Omega

by Stewart Farrar

  'What kind of thing?'

  'Two or three apparently causeless deaths. A few fires which have broken out in places that were well guarded. Illnesses which disappeared again as soon the victim toed the line… The general feeling in the Section, sir, is that these incidents are natural but so ingeniously organized that they look like black magic – which most of the locals believe they are.'

  'And what's your own feeling, Underwood?'

  'Frankly, sir, I'm not sure. I'm keeping an open mind. But anyway, however they're working it, it's very effective. They have everyone within five or ten kilometres doing what they're told. Those who do are left in peace, so now everybody does.'

  ‘H'mm… Is the group armed?'

  'Not heavily, sir. Nobody's seen more than a couple of shotguns. They're brought along by escorts when the leaders deliver a warning in person. They've never been used, so far as we know, except for hunting rabbits and game.'

  'How do the group survive? Feed themselves and so on?'

  'The village is a vegetable-growing area, sir, with some cattle and pigs and poultry. More or less self-supporting. If they need anything extra, they demand tribute – but never exorbitantly. It looks as though they want the locals disciplined but not antagonized to the point where they move out.'

  'They sound very intelligently organized.'

  'They are, sir. All our agents agree on that.'

  'And ruthlessly "black" in magical terms.'

  'They certainly seem out to create that image of themselves,' Gareth said cautiously.

  'You don't believe they are, in effective practice?'

  'As I told you, sir -I keep an open mind.'

  'Very professional of you. But whatever the truth of it, Underwood – in practical politics a very interesting polarization is taking place. We know of at least a dozen witch communities that have managed to establish themselves; three are openly "black" in their attitudes and behaviour, the rest "white". The two stances seem quite distinguished and deliberate, but the viability and success of the various groups differ considerably. Two "white" and one "black" have not survived; they were destroyed by local action, with or without undercover Beehive encouragement. The most important "white" centre is in North Wales, in an excellent defensive position and with local public support…'

  'New Dyfnaht. We know about it, sir.' 'Of course you do. The Section is perfectly well aware of all this – but has not, I think, realized the importance of the black/white polarization… We could not, for example, destroy the New Dyfnant group – which, as you doubtless also know, is growing in the same way as the Savernake Forest one – short of mounting an overt Army offensive, and the time is not yet ripe for such activity. All anti-witch action must appear to be spontaneous popular anger, for the time being at least… But understand this, Underwood. Savernake and New Dyfnant are natural enemies. And it is to exploit that fact that I want you to go to consult with our friend the Black Mamba and her -er -.consort.'

  '"Friend", sir?' Gareth ventured a faint smile.

  'She may well prove to be – as long as it suits them and^ us. Are you beginning to understand me?'

  'I think so, sir. You want a secret alliance between Beehive and the Savernake Forest group, against New Dyfnant and the other "white" groups.'

  'Exactly. Though if I substitute "myself" for "Beehive" in your definition, I hope you won't think it for megalomania. It's merely to underline the extremely confidential nature of any such arrangement.'

  'I get the message, sir.'

  'Good. Now, you may offer the Black Mamba's group whatever material help they find attractive – food, equipment, weapons, medical supplies – use your discretion; I'll back you up. We'll find ways of getting it to them. As for non-material benefits, you'll have to play it by ear. For example, you can offer them immunity for themselves when Beehive emerges in due course to take charge but I doubt if they'd believe you for a moment. You and I wouldn't, in their place, because there's no way of guaranteeing that the promise would be kept, and they know it as well as we do. But immunity as long as the pact lasts – obviously yes. And there may be something they want. Information on the white groups' activities, for example. You'll soon find out, I'm sure.'

  'If they're willing to talk at all,' Gareth said, 'they'll tell me what they want. But what help do you want out of them, Sir Reginald? Guerilla-military? Informational? Or… well, magical?'

  'Your mind is still open, I see,' Reggie said drily.

  ‘I just want to know what I'm expected to ask for.'

