by Paul Kenyon
Skytop said, "Hello, Fergus, nice to see you again. Tossed any cabers lately?"
Fergus stayed where he was, a hulking figure with a shotgun in the doorframe of the stone gatehouse. He blinked suspiciously at Skytop. "What're ye doing here?" he growled.
Skytop grinned at him in the faint predawn light. He took a step forward. Fergus swung his shotgun up.
"I came to apply for the gatekeeper's job," Skytop said. "1 heard it's going to be open."
"Stay where ye are, mon. One more step and I'll blow ye apart."
Skytop stopped. He didn't think much of Fergus, but he had a healthy respect for the shotgun, an old-fashioned blunderbuss that probably was loaded with rusty nails.
"How're your ribs, Fergus? Healing?"
Fergus' finger curled around the trigger. "Off with ye!"
Skytop considered the situation. He was ten feet from Fergus. He couldn't cover ten feet as fast as Fergus' finger could cover about a quarter of an inch.
"I'm warning you, Fergus. I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down."
Fergus bared his teeth. "Ye're a bauld one, to show ye're face again. Ye have till the count of five to leave."
"All right, all right, don't get feisty." Skytop half-turned. He knew that as soon as his back was to Fergus, Fergus was going to pull the trigger. You can always tell when a man intends to kill you: it tightens up all the little muscles in the face, the same way a winning poker hand does. He couldn't get more than a step or two away from Fergus, and he couldn't get more than a step or two toward him. It was a dilemma.
He continued his turn, whirling all the way around again, and leaped for Fergus across those ten feet.
Fergus tried to fire the shotgun, and wondered why his trigger finger wouldn't work.
He hadn't felt the pain yet.
He had a half-second to stare stupidly at the throwing knife that was sticking out of his thick forearm. It had severed the tendon that was attached to the forefinger. He couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn't even pull his finger out of the trigger guard.
And then Skytop was on him, a big hammer fist swinging with a blow that would have felled an ox. And Fergus qualified as an ox.
Skytop dragged the bulky form inside the gatehouse, out of sight. He undressed the man and put on the rough woolen clothes. It was lucky that Fergus was so big. He finished pinning the kilt into place and turned around.
Fergus was struggling to a sitting position, reaching with his good hand for a second loaded shotgun that he'd had leaning against the wall. Naked, his thickset form covered with curly hair, Fergus resembled a bear. Skytop dived at him and knocked him over again. Fergus heaved, getting Skytop's weight off him, and went for the gun again. Skytop's bare knee came up and drove into Fergus' throat. Fergus slumped into an untidy heap, choking on the splintered fragments of his voice box. His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to breathe, and then the fife went out of him altogether.
"You should have left well enough alone, amigo," Skytop said.
He gathered up Fergus' shotgun and hurried along the stone bridge leading to the castle, keeping his head down. Nobody shot at him, so he guessed they'd taken him for Fergus.
Under the bridge, he could hear the cautious splash of the paddles. The rubber boats would be invisible from the castle above. He hoped they were paddling fast. They had to be in position at exactly the right moment.
He hammered with a big fist on the portcullis. Above, there was movement behind an arrow slit. He was a fine target.
"Fergus, what do ye want?" a voice up there said.
He didn't answer. He hoped Fergus had a reputation for being sullen. He hammered on the gate with the butt of the shotgun.
"Ye'll wake the dead, mon!" the voice reprimanded him. "All right, all right, just hold on!"
There was a short wait, and then the heavy gate began to creak and rise. He sneaked a glance at the foot-long spikes that protruded like fangs from its lower edge. He waited until it gave him head room, then charged inside.
Simultaneously there was a flurry of movement in the water below. A nylon line snaked upward and a grappling hook bit into the stone coping of the bridge Then another and another. Five black-clad figures swarmed up the lines, the dull, ugly shapes of automatic weapons slung across their backs. They tumbled over onto the bridge, agile as circus acrobats, and darted toward the open portcullis.
Inside, a startled man looked up at the big Indian in the kilt who was running at him. His hands paused on the big winch that raised the gate; then he let go.
