by Dan Abnett
“That was a nice jacket,” Lara said. She made no attempt to stop him. She sat back and watched.
The man cut the lining out of the body, turned the sleeves inside out, and then inverted all the pocket linings. He felt the coat carefully for concealed pouches or hard objects. He put the jacket down. Then he took the knife and slit the rucksack apart with similar efficiency, like a butcher jointing meat. He finger-searched each seam. Then he put the gutted rucksack down too.
Holding the knife, he looked at Lara.
“What are you going to cut up next?” she asked.
The man clicked the utility tool shut and set it on the table. His fingers lingered over the flashlight and the pen torch, and then picked up the camera. He switched it on, pressed playback, and scrolled through the stored pictures. There was nothing on it except shots of the Candle Lane site. Lara had fitted a packet-fresh memory card on her way out last night.
Disappointed, the man went back through the pictures, deleting each one in turn. He switched the blanked camera off again and put it down.
He looked at her.
“No ID,” he said.
She shrugged.
“You probably have to assume that was deliberate,” she replied.
“Because you thought you’d be caught?” he asked.
“In case I was caught,” she said.
“Do you know how long it will take us to identify you?” he asked.
“No. I suppose that depends who you are,” said Lara.
“Name?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m asking,” she said.
He stared at her, his gaze unwavering.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“I’m assuming you’re military,” she said. “Or ex-military. What are you, private security?”
The man was wearing black fatigues. He wasn’t wearing his sidearm, but he and the three men who had detained her in the cyst chamber had been equipped with matte-black Sig nines. Their clothing and demeanour, even their haircuts, had been uniform.
“You don’t seem to be grasping the principle of interrogation,” the man said.
“And you don’t seem to be grasping the basic principles of detention,” Lara replied. “I have rights. You need to identify yourself and your authority. You need to tell me if I’m charged with anything.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” he said. “And you need to start cooperating.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“Or?” she asked.
“Again, the questions here are flowing the wrong way,” the man said.
“Not a very deft interrogator, then, are you?”
“Why were you at Candle Lane?” he asked.
“Why were you?”
The door opened. One of the other men entered and handed an iPad to the man with the scar. Then he left again.
The man with the scar looked down at the iPad.
“Lara Croft,” he said, reading off the screen. “British passport. Archaeologist and explorer.”
“Nice,” she said. “Pulled that by face-rec software? So, military or more than military. Police? No.”
“No. We figured it was you; you’re a known person. We just like to be thorough.”
“Policemen follow rules,” said Lara. “They read a person her rights. They understand the parameters of detention.”
“You’ve met some very nice policemen,” he said.
“I’ve always found them charming,” she said, “if I want to know the time, or ask directions.”
“What were you doing at Candle Lane, Miss Croft?”
“Well, now,” Lara said, making a display of pretend deep thought. “I’m an archaeologist and an explorer. I simply cannot imagine.”
“Do you think you’re being amusing?” he asked.
“No, I think I’m annoying the hell out of you. Once you’re annoyed, you’ll make a slip, and I’ll start to learn things. It’s a very simple interrogation technique.”
“Really?” he asked.
Lara nodded.
“You’ve already moved from fact-oriented questions to more emotional observations. ‘Do you think you’re being amusing?’ That’s just borderline aggravated, and not germane.”
He continued to stare at her.
“Of course,” Lara said, folding her arms, “you could cut through the games by talking directly and identifying yourself.”
The man pulled out the other chair, sat down facing her, and looked her in the eyes.
“My name is Cryer,” he said.
“Am I charged with something, Mr. Cryer?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break. Well, not much. I entered.”
“A prohibited site,” he said. “If we brought charges, they would carry a stiff penalty.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “Besides, I was invited.”
“Invited?”
“To join the Candle Lane dig.”
“When?”
“About four days ago.”
“You were in Sri Lanka about four days ago.”
“I was. The invitation came during a phone call.”
“From?”
“A member of the dig team. A friend. He wanted to recruit me. He needed my expertise. I came to London and went to the site. The place was closed.”
“But you decided to enter anyway,” said Cryer.
“Archaeologist and explorer, Mr. Cryer,” she said. “I’m not sure why that’s giving you so much trouble. I have a great curiosity. It’s in the genes. I look for answers...particularly when I’m being stonewalled.”
“The Candle Lane site was closed, Miss Croft. The excavation was wound up.”
“By whom?”
“By us.”
“And who is ‘us,’ Mr. Cryer?”
“Division Eleven,” he said.
Lara opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated for a split second.
“Ah,” he said. Was that a smile? “A response at last. Discomfort. Some of that bravado gone, has it?”
Lara recovered neatly.
“Ministry of Defence,” she said. “I was close, then. Division Eleven was a rumour. Unconfirmed. A bit of a myth, I thought, but here you are, and Theresa Johnson has a lot to answer for.”
“Leave the Minister of Defence out of this,” said Cryer.
