Gates of Hades

by Gregg Loomis

  No response.

  "Jock! Jock!" he called.

  The hills gave him back a faint echo, but there was no sign of the dog.

  "You think it was okay to leave him?" Maria asked.

  Adrian filled the pipe as his eyes looked around. "Aye. He's not your city-dwelling lapdog. Plenty smart enough to seek sustenance from the neighbors. They'd feed'm, f' sure."

  "Maybe they fed him too well," Jason suggested, lifting the carton of water from the trunk. "He's decided to take up with them."

  "'Tis possible," Adrian admitted, the levity of the words not matching the. serious scan he was giving the surrounding countryside, "but a dog's not like a person. Y' canna buy his loyalty."

  Jason was certain Jock was not what was on Adrian's mind at the moment. He was about to ask what the Scot sensed when he heard grunts from behind the house.

  "Jock may be taking time off, but your pigs sound hungry."

  "Always are. That's why they're pigs. May have to turn 'em loose to forage f themselves if we canna find slop for 'em.

  Adrian's eyes were fixed on the house.

  "You're not thinking about the dog or the pigs," Jason said.

  "There's somethin' not quite cricket here. I'm tryin' to figger out what." *

  In small, highly mobile strike groups like Delta Force or SAS, instincts were sharpened to the level of a sixth sense: a sudden quiet in the clamor of a jungle night, a pebble recently knocked loose from a mountain footpath, an old and battered automobile in a wealthy residential neighborhood. More than once, Jason had saved his own life as well as those of his men by noticing some almost imperceptible incongruity.

  He put the carton of water down, freeing a hand to go to the weapon in the small of his back.

  "What is the matter?" Maria asked.

  Adrian shook his head. "Naught, lassie, jus' an old man's years of paranoia."

  Perhaps, but Jason noted that the Sten gun under the seat was the first thing his friend removed from the Peugeot.

  Each of the three loaded what they could carry. Adrian used a foot to open the door.

  "Unlocked?" Jason asked.

  "Aye. Someone come by to be a-borrowin' somethin' an' find th' door locked, I'd be regarded as an inhospitable sod, or, worse, one who dinna trust his neighbors. 'Sides, I dinna recall th' las' time I even saw th' bloody key."

  Jason headed for the kitchen. "Where do you want me to put the dry ice?"

  "Th' fridge, along with the sausage, cheese, and vegetables. Also the bottled water. It's better cool."

  Perhaps the first time Jason had ever heard a native of the British Isles express a preference for chilling any beverage, including beer or drinks the rest of the civilized world served over ice.

  Maria came in, her arms full. She leaned over to stock the small refrigerator. When she straightened up, her gaze went to the single window, a view of the rear yard.

  "What is that?"

  Both men joined her. Just beyond the shadow of the house, a small mound of fresh earth had been piled up.

  " 'Twasn't there before," Adrian mused.

  Jason was reaching for the back door.

  "Please stay where you are, Mr. Peters."

  The voice came from the kitchen's entrance to the rest of the house. The doorway was filled by three men, all with shaved heads, two pointing AK-47s. The one in the middle had a patch over one eye and recent scars on his face. Even so, Jason recognized him instantly.

  Eglov.

  "Please do not make any move I do not request. I would be greatly disappointed if I had to shoot you right here and now." He leered at Maria. "I have much more, er, interesting plans. An eye for an eye, I believe your Bible says."

  "The dog," Adrian growled. "You—"

  "The filthy mongrel bit one of my men. We could hardly leave him to warn you we were here upon your arrival. For that matter, we would have slaughtered the pigs also, but their absence would have alerted you. Besides, no true lover of the Earth would want to needlessly kill something so nearly feral as those swine. Now, if each of you will assume the position against the wall.. ."

  Adrian leaned against the wall, legs and arms spread-eagled. "It was th' windows, laddie. Th' bloody windows. Since na' person was here, they shoulda been dirty from th' dust that blows aboot, not clean enough to see through."

  Having the answer was small consolation.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Hillwood

  4155 Linnean Avenue

  Washington, D.C.

