Siege of Stone

by Williamson, Chet

  Chapter 30

  Something had gone wrong, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it. The last that Laika and Tony had heard of Joseph was a call he had made from a pay telephone several hours before the jailbreak that had freed Kevin Brady. He had followed the van to Carlisle, and two of the three men inside had gotten out and gone into a pub. Joseph had to ring off when he had seen them coming back out with a bag of food.

  Along with the story of the escape, there had been news reports that a man suspected of aiding the terrorists had been arrested and remanded into custody. When they hadn't heard from Joseph hours after the break, they feared the worst had happened, and that the suspect was their teammate. No photograph had been released, but Laika was certain that one would be sent to law enforcement agencies, including the CIA. She hoped it would go to Skye rather than anyone else who might recognize Joseph. It was more than possible; it was likely, considering Skye's position in operations. But then, they wondered, what would Skye do?

  And now, the 6:00 A.M. news reports told of the disappearance of the suspect from Hixton Prison, a quiet and miraculous escape that had as yet no explanation, although authorities felt that it had to have been an inside job, and several prison officers were being interrogated. Joseph was a wonder, of that neither of them had a doubt, but getting out of a high security English prison didn't seem to be one of the things his skills would have prepared him for.

  And if he had escaped, why hadn't he contacted them? Tony was afraid that he might have been killed in the chaos of the first escape, but Laika refused to consider it.

  There was, however, one trail to follow. Although Tony and Laika didn't know where the men from the castle had gone before, they knew now that they had gone to Carlisle shortly before the Kevin Brady escape. It could have been a coincidence, although they had remained alive and healthy by refusing to believe in coincidences. It now seemed all too possible that those in the castle were connected with the escapes.

  So all they could do for now was watch the castle and wait for the return of the van. If Joseph's photograph crossed Skye's desk, he would be in touch sooner or later, probably sooner.

  At noon, Tony sat on the ground watching the castle and the road into it, all pretense of archeology gone, since they had had no visitors since Molly Fraser to mark their progress or the lack of it. He had prayed countless times for Joseph to come back safely, and hated it when it was his turn to keep watch for fear that he would miss his colleague's return or some other news that would reach Laika at the cottage.

  From what little they could establish, the sightings of apparitions had either declined or stopped completely, and further investigation showed no reasons for the occurrences, not even legendary. If Molly Fraser could be trusted, MI5 was having no better luck.

  At one o'clock in the afternoon, Tony saw the van returning down the road to the castle. Through his binoculars, he could see only the driver, a thin-faced man with sandy hair, and a heavier man who sat in the passenger seat. Whoever may have been in the back was hidden by the solid panels.

  He watched the van as it disappeared into the inner ward, wishing that he could see who climbed out of it. Then he called Laika on the cell phone and told her what had happened.

  "Somebody was watching us," Rob said, as he parked the van in the inner ward. "I saw a double flash of sunlight from the top of the ridge to the south, like a pair of binoculars."

  "Shite," said Angus. "Who?"

  "Maybe those archeology snoopers," said Rob.

  "Or maybe," said Mulcifer, "your little friends." He smiled at Joseph, who said nothing, and tried to keep his mind clear. But the more he tried not to think about Laika and Tony, the more he found himself doing so.

  "What friends?" Rob asked.

  "Never mind," said Mulcifer. "All will be answered soon."

  "Who the hell is this?" asked Colin Mackay, rising impatiently from his chair as Rob and Angus led the stranger into the small study, with Mulcifer behind them.

  "His name is Joseph Stein," Mulcifer said, "and he's one of the three American CIA agents who have been staying nearby and watching over us."

  Colin recognized the man. He had been one of the three archeologists he had driven off his land. Only they weren't archeologists at all, were they? "CIA?" Colin asked Mulcifer. "How do you know that?"

  "Oh, I know almost everything there is to know about this chappie," said Mulcifer. "But there's not a thing to fear. He won't do anything I don't want him to do."

