Department 18 [02] Night Souls

by Maynard Sims

  He looked up at her and smiled bleakly. “Trudy, you’re a life saver,” he said. He lifted the mug and drew in the aroma. “Brandy?”

  Trudy smiled. “Of course.”

  Crozier smiled and blew her a kiss. Then he had a thought. “Wait a second. I’ve been here all day. I could do with a quick break. I’m going to go home for a couple of hours and freshen up.”

  “Sure. Do you want me to organize a car?”

  “No, I’ll take a cab. There’ll be plenty at this time of night. I’ll be back in a few hours, and, of course, I’m contactable at all times. You go home now though.”

  Trudy smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Once outside in the street, Simon Crozier took a deep lungful of London air. The night was humid. Along Regent Street, cars were bumper to bumper, their exhausts blowing out clouds of pollution that gathered in a haze above the city. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow, then waved the handkerchief in the air to hail a taxi. “Beaumont Place,” he said to the driver, took a seat in the back of the cab, and opened his briefcase.

  As the taxi pulled up outside the apartment building on Beaumont Place, Crozier paid the cab driver and let himself into the building, taking the elevator up to the fourth floor where his apartment was situated.

  With its view over the Thames and desirable postcode, the apartment cost him a small fortune each month, but he wouldn’t choose to live anywhere else. He opened the door onto the balcony and looked out over the water. There were cars on the nearby Tower Bridge, nose to tail, making snaillike progress across the river. A pleasure boat, lit up like a Christmas tree, was meandering its way west, music from an onboard disco wafting up to him on a thermal of torpid air. Farther down the river a police launch was cruising past a line of houseboats, a regular patrol to reassure the boats’ inhabitants.

  He went back inside and poured himself a malt whiskey, which he brought back to the balcony. He slumped down on a steel-mesh chair and lifted his feet onto the balcony railing. As he took his first sip of Macallan, the telephone rang.

  “Crozier,” he said. He hoped it might be one of his regular companions, inviting him out for dinner and afterward some mutually pleasurable entertainment.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life’s plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Hampstead, London, England

  “This is it,” Dylan said as they drew up alongside a pair of heavy steel gates protecting a black asphalt drive.

  The drive snaked through a garden dressed like heavy woodland with long stands of beech and dark green rhododendron bushes. Just visible through the bushes was a house, built in the late 1960s and designed by one of the more forward-looking architects of the day. All sleek lines and huge windows, it appeared at once futuristic and yet, in a strange way, curiously dated, very much a product of its time when all eyes were on the future but still bound by contemporary design and technology.

  There was an intercom fixed to one of the gate posts. Pike got out of the car, pressed a button and spoke into the box.

  There was a click and a hiss, and the gates swung inward.

  Pike climbed back into the car. “Okay, we’re in,” he said.

  As they reached the front of the house, the main door opened and Carl Schwab stepped out. He was holding a compact machine pistol and pointed it at Pike as the three men got out of the car.

  “Not a very friendly welcome, Carl,” Pike said, gesturing to the pistol.

  Schwab grinned. “What did you expect, Jason? Flags and a marching band?” He stepped to one side. “Go into the house.”

  The three men climbed the steps to the door and walked past Schwab into the brightly lit interior of the house.

  The greeting Jason Pike received from Rachel Grey seemed cordial enough, but Harry Bailey was watching the woman’s eyes. Like flint, he thought. Dead eyes. Dylan was hanging back from the others. Bailey reversed and came alongside him. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t traveling alone?” he said in a whisper.

  Dylan looked at him guardedly. “What do you mean?”

  “Your shadowy traveling companions. They’ve been with us ever since we left London.”

  “The breathers? You can see them?”

  “As clear as I can see you. Nasty buggers, aren’t they?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. I never get to see them properly. They’re always flitting out of sight. I thought I’d got rid of them, thought they’d gone,” he said tiredly. “I knew it was a mistake coming back to England.”

  They stopped speaking as Carl Schwab came up behind them, took Bailey’s arm and steered them into the dining room.

  “I suggest you let go of my arm,” Bailey said. He kept his voice low, but there was steel in the tone.

  For a second Schwab dug his fingers in tighter and then released his hold. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Just trying to be of assistance.”

  “While holding us at gunpoint. Whose book on etiquette are you working from? Osama bin Laden’s?”

  Schwab smiled without humor and ushered them to their seats.

  When Bailey and Dylan were seated Bailey leaned across to Dylan. “We’ll talk about your little problem later,” he whispered as the others took their places around the mahogany dining table.

  Rachel Grey looked immaculate; a very beautiful woman, her hair sleek and shining, her makeup applied flawlessly. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Jason? What does Holly want with Czerwinski?”

  Pike folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Jacek Czerwinski is Julia’s uncle,” he said in a flat tone, without emotion or emphasis. “Holly wants to breed from Julia, so Jacek is a bargaining chip.”