  'Quite so. You will ask for their help against the white groups in general and the New Dyfnant group in particular. Throw "informational" into the ring as a starter. Try to learn, diplomatically, what they believe they can do and encourage it. The objective at this stage is to establish the alliance, not to demand specific commitments from their side.'

  'But I may make specific commitments from our side.'

  'You may indeed. There are times when apparent generosity is a good investment and I think this will be one of them.'

  'When do you want me to go, sir? Immediately?' 'As soon as possible. But how well versed are you in their particular field of activity – and its language?' 'Black magic, you mean, sir?'

  'Black and white – though they have a common terminology.'

  'No more than the next man, I suppose.'

  'Then before you go, spend a couple of days in Miss Pavitt's library – in one of the private rooms, I don't want anyone to see what subject you're studying – and read up on magic and witchcraft. You can advise him about suitable books, can't you, my dear?'

  Brenda- said: 'Of course. And he can use the TSA room – his rating allows it.'

  'Excellent, excellent. I shall expect you to be leaving in four days at the most, Underwood. And if you think of any more questions you want to ask me before you go, arrange an appointment through Miss Pavitt, not through the usual channels. But let her know when you're ready to leave, in case I want to see you again.'

  For the next three days, Gareth was closeted in the TSA room for as many hours as either Brenda or her deputy (the only other librarian entitled to use the TSA room key) were on duty – which amounted to about sixteen hours a day with a couple of breaks for meals. He was a glutton for work, almost as rapid a reader as Brenda herself and apparently gifted with a remarkable memory. By the second day she found herself wondering if his concentration was purely professional, or if he, too, was becoming infected by the same kind of fascinated absorption with the subject that she had noticed in Reggie. His few comments as she brought him more and more books (he soon outstripped her own recommendations and was asking for material she'd never even heard of) suggested that he was thinking about it deeply, though at no time did he imply any judgement on the brief Reggie had given him. He avoided this so studiously, even when she lunched with him and they had time to talk, that her intuition began to tell her that he was not happy about it. She remembered his one revealing remark of a week or two back, 'I hope I'm never sent on that kind of job. Only for God's sake don't tell anyone I said so.' He seemed almost by his very silence on the matter to be begging her to forget his brief indiscretion.

  My God, Brenda thought – am I becoming psychic? All I know is that I'm not happy about this 'alliance' either. Not happy at all.

  When Gareth finally left on his mission, and thanked her for her help in the privacy of the TSA room, she wished him luck and a safe return – and on impulse, kissed him. It was a very sisterly kiss. At least, she hoped it was.

  Forty-eight hours later, Gareth found himself face to face with the Black Mamba, and he admitted to himself that the reports had been right – she did look almost too typecast for the role of Black Priestess. Her large eyes, slightly tilted at the outer corners, were warm yet unnerving, and her long black mane, which she wore falling free, might have been designed by a wigmaker for a pantomime witch, though Gareth's sharp eyes could see it was all hers. That she was aware of her own powerful sexuality was
evident from the way she moved and from the way she dressed, with a hint of the barbaric chieftainess that could only be deliberately calculated. Gareth appreciated it from a safe distance; for himself, he thought, he would as soon go to bed with a real black mamba.

  Her man was very different, withdrawn and watchful, speaking one word to her ten. Gareth, though he kept the fact to himself, recognized him; for John Hassell’s photograph was in the Section's file of prominent witches, having been added to it after the Bell Beacon disaster. He was the husband, Gareth remembered, of the Sabbat Queen who had been impaled with a ritual spear. Enough to turn anyone black, he thought with a twinge of compassion – especially with a bitch like this one working on him. Gareth did not miss much.

  He had had to do a lot of talking on the edge of the village to get himself brought in to see Karen (as he learned her name was) and John; and even then he had been strip-searched, not too gently, before he actually did see them. That did not worry him at all; all that concerned him, as a professional, was that he was now where he had aimed to be. Karen and John received him in what had been the lounge of the village pub, with a shotgun sentry outside the door, and spent the first ten minutes grilling him with questions to satisfy themselves of his bona fides.