The kilted figure bowled him over. He went sprawling, then got to his feet, reaching for a holstered pistol.
Skytop grabbed the spokes of the wheel to keep the gate from falling. He wrestled with the huge weight, his body twisting around, and with a back kick like an elephant dancing the ballet, he kicked the gatekeeper in the head.
That was Fiona at his side now, her pale dryad's face a mask, a bandanna covering her flaming red hair, a lightweight Armalite rifle in her hands. Paul was close behind her, carrying an Uzi submachine gun. The other three were inside the gate now. Skytop eased it down with the winch, careful not to let it slam. The gatekeeper, a little dazed, was reaching for his pistol again. Skytop kept his grip on the wheel and Fiona handled it for him. She sprang at the man like a cat and drove the muzzle of the rifle into his groin. When he doubled over, she plucked an ice pick from somewhere on her person and drove it into his heart.
She might as well have used the gun. There were four or five sharp cracks from the arrow slit, and bullets were spitting all around them. Paul grinned and pulled the pin on a grenade. He held onto it for an immoderate length of time, then heaved. The black ovoid flew upward and disappeared into the narrow slot. It was a shot in a million, but Paul had once been pretty good at basketball. There was a muffled explosion inside. The shooting stopped.
Eric was already rushing the castle entrance with his heavy sausages of plastic in their cloth wrappings. A light went on in a window above, and a head popped out. Yvette raised her submachine gun and fired a short burst at the head. It disappeared.
There was firing from other, darkened, windows. Eric acted as if he had all the time in the world. He was protected by the overhang now, draping the deadly strings of sausages around the door, pushing the little detonators in place. Then he came running back like a marathon performer. He hit the cobblestones of the courtyard and started to roll at the precise moment the plastic explosive went off, and then he was on his feet again and running toward the smoking hole.
They all followed him. Skytop looked around. He was in a big hall with a fireplace you could have driven a truck into. Shields and spears and tapestries hung from the walls. Curling around the walls, going upward, was a stone spiral staircase. A man in a nightshirt and tassled nightcap appeared at the top with a shotgun. Skytop lifted Fergus' shotgun and fired. There was a deafening blam and a whale of a kick. The figure disintegrated. Skytop had been right: rusty nails.
"Where's the Baroness?" Sumo said at his side.
"I dunno. Somewhere. She'll take care of herself. Let's spread out."
They worked their way through the castle, room by room. A fat man in striped pajamas ran at them, shouting, "Wer ist da?" Fiona clubbed him with the butt of her rifle. In another room they surprised a naked man in bed with a bony woman in her fifties. The man reached under the mattress and came up with a Luger. Sumo bounded to the foot of the bed, bounced on the mattress as if it were a trampoline, and came down with both heels on the man's fat belly. The Luger flew into the air and Sumo snatched it. Fiona didn't have her Armalite on full automatic; she killed the man with one precise shot through the center of the forehead. The woman screamed hysterically. Yvette patted her and said, "Take it easy, honey." They left her holding the sheets up against her bony chest.
They ran into their first serious opposition in a second-floor corridor. Somebody had set up a barricade of heavy oak tables and benches. There were four men behind it, tak
ing potshots at them. Three of them were lean young Scotsmen in kilts, and the other was a heavy middle-aged man in yellow checked plus-fours and a pajama top. Skytop ducked back around the bend of the corridor just as a shotgun went off with a tremendous roar and showered the wall with pellets.
"This needs some thought," he said.
He talked it over with Sumo. After a moment, Sumo sprang to Skytop's broad shoulders and pulled the pin on a grenade. Skytop unwound his kilt and stood there, a massive figure in jockey shorts, balancing the wiry man standing on top of him. He flicked the kilt like a matador's cape out into the corridor, down near floor level. It twitched in his hand like a five thing as a hail of bullets and one shot hit it. Sumo poked his head out at ceiling level and pitched the grenade. By the time they'd raised their sights and fired at him, he'd ducked back behind the corner. The grenade went off with a bang and a rattle. There were screams. Yvette ran out into the corridor, crouched low. One of them was still alive. He raised a shotgun at the slim black girl in the leotard and combat boots. Yvette stitched him neatly with a burst from her Uzi.