  Mulcifer gestured for Rob and Angus to leave. They glanced at Colin and he nodded for them to obey. Then Mulcifer told Colin about the escape, and how he had seen this Joseph Stein outside the prison. He told about Stein getting captured by the police and of his freeing him.

  "But Christ, man," Colin said, "you've brought a CIA agent here. There's no way we can let him go, don't you know that?" Stein looked on edge, but somehow resigned to his fate. Colin was certain that he knew the rules of the game.

  "He is a repository of information," Mulcifer said. "One that I want to start drawing upon as quickly as possible. The computer is hooked up to the phone line, yes?"

  "To the Internet? Yes, of course."

  "Mr. Stein and I will require it. In the meantime, you need to be thinking about two things. The first is if there is another way we can leave this castle beside the main road, one that can't be observed from that southern ridge. And second, we'll need a place where we can store Mr. Stein here when he's not in use. He's much more valuable to us alive than dead."

  "What about the other agents?" Colin asked. "Do they know about the jailbreaks?"

  "They suspect," Mulcifer said, "but they have no proof. The van was away from the castle during the escapes, so they know that we could have had something to do with it. They have been searching for me, you see, among their other activities, and have, I'm certain, connected the castle to the Templars and probably also to your father." Mulcifer glanced casually at Stein, who looked surprised. "I am correct, am I not? Deductions, for a change, rather than exploring your thoughts." He looked back at Colin. "The others don't know he's here. They'll probably realize that his escape could have been due only to me, but I seriously doubt that they'll report you to the English authorities. They want me, you see. This is the third time our paths have crossed, and they're unlikely to do anything that would jeopardize their own contact with me. So . . ." He clapped his hands together. "Let's get to work, Joseph."

  "What are you planning?" Colin asked. "What information is he going to provide?"

  "You'll know when we have it," Mulcifer replied. "Or maybe a little later. But don't worry—it's all for the cause."

  Colin did not offer to supply Mulcifer with a guard over Stein. He knew there was no need. The pair left the room, and Colin thought about what else Mulcifer had said.

  There was a large open elevator in the inner ward that had been used to take supplies down to the cellars. A car or van would fit on it easily enough, and from the first cellar there was an escape door onto the beach. The van would just fit through it, he thought. Then they could drive a half mile north on the beach to an old boat access road that was still functional, and get out onto the main road without being seen by watchers on the ridge.

  As for where to keep Joseph Stein, the bottle dungeon would be ideal. It was located in the guardhouse of the northwest tower, and a trapdoor level with the stone floor was the only indication of its existence.

  It was actually shaped like a bottle, with a long, narrow opening at the top, and a wider cell beneath, accessible only by a rope or a ladder. Once at the bottom of the twenty-foot-deep dungeon, it was impossible to climb the slanted walls to the top, and even if someone miraculously could, the trapdoor would be locked. It was the only dungeon in the castle, and the only one that was ever needed.

  Now for the deeper questions, Colin thought. What were these CIA agents doing just outside his castle walls, and how much of a threat did they pose to his mission? After Mulcifer got
through with this Stein, Colin would have to interrogate him and see. As far as Colin knew, he and his organization had not drawn the attention of MI5's counterterrorism division, and he wanted to keep it that way, even if it meant disposing of Stein and the other two agents.

  He preferred to keep any violence away from the peninsula, so it was something he would rather not have done. But nothing could be allowed to endanger the cause.

  Chapter 31

  Mulcifer closed the door behind them, and ordered Joseph to turn on the computer. The words were spoken gently enough, but it was an order nonetheless, and Joseph could no more have disobeyed it than flown.