  He had an uncanny feeling that not all of the grilling was by way of the spoken questions, though he treated this feeling with suspicion. He had learned a good deal, during his studies in the TSA room, about the theory of telepathy, of clairvoyance, of the 'reading' of auras; and he guessed from the steadiness of John and Karen's eyes on him and from a sensation almost of static electricity in the room that these methods were being tried. Suggestibility, he insisted to himself. Obviously their tactic would be to create that impression. But the feeling remained and Gareth did not like it.

  His awareness of it at least mitigated his surprise when the atmosphere suddenly changed, as though Karen (it was she who determined it all the time) had flicked a switch to earth the static. She smiled for the first time and walked relaxedly behind the bar to produce a bottle (Glenfiddich, for God's sake) and three glasses from under the counter.

  'Right, then, Mr Underwood – what's your first name?'

  'Gareth.'

  'So you're a genuine messenger, from Big Chief Harley himself. And you heartily disapprove of the message you bring but you're a professional so you'll deliver it faithfully… Water, soda or straight? No ice, I'm afraid.'

  'Very little water, please.' He was genuinely astonished; shrewdness was one thing but this was outside his experience. He smiled back at her, deliberately. 'Messengers have no opinions – if, as you say, they are professionals.'

  'Haven't they, Gareth? But leave that for the moment. What does Harley want from us?'

  'Help from the Angels of Lucifer against the white witches.'

  John said: 'Angels of Lucifer! That was a try-on, wasn't it?'

  'The Angels have proved their effectiveness in a very dramatic way, over Ben Stoddart. If you weren't the Angels, Harley wouldn't be so interested in your cooperation… Intelligence Section may not be clairvoyant but they're reasonably efficient in their own way.'

  Karen laughed. 'All right, give you that one. We're the Angels of Lucifer, and if we made a deal with Harley, he'd get his money's worth. But what is his "money"? Actual cash would be so much waste paper on Surface. What's he offering?'

  'It's part of my mission to find out what you need. Food, equipment, medical supplies, horses, weapons – you know what would be useful to you and he's prepared to be generous.'

  'I see. And in exchange, he wants us to fight the white witches. Does he mean magically? Surely he doesn't believe in magic?'

  'You killed Ben Stoddart,' Gareth pointed out. 'You took over this village without any need for violence, in the ordinary sense. You have fifty to a hundred square kilometres completely under your thumbs. So whether your methods are magical, or "normal" screened by clever propaganda, is almost academic. The point is that you succeed. And Harley appreciates successful allies.'

  'Oh, I like this man, John, don't you? He'd make a lovely diplomat… Has Harley got any specific targets in mind?'

  'Yes. The New Dyfnant group.'

  There was a moment's unexpected silence. Karen did not move but her eyes seemed to brighten. John paced across the room, expressionless, and stood looking out of the window with his back to Karen and Gareth.

  'I will not harm Dan and Moira Mackenzie themselves, Karen,' he said. 'And that's flat.'

  Gareth caught Karen's warning glance; while John's back was still turned she laid a finger briefly on her lips. So, Gareth thought; the Mackenzies are John Hassell's old friends and he still has a soft spot for them; but the Black Mamba would have their guts for garters without turning a hair. I have to play along with her but not alienate him. He felt inwardly sick but his brain worked fast.

  'I know I'm talking in ignorance,' he said, carefully diffident. 'But isn't there a magical technique called "binding"? To neutralize your opponent's efforts, without doing him any personal harm?'

  'There is indeed.' The approval in her voice was unmistakable. 'And John knows it as well as I do. There'd be no need to hurt your pals, darling. But they do have to be neutralized, you've said so yourself… You know more about magic than you pretended, Gareth.'

  Engaging frankness called for. 'A good agent does his homework."

  Karen laughed and even John seemed to relax a little.

  'Have another scotch,' she offered Gareth.

  'Please. I haven't tasted Glenfiddich for months.'

  'We found a dozen in the cellar. We keep it for special guests… Do you think Big Chief Harley would like a bottle?'