  0801 EDT

  Them cars was no presidential caravan; Shirlee could see that. Two District police cars 'n, a black SUV with blue lights behind the grille. 'Bout the time Shirlee made that determination, the mens in the suits was listenin' to their earpieces. She couldn't hear them, of course, but their hands went up to the little devices like touchin' the things would make them louder.

  "Say again?" one of the mens said, his forehead wrinkled like he was hearing some sorta foreign language.

  At the same time, the cars sqealed to a stop and men both in uniforms and suits came pourin' out like they was on fire. Shirlee was pretty sure she had enough doughnuts an' pastries, but these mans weren' interested in breakfast. Instead, two or three of 'em were carryin' guns an' the rest of 'em shovels.

  Shovels?

  Like they gonna garden?

  Now?

  Sho' 'nuff, while the mens with th' guns were lookin' 'round like they 'spected some kinda trouble, the others were digging at them ugly little plants jus' outside the dinin' room.

  Then things got crazy.

  One of them men who'd watched the plantings all week come screamin' outta the house, waiving this long, curved knife. He not be too smart, tryin' to cut the man with the gun, who shot him right there.

  'Bout that time two more Russians—or whoever they was, ones been in and out the kitchen all mornin'—they pulled guns outta the drawers of the sideboard where Shirlee guessed they done hid 'em sometime in the las' few days. The two mens with the things in they ears, they got no guns, 'cause nobody 'sposed to have weapons on 'em for this conference. Still, they rush the mens with guns. There be two, three shots, so loud in the room Shirlee's ears ringin' and she stone-deaf. An' one o' the mens in suits, lyin' on the floor bleedin' bad.

  The other Russian, he swing his gun around at Shirlee and shot. First she just feel a burn in her shoulder. Mutha-fucker done put a hole in her clean, starched uniform, one she done spent half the night ironin'!

  Then it hurt. Oh, shit, did it hurt!

  That same dude, he turn toward the other man in the suit, gonna shoot him, too.

  Even months later, Shirlee was unclear exactly what happened next. She thought she remembered reaching with her good arm for the big coffee urn, the one she couldn't hardly lift with both hands. She definitely remembered the clunking sound of that big pot hitting the Russian's head. She remembered thinking that she was in the shit now, coffee an' blood all over the rug along with one very unconscious Russian.

  Then it all went black.

  Next thing Shirlee knew, she was still in the dining room but she was strapped to a stretcher. A woman in a pale blue uniform with ems stitched on the pocket was standing over her, holding some kind of bottle attached to Shirlee's arm. Two men in their light blue uniforms were lifting the stretcher.

  Shirlee tried to sit up but couldn't, either 'cause of the straps or because she jus' didn' have the strength.

  "Lemme outta here," she croaked, surprised she could manage no more than a whisper. "Who gonna take care my kids tonight, I ain't home?"

  "I will," said someone behind her. She thought she recognized the man's voice from somewhere but couldn't quite place where.

  "Who that?" she asked.

  A man in a suit stepped into view. The light from outside was in her eyes, so she saw no more than a silhouette. "Your children will be my personal guests until you're up and around."

  He moved and Shirlee thought she was seein' things, sure. She was l
ookin' into the smilin' face of the president hisse'f.

  "You're a very brave woman, Ms. Atkins. Without you, there'd be some children without their fathers tonight."

  It was then that Shirlee realized it hadn't been the sun bliridin' her; it was lights around a man holdin' a camera. Shit! Her one time on TV an' she gotta look like hell.

  The president leaned over, taking one of her hands in both of his. "Your children will be well cared for. It's been since when, Jimmy Carter, that there was a small child in the White House? When you get out of the hospital, You'll come for dinner?"

  At first Shirlee thought he wanted her to serve dinner. Then she realized he meant as a guest.

  She'd be goin' to eat with th' Man hisse'f! Weren't that sumthin'? He wasn't foolin' her none. She knew he'd have his pitcher taken with her, meybbe get a few more black votes, but she didn' much care. Her babies were gonna have somethin' they'd talk 'bout rest of they lives.