  "In 1984," Mulcifer said in his deep singer's voice, "the British government decided to dispose of a large supply of nerve gas. They buried it somewhere in Scotland. That is all I know. What I want you to find out is what kind of gas it is, why it was buried, and precisely where, along with how it is guarded, if at all. I know you have access to CIA data banks—and since the CIA's deepest secrets were entrusted to you as an intelligence interpreter, you can delve into the agency's deepest cover secrets. So . . ." He gestured to the computer. "Delve away."

  It took Joseph nearly an hour to find the information. He had determined not to do so, to chase around the data banks, hopping from link to link, never finding the information Mulcifer desired, telling him that it simply wasn't there.

  But he found that he could not deceive or disobey the man at all. He was, to his horror, like a ravenous dog sent by its master to bring back the prey, and he could do nothing else.

  "The gas is VX," he told Mulcifer. "It's similar to Sarin, the gas that was released in the Tokyo subway by Aum Shinrikyo, that Japanese cult, but this stuff is a hundred times more deadly."

  "And how does it kill?" Mulcifer asked.

  "It screws up the nerves that control certain muscles, like your diaphragm. You can't breathe, you convulse, you die. Sarin just dissipates in the air, but VX is thicker. You get a drop on your hand or your face, and you're dead in minutes."

  "And supposedly decent, civilized countries use these things?"

  "And worse. There's a biological weapon called Botox, a toxin made from the botulism bacteria. Iraq has a healthy—or unhealthy—supply of it. Got it from the United States."

  "And why did England decide to bury their supply of VX?"

  "Too horrible to contemplate using."

  "They finally decided."

  "The mills of bureaucracy grind exceeding slow," Joseph said, glad that his cynicism had not escaped along with his will.

  "How much of this VX is buried away?"

  "Over a hundred canisters weighing about a hundred pounds each."

  "The destructive power of a canister?"

  "Spread two canisters over a medium-sized city, and you've pretty much got a dead city."

  "Finally, where and how is it buried?"

  "About fifty miles northeast of here, in Glen Cassley. The nearest town is a little village named Duchally. The canisters were put in a deep cave, which was then caved in with dynamite. The crater that was left was filled in with concrete. And there's still a guardhouse posted there. It's government land, and it's fenced off." Joseph allowed himself a smile. "So if you were able to get through the guards, you'd only have to blast your way through a twenty-foot-deep plug of concrete, and then maybe another fifty feet of rock and debris to get to the cave. You know, I really don't feel too badly about giving you this information, since I know you'll never be able to do a goddamned thing with it, you bastard."

  Mulcifer smiled back. "I truly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Stein. Now to conclude, I want you to develop a map of the area for me, showing me precisely where the cave is, along with the perimeter of the area and guardhouse. Go ahead. I have all the time in the world."

  When Joseph was finished, he printed the map and gave it to Mulcifer, who thanked him and left the room. Alone, Joseph tried to send an e-mail to Laika and Tony, but was unable to type in the address. Jesus Christ, it was as if he were six years old, and someone had put a Net Nanny on his machine. He couldn't do a damned thing other than what Mulcifer told him to do.

  In another minute, Mulcifer returned with the man Joseph knew as Francis Scobie, but whom he suspected was the heir, if not the son, of Andrew Mackay. "I'm finished with Mr. Stein for the time being," Mulcifer said. "You may show him to his accommodations now."

  Mackay and the bigger of the two men who had been in the van herded Joseph at gunpoint through the hallways and into a guardhouse, where a ladder led down through an open trapdoor. Joseph looked through the opening and saw that the chamber below seemed to have been dug out from the solid rock on which the castle sat. "Do you have anything with a view?" he asked.

  "You're lucky to have the ladder," said Mackay. "They used to just drop them in."

  That night, two men stood watch on the towers to make sure that no one approached the castle, while everyone else slept. Joseph was sleeping on a small mattress that had been dropped down the hole, wrapped in two blankets. It had taken him a long time to get to sleep, for he had kept wishing that he had not agreed to Mulcifer's deal. He had escaped from an English jail, all right, but was now imprisoned in a hole in a rock, with a bucket to piss in. Still, he was exhausted enough to sleep dreamlessly.

