chair. He settled in as though he had all night to read. Through the haze and the variety of lights—none of the bulbs in the lamps seemed to have come from the same country, let alone the same box—Hesha made, without haste, eye contact with a man at the corner table farthest from the door. The Indian was white-haired and bearded, dark-skinned and hollow-eyed. He spoke, smiling pleasantly, to two earnest-looking young students both bearing, in case an onlooker might doubt, university crests and young-people’s causes blazoned across their T-shirts, books, and bags. Hesha did not doubt; he was certain these two (whatever their former intentions) would never attend lectures in the sun-lit rooms of Calcutta’s classrooms again. He raised his coffee cup to his lips and opened his book to a random page, but he kept one eye on the trio in the corner.