  Rachel Grey shrugged. “John is using Alice Spur as his sow. His revenge for her being the driver when Abe died. I don’t believe it.”

  Schwab was looking at her curiously. “What’s the problem either way?” he said.

  Rachel ignored the question and sat forward in her seat resting her elbows on the table. “You may be right, though,” she said to Pike. “Julia was taken quite forcibly. I was tired of her, so it was of little concern. But why would John want to use her?”

  Pike wondered whether she was playing games, but decided she didn’t know. “Julia is Abe Holly’s daughter.”

  Rachel nodded. “She has the gene. No, wait. The mother was human?”

  Pike nodded.

  “So she may be the new beginning Holly has been after.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The grounds of Faircroft Manor, Hertfordshire, England

  “They keep a monster up at the manor,” Albert Wellington said, his voice conspiratorial.

  “A monster?” Karolina said.

  “I’ve seen it. All gray skin and scales. Ugly brute. They keep it in the basement.”

  Karolina looked confused. She’d spent the last hour telling Albert Wellington her story, in halting English and with a surfeit of hand gestures, and now he was telling her about monsters. She was beginning to doubt his sanity.

  “No,” he said. “You’re well out of there. The Hollys are evil, pure evil. I’ve seen things…heard things…Well, I’d better not say. You’ll be having nightmares.”

  Karolina struggled to her feet. “I go now,” she said.

  “Go? Go where?”

  She rummaged in the pocket of her jeans and produced a crumpled, slightly soggy piece of paper. “I go here,” she said and handed it to him.

  Albert unfolded the paper carefully and squinted at the smudged and blurred writing. “I can’t read this,” he said. “Wait a minute.” He went across to the bookcase and moved a few of the books out of the way. He returned with a
stub of candle and a book of matches. He set the candle down on the arm of the battered couch and lit the wick. The candle sputtered for a second and then caught. From the pocket of his coat he produced a pair of glasses, missing one lens, and slipped them on. Again he squinted at the paper.

  “Cambridge,” he said. “Who’s Daniel Milton?”

  Karolina shook her head and shrugged. “Alice…she give me. Said I should find him. He look after me.”

  “Well, you’re not going there tonight. It’s dark out there. How do you expect to find your…” He stopped speaking suddenly and spun round, cocking his head to one side. Then he crouched down, snuffed out the candle and put a sooty finger to his lips. “Ssshhh! Not a word. There’s someone outside. Nod if you understand.”

  Karolina nodded hesitantly, opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.

  A flashlight beam cut through the gloom of the room. It missed them by a yard, but that didn’t stop Albert grabbing Karolina’s arm and dragging her down behind the couch.

  The flashlight beam shone in through the window. A man’s voice sounded from outside. “We’d better go in and take a look around.”

  “Come off it,” another male voice said. “It’s too dark to carry on with this nonsense. Anyway, who is this girl and why is she so important? It’s not as if others haven’t run away. He’s always caught them in the end.”

  “It’s not for us to ask. Mr. Holly said search the grounds for her and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  The flashlight moved away from the window. Seconds later Albert heard the scrape of the front door against the floor as it was pushed open. He looked about him frantically. Two feet away, still lying on the chair, where Karolina had put it, was the poker. He reached out and curled his fingers around the handle, pulling it toward him. He could hear Karolina breathing beside him. With his free hand he reached back and patted her arm. It’s going to be all right, the gesture said, but she flinched back as if receiving an electric shock. He peeked over the top of the couch and saw the flashlight beam dancing off the walls.

  “Smells like shit in here,” one of the men said.

  “Don’t breathe then. Just through here, then we’re done.”

  They had nearly reached the lounge. Albert ducked down out of sight and tried to hold his breath, wishing the girl would do the same. Her breathing was so loud he was convinced they’d hear her.

  Another few seconds and the men were in the room with them. The light washed over the ceiling, sliding from the walls to the couch where it hovered for what seemed an eternity before moving on.

  “See, I told you. There’s nothing here,” the first man said.

  “I’m not so sure. Be quiet. Listen.”

  Whether Karolina understood what the man had just said, or whether it was pure instinct she took in a breath and held it. Whatever the reason, Wellington sighed inwardly with relief.

  The second man took a step forward and prodded at the couch with his muddied boot, pushing it back a few inches. As he bent forward to yank it aside the crash of breaking glass split the silence making both men jump.

  “What the fu—”

  “Kitchen.”

  From behind the couch Albert Wellington let the air out of his lungs in a controlled, silent stream. He could hear the men’s heavy footfalls as they ran back to the kitchen, but didn’t dare poke his head over the couch to see what was going on. He glanced around at the girl. She looked terrified. Fat tears were trickling down her cheeks, and she was visibly shaking. He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She winced at first, gagging at the smell of his perspiration, but then relaxed and allowed herself to be held, taking comfort from the old man’s body warmth and strong arms.

  “Bloody cat knocked a beer bottle over! That’s all.” The exclamation came from the kitchen. “I’ve had enough. I’m going back to the house. Are you coming?”