  There was one person awake besides the guards. Mulcifer had looked closely at the map Stein had given him, comparing it with relief maps of the area. Then he had gone to the storeroom, removed the boxes, opened the hidden door, and descended the long, winding stairway. He had no need for light.

  In the large room where his persecutors had been meeting for centuries, he closely examined the huge wooden shield that bore the Mackay coat of arms. Then he shoved the table over against the wall and stood on it so that he could easily reach the shield. The catch was where he had thought it would be. If, he observed, you grasped the hand holding the dirk and pulled it hard toward you, an opening would undoubtedly appear in the wall.

  For a long time he stood there, his hand on the carved wooden fist. The temptation to pull upon it was strong, but so was his fear. He didn't know what would happen, how easily he could control what was in all likelihood within.

  He pushed against the stone wall with his mind, but felt nothing there. Either they were long gone, or, as was also likely, the great slab of stone was sheathed with lead. But the lead wouldn't keep him from opening it should he choose to. It was not harmful to him, only restrictive, limiting. He could open the passageway and find allies obedient to one who had seen more than they ever had, who knew far more of this world from dwelling on its surface, albeit a prisoner, for over a millennium.

  Or he could find enemies.

  At last he released his grip on the fist. It seemed foolish to take the chance, now that he was free at last, and everything was going so well. Tomorrow would be proof of that. He would drink deep and be sated, at least for a time. He had set his infernal devices, the living bombs he had armed and triggered with electrical impulses, the same way that they would trigger their dumb and lifeless bombs.

  He stood there in the darkness that was light to him, and thought about the suffering and death that would come, and was surprised by a brief instant of sanity in which he almost felt some pity for these creatures whom he was destroying. It lasted only as long as it took him to identify it, and then he drove it mercilessly from his mind. Perhaps he had been among them too long, but he had been among those of his own kind all his life before he had come to this world, and he had savaged them as well.

  Sanity? Was that how he had actually thought of it for a moment, as sanity? No, it could not be, for to him the twisted was the sane, the abnormal the norm, the insane the lucid and clear and rational. He was incorrigible, his behavior and beliefs irreversible. That was, after all, why he was here, banished from his own kind, except, perhaps, for those behind the wall.

  Morality did not enter into it. Morality was illusion, and the affirmation of mortality the only truth, the sol
e element of life which made existence worthwhile. And one affirmed mortality by exercising its rights, as inclusively and universally as possible. One killed so that one could say, I live.

  And only when one stood on a world once teeming with life, and stood alone, could one's purpose be fulfilled. In the midst of life we are in death? No, quite the opposite—only in the midst of death are we truly alive.

  So it was that he had pushed against, and at times through, the lead. So it was that his spirit had suffered, and his soul had bled in his attempts to touch those who were extensions of his mind, vessels of his blood. So it was that, paradoxically, he had weakened himself in order to feed and give himself strength.

  Now he was free. Now the earth was his. Tomorrow it would begin. No one should bless him or curse him or praise him as a dark god. He could not help what he would do. It was his nature.

  Chapter 32

  The next morning at eleven o'clock, a series of suicide bombings provided London with its worst terrorist attack ever, within a single minute. Struck were St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, the British Museum, and the Victoria and Albert Museum. The damage in each was extensive, and it was later stated that the bombers could not have positioned themselves in any better location, if sheer destruction was their goal.

  The bombers had gone into the interior of each building, except for Buckingham Palace, where the bomber must have stood against the gate. Still, the damage was enough to blow out nearly all the windows of the palace wall facing the gate. Luckily, the royal family was on a jaunt to Balmoral, and not inside at the time. The survival of the royals did little to comfort the families of the 127 spectators and tourists who died at the front gates, however, not to mention the guards, and forty-eight more badly injured survivors.