  And Shirlee?

  Well, the folks down to the projects where she used to live would see she really had gone a long way, wouldn't they?

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Silanus, Sardinia

  1521 hours

  Stripped of their weapons, Jason and Adrian had been shoved into chairs, where they were watched by two of the men standing just out of reach. Maria was allowed slightly more freedom, although confined to the room. Jason had the impression they were waiting for something. His only guess was nightfall, when Eglov would kill them and leave in the dark, unseen by any passing neighbors.

  "I am hungry," Maria announced. "Anyone besides me want something to eat?"

  If food wasn't the last thing on Jason's mind, it was close to it.

  Eglov nodded for one of the rifle-carrying men to accompany her to the kitchen. "Enjoy your meal; eat well." He smiled cruelly. "It will be your last opportunity."

  "Tell me," Jason asked, "how did you get out of the tunnel at Baia?"

  "Do you think there was but one entrance, Mr. Peters?" Eglov pointed to the still-unfinished condensed version of Eno's book, faceup on the couch where Jason had tossed it minutes ago. "Even your magazine there recounts a final exit out of the Netherworld before the descent into Hades."

  More to start a conversation than out of curiosity, Jason asked, "Why go to the trouble of taking that ethylene rock all the way to the United States to be set off by the self- igniting bushes? Wouldn't it have been easier just to carry a bomb into the conference?"

  The Russian frowned. "This was special. Think of the reaction of your countrymen when your president and his fellow despoilers of the Earth have their throats cut while the true friends of the Earth live. The knives for the job will be dropped into the special hiding places my men have created in the last few weeks, the same places in which they will rest until needed. No one other than a designated pair will even know what happened. No weapons, no one enters or leaves the room. Only the Breath of the Earth. It will be seen to the true lovers of our world as a miracle, the poor Earth striking back on its own."

  It would be a display of insanity, Jason thought, but he said, "Why kill the president, anyway? He was willing to grant you and your radical environmentalist pals some sort of a pardon for the crimes they committed."

  Eglov spit. "Forgiveness is not his to give; it is the Earth's alone! Pardon by the great rapist of the resources that belong to all?" He spit again. "As long as your country and the other greedy industrialist democracies exist, there will be no peace, no peace until their sins are paid for and the planet allowed to rest without being ravaged."

  A second Dark Ages. Comforting thought.

  It was difficult to carry on a conversation with someone who spoke in slogans. Still, it was important to conduct a discourse, anything to take the fanatic's mind off killing them, if even for a moment. Jason wondered what would happen if Eglov found out the details of the gas plot had already been given to Washington.

  "Exactly how will you prevent your own people at the conference from falling asleep?"

  Eglov smiled, proud of his ingenuity. "Two will have medicinal oxygen tanks for lung disease. They will do the Earth's work while the others are unconscious."

  Jason was about to say something else when he heard water running in the kitchen.

  "I thought the generator was off," he said.

  "Doesn't run the water," Adrian explained. "There's an artesian well up on the hill, feeds water down a pipe by gravity."

  Maria came in from the kitchen, carrying a platter of sliced bread, sausage, and cheese. She placed it on the table and returned for a pitcher of water.

  "Would you like some?" she asked Eglov.

  He scowled. "Eat sausage that contains meat, steal nourishment from the death of defenseless animals?" He looked slightly ill at the thought. "No."

  Jason got up slowly and went to the table as Maria continued in the same tone she might have used had their captors been invited houseguests. "You will have some cheese, then? I expect when the police arrive, you will not get a chance to eat again for quite a while."

  What the hell was she doing, trying to get them killed ahead of time? Jason's eyes met Adrian's and then looked away.

  "Police?" Eglov scoffed. "Do not make yourself look foolish!"

  She shrugged. "Your disbelief does not change the facts. We were to meet them here."

  In one step the Russian was beside her. He gave her face a slap that could be heard across the room. She staggered backward and almost fell. Jason lunged forward, only to be prodded in the chest by one of the other men's AK-47.

  "Stupid cow!" Eglov snarled. "You think I would believe such a childish trick? The police will arrive only to find your bodies."