They swarmed into the kitchen. A runty little man was stirring the breakfast porridge in a huge iron cauldron. When he saw them he dived for a cleaver. Skytop grabbed him by the collar and pushed his head into the bubbling porridge. He held him there until he stopped kicking. The corpse slid to the floor, its face covered with oatmeal. "Hell of a way to go," Skytop said. Paul stuck a finger into the pot and tasted it. "Needs salt," he said.
They found the biological laboratory in a huge chamber facing the central courtyard. It continued along three sides, a respectable installation that must have employed at least twenty biologists. There were rows and rows of miniature fermenters — boxy metal cabinets with dials and knobs and tubing that disappeared into bubbling glass pitchers. They were the same kind that pharmaceutical laboratories use to grow disease-producing virulent bacteria to develop vaccines.
Somebody had been there before them. Equipment was smashed. There were seven or eight corpses lying on the floor, wearing lab smocks — the night shift, Skytop guessed. A couple of them were missing their heads; the others showed evidence of having been hacked to death with some kind of a large-edged weapon.
Eric turned to Skytop. "The Baroness?" he said.
"Looks like it."
They set an explosive charge amid the tubes and vats, just to be sure, and left. They were halfway down another corridor when the explosion came, a great thump that shook the entire castle.
They herded the survivors into the castle courtyard. There were a dozen BUG directors in pajamas and dressing gowns, fat, scared, and indignant. Some twenty of the castle staff were there, sullen and silent. Skytop wasn't sure how innocent they were, but none of them had turned a weapon on him or the others, and that had bought them their lives.
"What do we do with this bunch?" Paul said.
"Turn them over to MI5," Skytop said. "Let them take it from here. There're going to be all sorts of international repercussions. The British, the Norwegians, and the Dutch are going to have to make representations to the West Germans and get that research wing of BUG closed down. The bacteria seed stock will have to be destroyed or put under some sort of safeguard, the way it is in Israel. It's going to be a mess. We don't want to have anything to do with it."
Eric waved his submachine gun. "Paul and I will look after them till MI5 can send out a clean-up squad. Our cover is still good. You and Tommy and the girls skee-daddle." He frowned. "And we better find the Baroness and get her out of here before they arrive."
"Where the hell is she?"
Skytop said, "Tommy, Fiona, Yvette! Let's spread out and make a search."
Skytop prowled the drafty passages, the shotgun in his hand, looking for traces of the Baroness. He found evidence of her work here and there: a dead German with a gun in his hand and a look of surprise on his face; the body of MacCaig, split apart from groin to breastbone; a headless corpse in the dungeon, impaled on a bed of spikes.
He was in one of the upstairs corridors when he suddenly cocked his head and listened. Was that a rattle of chains in the walls? He shivered. Skytop had a primitive turn of mind. He wasn't ashamed of believing in ghosts.
He tried a door. He'd searched this room before, but there was no harm in being thorough. He pushed the door open and stepped through.
The German was just as startled as he was. It was the one who'd been wearing the kilt at the Highlands games — Konrad, the Baroness had said his name was. He must have managed to hide while they were cleaning out the place, and now he was packing some things into a small valise. He'd have had no trouble sneaking out after dark. Konrad had just stepped out of his kilt. It lay in a circle around his feet. He had on the voluminous lavender shorts he'd been wearing under it, and he was in the act of reaching for a pair of trousers.
He dropped the trousers when he saw Skytop and grabbed for the shotgun lying on the bed. Skytop brought up his gun in an easy movement while Konrad's hand was still closing on the shotgun, and then pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Fergus' antique blunderbuss was jammed. Skytop threw it across the room at Konrad and leaped after it. Konrad ducked the hurled weapon and swung his own shotgun in Skytop's direction. Skytop saw with sick certainty that he wasn't going to be able to get more than halfway across the room before Konrad's gun went off.