“Actually, given my line of work and the fact that you do, apparently, exist after all, I’m amazed our paths haven’t crossed before.”
“Maybe they have,” said Cryer.
“Nice.” Lara smiled. “You’re that good, huh?”
“We have our moments.”
“Division Eleven, so the rumour goes, is Special Operations. Artefacts. Unusual circumstances.”
“We prefer the term ‘exotic issues,’” Cryer said.
“I’m sure you do. Why was the site closed? What did Annie Hawkes find?”
“I don’t think that’s a conversation we’re going to have, Miss Croft.”
“Well, then, you’re missing out,” said Lara. “You’ve got my file on that tablet. I imagine it’s quite extensive. Extensive enough to show you that I could offer a great deal in the way of special assistance.”
“Not necessary. It’s all in hand.”
“Really?” she asked.
Cryer sat back slightly, but his gaze did not leave her for a second.
“Division Eleven has a great deal of latitude in its operations, Miss Croft. A very great deal. Legal latitude. We are not bound by the usual regulations. It’s a small addendum to the Anti-Terrorism Act, actually. We can do just about anything we like. Hold you without charge, for instance. Hold you indefinitely. Withhold legal assistance. Withhold your opportunity to contact anybody or inform anybody of your whereabouts.”
“That wasn’t a threat,” he said. “I haven’t got to the threat yet.”
“I’d say finding Annie Hawkes sedated and held against her will in a psychiatric hospital was all the threat you needed,” she said.
“Ms. Hawkes is ill,” said Cryer. “The Candle Lane site made her ill. She was one of a number of individuals from the excavation team who had to be placed in care for their own good. They are receiving the highest level of medical support. We’re not monsters.”
“Monsters always say that,” said Lara.
Now he smiled.
“What did Annie Hawkes find?” Lara asked. “What made her ill? What made her team sick? Why was Candle Lane closed? Why is the M.O.D. involved?”
“Miss Croft—”
“Let me help you, Cryer.”
“Let me help you,” he said. “You’re seeing something that isn’t there. You’re fired up by a mystery that doesn’t exist. Blame that curiosity on your genes. There’s nothing sinister going on.”
With a slow and mocking roll of her head, Lara looked at the room around them.
“I beg to differ,” she said.
“All right,” he said, amused. “Let’s do this. You saw the site.”
“And it’s an extraordinary site. It needs to be opened and fully detailed.”
“It deserves it, yes,” he agreed.
“If you delay or cancel the dig, a priceless site will be lost to Crossrail.”
“No, it won’t,” Cryer said. “The Crossrail route is going to be altered slightly so that the Candle Lane site can be left undisturbed. The alterations to the project are being arranged right now. I wish I could tell you that it’s because of the quality of the finds there. Truly splendid things, I completely agree. In this case, however, the decision rests on a simpler issue. The site is contaminated.”
“It’s what?”
“Contaminated,” he said. “You saw the plane.”
“Yes, briefly. And Annie mentioned it. World War Two. Luftwaffe.”
“Correct,” Cryer said. “One of six brought down on a single night during the Blitz. April 1941. A modified Dornier Do 17. Achsbach Division, reserved for special duty by Oberkommando Der Luftwaffe—Extraordinary Flight Operations. One night, one raid. Six planes downed. It was believed, at the time, that the wreckage of all of them had been recovered, but that aircraft lay hidden in the rubble and was subsequently buried.”
“That happens. What are we talking about? Is it still carrying its stick of bombs, or had it managed to ditch them?” Lara asked.
“It had not dropped its payload. The payload is still there, in the wreck.”
“So defuse it.”
Cryer smiled.
“The payload wasn’t a bomb, Miss Croft, not conventional explosives. It was experimental. The weapon on board was designed in haste and desperation by the Nazis to end the war with Britain quickly. Thankfully, the plane was brought down and the weapon did not detonate. It was a nerve agent.”
“Chemical warfare?” she asked.
“Extremely unpleasant material. Utterly monstrous. It’s been lying in the ground under the city for seventy years. Leaking into the sub-soil, in fact. The composition has changed over time, reacted with groundwater, et cetera, but it is still lethal. Ms. Hawkes’s team disturbed it, unwittingly. Over a period of days, the nerve agent began to affect most of the team members exposed to it. Symptoms ranged from skin irritation, headaches, fever, stomach upset, to anaemia, and, in one instance, a seizure. It also provoked memory loss, paranoia, and hallucinations. In the worst cases, Ms. Hawkes included, the brain damage may be irreversible. We’re treating all the cases. The site is closed, and will remain closed until we can find a secure and comprehensive way of clearing the nerve agent and cleaning the site. That may take years.”
“I see,” said Lara.
“Which is why we didn’t want anybody going in there,” said Cryer, “or a panic spreading, if word got out. Given your credentials, I’m sure you can appreciate the sensitivity of this situation. I’m sure you can be trusted to keep this information to yourself.”
“I’m sure I can,” said Lara. “You could have led with that.”