  She wiped a hand across her mouth. "Stupid or not, they are coming."

  She was staring at Jason.

  He had no idea what she was talking about, but he had to assume she had done something in the kitchen.

  Then it hit him. As a volcanologist, she would be familiar with gases other than the ethylene. He had an idea what was coming.

  He nodded imperceptibly at Adrian. "She's right, Eglov. The place will be swarming with cops anytime now."

  Adrian's expression turned from bewildered to knowing. He gingerly got out of his chair and, back to the empty fireplace, inspected the food selection. Without looking at Jason, he shrugged, then put a finger to his temple. The two gestures meant something akin to, I'm not sure what you mean but I understand, the silent signs that acknowledged that action of some unknown type was at hand.

  There was an explosion in the kitchen, followed by what could have been gunshots.

  "In here!" Maria yelled. "We are here!"

  The two armed men reacted by swiveling around to point their weapons at the anticipated incursion of gun-wielding police. The distraction lasted only a second at most.

  But it was enough.

  Leaning backward, Adrian reached behind his head and brought both hands down with the claymore, the huge two-handed sword that hung over the mantel. So swift was the blow, the light gleaming from the hand-forged steel appeared as a single arc. A fraction of a second too late, the closest man swung his AK-47 to bear, only to have the blade sever his shoulder from his body. Arm and weapon clattered to the floor in a geyser of blood.

  Jason ducked under the barrel of another rifle whipping back toward him, his shoulder throwing the muzzle upward as a burst of shots plowed into the ceiling. There was a downpour of plaster dust. Jason grabbed for the armed man's gun as the other hand stretched for the gunman's throat.

  Intentionally or by chance, Jason's intended victim stumbled or stepped backward out of reach, leaving Jason staring at the leveled mouth of the AK-47 and the gleeful eyes of his victorious opponent.

  Jason fully expected to die.

  Instead, the man seemed to shift his shoulders slightly as his eyeballs rolled upward as though trying to see into the back of his own head. His knees buckled slowly as he sank to the floor and fell facedown. The knife used to s
lice the sausage protruded from between his shoulder blades. Behind him stood Maria, her blood-soaked hands clasped over her mouth.

  She could not tear her eyes from the man sprawled before her. "Oh, my God, oh, my God," she whispered.

  Then she spun, took a step, and vomited.

  She shook off Jason's consoling arms. "Oh, my God," she repeated, "I've killed a man...."

  She bolted for the bedroom. Jason could hear her retching.

  "An' what aboot him?" Adrian asked, his sword pushed against Eglov's stomach. "It'd be a pleasure to slice him up like so much pickled herring."

  "Do what you will," Eglov sneered. "It cannot be worse than suffering at the hands of Russian police."

  "Letting him go doesn't make a lot of sense," Jason said.

  Eglov was looking at him without fear. "There is a deal to be had here. My organization could use men such as yourselves."

  Jason snorted. "Swell. I'd be afraid to sleep, afraid I'd wake up with a knife between my shoulders. No, thanks. It isn't my thing."

  Eglov's eyes narrowed, making them appear even more slanted. "You are a fool if you think you can kill me and not pay for it. I command a virtual army of loyal followers."

  Eglov's megalomania was becoming tiresome.

  "I say we put th' man's disciples to th' test," Adrian said, gesturing to the gore-drenched floor. "Bit of a bother explainin' all this t' th' local constabulary if we turn 'im over to 'em."

  "My cause will survive to see the capitalist-industrial complex crumble."

  Jason literally saw red as a wave of rage surged through his consciousness.

  For Laurin.

  For Paco.

  For three thousand Americans killed on a warm, clear September morning.

  For the victims of all zealots who advanced their causes by killing innocents.

  He nodded slowly. "For once, Eglov, you are not calling the shots." He ripped off the Russian's shirt. "We'll see how long the viper survives without a head."

  Eglov watched with growing consternation as Jason began tearing the shirt into strips. "So, you will kill me."

  Jason nodded. "Your lieutenants will have an opportunity to struggle on without you."