He was looking straight into the twin barrels and Konrad's triumphant smile behind them when the tapestry on the wall flapped upward and an amazing apparition burst through. It was a naked woman, dripping with oil and gore, swinging a great two-handed sword, her eyes luminous green slits behind the dusky stain on her face. Her wrists were shackled together with iron chains that clinked as she leaped.
The sword came down on the gun barrel, not Konrad, and batted it toward the floor just as it was going off. There was a noisy blast and the spatter of lead, and then the oily figure flipped the chain over Konrad's head like a noose and was dragging back with her wrists.
Konrad dropped the gun and desperately clawed at the chain. But the black, dripping nemesis was too strong for him. His own face turned black, eyes goggling, and his tongue came out, thick and swollen. He drummed his heels on the floor, like a child having a tantrum. The drumming grew weaker. It stopped.
The Baroness let the body fall. "Hello, Joseph," she said.
Skytop looked her up and down. She was a striking figure even with her coating of oil, an annointed Venus with matted hair. "You've got a cut in your arm," he said.
Her expression showed distaste. "It's not bad. But I've got to get these handcuffs off and get under a shower. It'll take hours to get this slime out of my hair!"
"Where have you been?"
She gave him an evil grin. "Playing hide and seek. Cleaning out the rats in the walls."
He grinned back at her. "We found some of your work. Looks like you hardly needed us at all."
She leaned, exhausted, on her long sword. "I needed you," she said. "I'm glad you got my signal. My things were still in my room, thank heaven. They never realized there was a radio in them."
"Sumo's been monitoring your wavelength twenty-four hours a day."
"You never got a message from a person named Callum?"
"Who?"
"He must have run straight to Sir Angus. Did you find Sir Angus, by the way?"
"No."
She swayed. He reached out a hand to steady her, but a look from her stopped him.
"He's somewhere out in the ocean by now, then," she said, "in that little submarine with the German crew."
"He's going to infect the North Sea oil deposits?"
"Yes."
Skytop's great gorilla forehead wrinkled with thought. "We can call up the Royal Navy. Have them depth-bomb him."
She shook her head. "Not enough time. Can you imagine the red tape? Beside, they'll never locate him with conventional antisubmarine detection gear. It's a research sub. Closed spherical compartments �
�� I was in one of them. It'll operate down to two miles deep."
"Baroness, what'll we do? The North Sea's a big place!"
It was impossible to read her expression under the film of oil "I know where he's going," she said. "I'll just have to get there before he does."
* * *
They found Tony Cavendish wandering down one of the corridors. He seemed a little dazed. He was stumbling His clothes were torn and his face was bloody from a cut on his forehead.
"Penelope!" He broke into a gallant attempt at a grin when he saw her. "You look a mess! What happened to you?"
"You don't look too spruce, yourself," she said.
"They were holding me in one of the tower rooms. Sir Angus couldn't figure out what to do with me. I got away when the shooting started." He looked at Skytop's towering figure, a grizzly bear in a kilt full of bullet holes, and said, "Your chaps have a lot of unexpected talents, don't they? So do you. We must have a talk about that some time."
There was no time to worry about her cover being blown at the moment. "Tony," she said, "how long will it take you to get your helicopter here?"
"About an hour," he said. "Why?"
"Good," she said. "That will give me just time enough for a long, long soak in the tub."
Chapter 15
The helicopter bucked and plunged. The Baroness held on with both hands. A spatter of raindrops hit the plastic bubble. The pilot turned around and said, "Bad weather coming. I'm not going to try setting down till this gust passes."
The Baroness looked down at the sea below. It was gray and choppy. Even from this height, Tony's rig looked overwhelming, a floating factory complex crowded with cubistic structures, masts and construction cranes, with the big central derrick rising skyward like a junior Eiffel Tower. Hundreds of floating chips surrounded it: fishing vessels and sailing craft stretching all the way to the next rig, a couple of miles away.
"The environmentalists!" Tony shouted above the deafening clatter of the engine. "They're picketing me. They say I'm polluting the ocean."