The door opened again, and another man came in. He handed Cryer a sheet of paper.
Cryer read it.
“The nerve agent has a very unpleasant effect on the human mind,” he said. “Depending on the degree of exposure, it causes massive delusions, leading to psychotic breaks, irrational behaviour, self-harm, and violent outbursts. We didn’t know what your exposure level was, Miss Croft. If it had been high, you would not have dealt with this conversation well. You would have denied the truth of it. We’ve found this in several cases. Ms. Hawkes is one of them. She became convinced the site was haunted, and that supernatural events had been taking place. She becomes agitated and even violent if any attempt is made to explain the actual situation to her. She is in Hanover Care for her own well-being and for the public good.”
Cryer gestured to the piece of paper.
“Your exposure levels, we have ascertained, are negligible. You are not contaminated. You are not at risk, and you are not a risk to others.”
Lara nodded.
“So I can go?”
“Yes, Miss Croft. You can go, provided we have an understanding about the confidentiality of this situation, and that you sign a release to that effect. I’ll give you a phone number to call if you experience any ill effects in the next few weeks. Please use it if you do.”
“All right.”
Lara got to her feet.
“That site needs to be cleared,” she said. “The finds are too important to lose. The Roman level is very significant indeed.”
“I agree,” Cryer said.
“But it’s nothing compared to the cyst chamber. That’s probably the most important find I’ve ever seen in this country. It rewrites our understanding of Britain’s prehistory. It is vital for it to be properly excavated as a soon as possible, and—”
“Miss Croft, there was no cyst chamber.”
“Whatever you want to call it. The chamber with the obelisk. Where you found me.”
“There was no obelisk,” Cryer said. “No obelisk, no cyst chamber.”
“I saw it,” she said.
“I believe you believe that.”
“I took pictures of it,” she began, and then looked at her camera.
“Exposure during your brief visit was enough to affect your mind, Miss Croft. You’re clean now, but you were hallucinating. It was your imagination.”
“No,” Lara said.
“I’m sorry. Did you feel paranoid or disturbed underground at the site, Miss Croft? Did you feel you heard sounds and movements?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And you believe you saw an obelisk?”
“Yes,” she said.
“We found you in the lowest level, an old drain culvert. Not a cyst chamber. It was the poor air and the residue of the nerve agent. You were hallucinating.”
Lara looked at Cryer.
“Was I?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” said Cryer. “But everything’s all right now.”
CHAPTER FIVE:
HAUNTED
London
Under old stars lay a forest. The forest was old, too, a dark stand of tall, ancient trees, their canopy a starless black, their structure invisible except for the way it blocked out the speckled night sky.
The forest creaked and whispered in the night breeze.
An owl, not the only hunter awake that night, called through the gloom. Somewhere, further away, a fox barked and yapped; a fox, or something that made the hard, human pain noise of a fox.
Beneath the trees, the gla
des of the forest were bathed in a silver haze. Starlight, clearer than Lara had ever seen it, transmuted a lingering, slow night mist into ghost haze. Tarnished smoke drifted lazily between the black uprights of the tree trunks.
The mist was not empty.
Lara walked forwards, each step as quiet as she could make it. Bracken and soft, damp soil sponged under her bare feet. Somewhere, some night beetle or nocturnal bird cracked and snapped at bark, a muffled pistol shot.
Who was out there in the smoke? What was out there?
She saw a shape that loomed from the mist as she approached it. A man... No, a hooded, shrouded woman... No, a stone: a standing stone, soft-shouldered and rising to a rounded tip. Other stones, once upright, leant and rested in a nest of brambles at its feet. The stones had been brought here a long time ago, and their structure, and their purpose, and their very meaning had been forgotten because it was a time before there was a language that could be written.
Lara walked up and stood facing the stones. Mist drifted around her, like the white fumes of a spent bonfire. She examined the surface of the stone, the grey and green lichen, the old swirls and lines of carvings that millennia of rain had smoothed to faint tracks.
The fox yapped again, closer. Undergrowth rustled, but it had not been stirred by the breath of the breeze.
Lara turned. There were other stones standing in a circle around her, vague shapes in the mist.
But they were not stones. They were men.
They were grey and silent. They were motionless. Heavy robes swaddled them against the night chill. The flat faceplates of their ancient helms reflected the starlight as a flat glare with simple slits for eyes and frowning apertures for mouths.
They were so still. Perhaps they were stone, too. Ancient statues...or ghosts.
The slow, faint swirls of breath clouded from their mouth slits. Not statues. Not ghosts.
“Who are you?” Lara asked.
There was no reply.
One figure slowly uncurled an arm. It was holding a long-hafted axe with a beaked blade.
It wasn’t an axe for splitting wood or clearing timber.
It was an axe made for parting flesh and bone. It was an axe made for war.
There was a rising howl, a guttural wail no more or less human than the yapping of the fox out in the darkness. It came from all the figures, rising in their throats, echoing from their graven faceplates.