  There was a long pause before the second man said, “Okay. We’ve done all we can. Let’s go.”

  Albert waited ten minutes before emerging from behind the couch. He wanted to make sure they were gone. As he got to his feet his knees cracked like gunshots, sending a spasm of pain all the way up to the lumbar region of his spine. His body was going to pay him back for keeping it in such an uncomfortable position for so long. He swore silently, and then reached out to help Karolina to her feet.

  As she stood she rubbed her arms to try to get the circulation flowing again. She felt cold, icy cold, and it was beginning to make her nauseous.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  She nodded but bit her bottom lip to keep herself from crying.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “They’ve gone. You’re safe now.”

  “Think again, granddad.”

  The voice came from the hallway. Albert spun around to face it and was immediately blinded by the powerful beam of the flashlight. He ran forward, charging at the man holding the flashlight, raising the poker above his head, wielding it like a sword. He brought it crashing down on the man’s wrist.

  The man squealed with pain and dropped the flashlight. “You’ve broken my arm, you old bastard!” he yelled.

  The other man moved in. He aimed a kick at the side of Albert’s knee, connecting solidly. Albert let out a hiss of pain and collapsed to the floor. Another kick landed in the middle of his stomach, knocking the air out of him and leaving him winded. As Albert lay there gasping for breath, the man grabbed Karolina by the arm and hauled her toward the door while his colleague leaned against the wall, nursing his damaged wrist, tears coursing down his face.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ve got what we came for,” the man holding Karolina said. She was struggling, trying to yank her arm away. He slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand, his heavy gold signet ring opening a gash on her cheek. The blow subdued her instantly.

  “What about him?” The voice was more a whine now, and he’d started to rock back and forth, holding his wrist.

  “Leave him.”

  “But he broke my fucking arm.”

  “I said leave him. Come on.”

  And then they were gone, leaving Albert Wellington sprawled on the floor, close to unconsciousness.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Soul shadows you everywhere.

  —Anda Fiori

  Hampstead, London, England

  “Does the Spree Clinic in Switzerland mean anything to you?” Pike said.

  Rachel Grey smiled. “Oh, yes. My people tried to infiltrate it months ago. No one survived. It’s set into the side of a mountain. The part you see is exactly what it claims to be: a private clinic tackling things like eating disorders, alcohol and drug addiction, general rehabilitation. Very expensive, very exclusive. Think Betty Ford or the Priory, then crank them up several notches. But that is only the public facade, the tip of the iceberg. It extends deep into the mountain. The public only sees about a tenth of it.”

  “So what goes on there?” Bailey said.

  “It’s the hub of Holly’s genetic research program. We wanted to get in there and destroy it. Jason, you know our feelings about hybrid research. We see it as the end of our race as we know it and, quite honestly, the end of the human race as well. If Julia is who you say she is, then Holly’s program is about to take a huge leap forward. He’s come a long way with only Alice Spur’s eggs to work with. Can you imagine how far he can take it using Julia? In theory he could impregnate dozens of eggs in a very short space of time. If he used sperm from any number of chosen males, he could produce a dominant gene in less than a year. We could be overrun with hybrids. A few hundred years down the line, they could become the dominant species on the planet. It’s like a Hitler Master Race.”

  “You like to think ahead,” Dylan said with sarcasm.

  Rachel shook her head. “For us it’s not thinking ahead. You must remember, our life span is about five times that of the average human. For us this is a very immediate problem. John Holly must b
e stopped.”

  “I agree,” Pike said. “Any ideas how to do that?”

  Rachel shook her head. “There are others I need to speak to, to tell them the situation. But you know what this means, Jason, don’t you?”

  “At a guess, I’d say civil war.”

  Rachel nodded slowly. “Holly has his followers. The unrest in the States at the moment is caused by the divide between his people, who see this as the only way forward, and my group, who want to maintain things just the way they are.”

  “As I see it,” Harry Bailey said, “whatever happens, we, the human race, lose.”

  “I disagree,” Rachel said. “We have coexisted with you for centuries. When did you first learn of our existence?”

  Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Only a few days ago.”

  “Exactly!” Rachel said. “Up until then, you, like the rest of the human race, were unaware of us. It was a perfect symbiosis.”

  “The people you’ve killed over the centuries would probably take issue with that,” Dylan said, and spun round in his seat as he heard a sound behind him, a soft hissing whisper. He saw them then, crouched in the corners of the room, black amorphous shapes that looked like small clouds, twisting and eddying, advancing and retreating.

  “Dylan?” Bailey said, but there was no need for an answer; the expression on Dylan’s face said it all. Bailey followed Dylan’s eye line and stood abruptly. “I think we need to get out of here,” he said.

  Carl Schwab was on his feet instantly. “Not so fast,” he said, reaching for the machine pistol that he’d placed on the table in front of him.

  Rachel Grey turned to Pike. “Jason?”

  Pike was watching Dylan, and then he too looked to the corners of the room.