  'I'm sure he'd be delighted. But I doubt if I'd be strong-minded enough to take it to him unopened. There are limits even to my professionalism.'

  This time, even John laughed.

  'That wasn't what I had in mind,' Karen said. 'I think it would be a good idea if I took it to him myself.' John's laugh evaporated. 'For God's sake, Karen…' 'No, but seriously, darling. This proposal of Harley's is important. And although Gareth's a conscientious messenger – for all his private disapproval, and he knows I'm right about that – it's something that ought to be discussed face to face, with the Big Chief himself… Are you offended, Gareth?'

  ‘Not in the least.' Gareth was torn between an acute wariness and the tempting prospect of being relieved of his abhorrent role as go-between. 'I could get you to him safely.’

  'But why you?' John cried. 'It's a bloody dangerous trip for a woman. Why not me?'

  'Because, my darling male chauvinist, you're needed here, to keep control of things. I wouldn't trust anyone else in charge. As soon as you were gone, there'd be quite a few men hoping you'd never come back.' (Crafty bitch, Gareth thought; watch her undulate her body to drive the point home.) 'But I would came back. All Beehive couldn't stop me.'

  'Immunity's one of the things I'm empowered to promise you,' Gareth said. *You certainly would come back. Because this is where Harley wants you.'

  'But the journey itself,' John protested.

  'How did you get here, Gareth?' Karen asked.

  'Bicycle.'

  ‘Horses would be better. We could spare a couple… Or three, if you like, John; one of the boys could come with a shotgun if it'd make you happier.'

  'And I left a gun hidden outside the village,' Gareth said. 'We'd make it all right… Only one thing,' he smiled, 'legend has it you ride about your domain sidesaddle, Karen. I'm sure that helps the tribal chieftainess image, and I'd love to see it – but I think it would be a little over-dramatic for travelling incognito. Would you object to a normal saddle, just this once?'

  'For you, Gareth – even that.'

  Gradually, between them, they lightened the atmosphere and watched John become less tense. Within half an hour, it was all agreed. Next morning, Gareth, Karen and a shotgun escort rode away to London.

  The escort, a taciturn man called Joe, took his duties seriou
sly. Where he thought there was possibility of an ambush, he always rode ahead to satisfy himself there was no danger. This gave Karen her first opportunity to speak to Gareth alone and she took it immediately it arose.

  'You backed me up very well, Gareth,' she said without preamble. 'I'm sure you get the picture; John could not be in on the real talking. Harley needn't worry – he'll get what he wants. I can handle John.'

  'I'm sure you can handle most men.'

  'Yes, Gareth, I can. But you needn't worry, either. Bitch I may be but I never bite the postman.'

  And Harley? he was tempted to ask. But he held his tongue.

  Gareth had been away for five days and Brenda was missing him. She had no one else with whom she could share her unease; the sharing with Gareth had been almost entirely unspoken but there had been a mutual awareness of it (she was sure she did not deceive herself about that) which had somehow made the unease more bearable. And in Gareth's absence, Reggie made it worse. There was an air of expectancy about him, an excited impatience which was also unspoken and which made Brenda feel more excluded than ever from his private thoughts, more than ever the sultan's odalisque whose sphere of usefulness was precisely defined and never to be exceeded. Reggie's habit of using her as a sounding-board, of thinking aloud to her in virtual monologue for the ordering of his own thoughts was now confined to routine trivialities. The matter that really absorbed his attention was never referred to and loomed all the larger in Brenda's anxiety because of its deliberate avoidance.

  It's crazy, she thought. When Gareth avoids a subject, I nevertheless feel comforted. When Reggie avoids it, I feel disturbed.

  Gareth's call came to her library desk on the morning of the sixth day, and the unexpected sound of his voice gave a lift to her spirits.

  'Brenda? This is Gareth.'

  'Yes, Gareth. Good morning to you.' There was the unmistakable quality of a radio link on the line and Brenda knew better than to ask where he was. Secret communication-points existed around the country from which agents could contact Beehive and he might be anywhere. 'What can I do for you?'