by Brian Lumley
But Sirpsindigi was where his tracker’s nose had led Fletcher and his minder colleagues, and here the trail had fizzled out. No beaches here, no treasures, and no more mindsmog.
That puzzled him, because the scent had been so strong. He had “known” where to go; it had been as if this place, and not Bernie himself, “glowed in the dark,” or rather in that corner of his mind that housed his esoteric talent. And so he’d homed in on the glow and come here, only to discover that the beacon had been doused while he was still en route.
It could be, of course, that his aura had been detected by someone or -thing. Perhaps like a bloodhound he’d been “baying” too loudly, alerting the fugitives and causing them to lie low. Bernie didn’t know for sure. So all he could do now was remain here, try to pick up the trail again, and wait until Trask and Co. arrived, when with any luck they’d improve on his findings before moving on to the next location.
And meanwhile he was stuck in this godforsaken dump—this two-taxies town on the edge of nowhere—that looked like nothing so much as a barely post—industrial revolution way station just a handful of stops up the road towards civilization. Take away the cobbles and streetlights, ignore the mopeds, rickety bicycles, and foul-smelling, three-wheeler vans; throw in some mud, a batswing door or two, and a couple of tumbleweeds…it could easily be something out of one of those old western movies. Except they had atmosphere and this hadn’t.
“You’re looking down in the mouth, Bernie,” said Joe Sparrow, who had stopped reading and was now cleaning, oiling, and fitting together a carbon-fibre reinforced cermet 9 mm automatic, invisible on airport X-ray machines. Finishing up and slapping in a clip, he waved the gun at Fletcher and said, “I can’t understand why your people don’t use these things. Those Brownings of yours are hard to smuggle and make far more noise than these cermets.”
“Right now I don’t even have a Browning,” Fletcher answered dolefully. “Too risky trying to get it in, what with the continuing border disputes and tensions with Greece.” Then he managed a grin. “That’s one of the few reasons I’m glad to have you and Cliff along. True, you fart a lot and clutter the place up, but you do have the firepower.”
He looked into the night again, down onto the street, where a trio of figures with their coat collars turned up against the drizzle were just approaching the hotel’s entrance. One of them looked like Cliff Angel, but what with the darkness, the bleary windows, and the rain it was hard to say for sure. And: “Jesus!” Fletcher commented, shaking his head. “It’s like a night at the ends of the Earth out there! Shit, if Cliff’s addiction doesn’t give him lung cancer he’ll die of pneumonia anyway!”
Then he looked at Sparrow again, and told him, “The reason we don’t use those Keramiques is simply that our ammo has a low melting point and would wreck those barrels in no time. But our modified Brownings are custom-built and suit us to perfection.” He didn’t mention that the ammunition E-Branch used was made of silver; while his minders knew something about the Branch, they didn’t by any means know it all. If they had…well, it might be a lot harder to find men who’d accept this kind of work.
There came a triple knock at the door…
For a moment neither Sparrow nor Fletcher moved; then they jerked to their feet and looked at each other through widening, anxious eyes. A triple knock? Only three taps when there should have been four? And they both knew that Cliff Angel wasn’t the kind of man who’d be playing stupid practical jokes on them.
Fletcher crossed the floor to Sparrow in five long strides and whispered, “I saw three men come into the hotel.”
Sparrow nodded his understanding, and called out loudly to whoever was outside, “That you, Cliff? Hang on just a mo!” And under his breath to Fletcher: “Answer the door—but nice and casual. I’ll be back here.”
As Sparrow took up his position behind the door, Fletcher shrugged down into himself, roughed up his red hair as if he’d just woken up, tried to make himself smaller. Then he took the chain off the door, opened it…and at once took a step backwards, his green eyes going wide in shock that was only partly faked.
The first face he’d seen out in the corridor was Cliff Angel’s, but it was pale and drawn. Flanking him and close behind, two slightly taller, thinner men, who by their looks might well be twins or even clones, each held one of Angel’s arms. And one of them was pointing a gun into the room.
As Fletcher backed off, he noticed that the strangers were looking as nervous as he was feeling. And as they began to bustle Angel into the room, so the minder shrugged himself free of them, held up his hands before him placatingly, and said, “It’s okay, cool it!” His escort immediately came to a halt, at which Angel breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Come out from behind the door, Joe. It’s okay—I think!”
But even as Angel spoke so his voice had hardened, and his stiffened left hand sliced down, striking the wrist of the man with the gun with sufficient force to send the weapon flying. A moment more and Fletcher had stepped forward, grabbed the man’s collar and numbed, dangling wrist in a judo hold, turned on his heel and used his shoulder as a lever to hurl him far into the room. Fletcher was no slouch when it came to unarmed combat.
Meanwhile, Joe Sparrow had loomed into view from behind the door, stuck his Keramique into the side of the other stranger’s neck, and told him, “Move slow—really slow—and I won’t kill you. Not yet, anyway.” And dragging him into the room, he slammed the door, then gave the frightened-looking man a shove that sent him reeling, causing him to trip over his colleague where he lay sprawled on the floor.
Cliff Angel had snatched up the fallen weapon. Aiming it at the dishevelled strangers, he said, “Okay, and now you can tell me your story again. And this time we’ll see if my friends here believe it…”
17
Sirpsindigi and London—Double Detente
THE TWO MEN—WHO, IF LOOKS WERE ANYTHING to go by, were white Europeans—sat gawping at Fletcher and his minders, apparently stunned by the sudden reversal of fortunes. Yet Fletcher wasn’t certain about that, and Joe Sparrow had found the encounter way too easy.
With his eyes narrowed, Sparrow said, “Cliff, what the fuck is going on here?” Glancing at Angel, he kept the muzzle of his Keramique trained squarely on their captives. “Did these people jump you or what?”
“They did and they didn’t,” said Angel. “They came from an alley as I walked past. But if they really meant to take me, it was the work of amateurs. I think I could probably have made my break, turned the tables, before we got back here. I considered doing it, but then they mentioned a few things that left me undecided. If what they said was true, then I didn’t want to fuck things up. Apart from which—and to be honest—I didn’t much fancy the odds. Not with a gun in the small of my back.”
“They mentioned a few things?” Sparrow repeated him, frowning. “About what? What kind of things?”
“Hold your horses, Joe,” Angel answered. “Let’s observe the priorities. Like first I want my gun back. And the one with the mole has it.”
The mark that he’d mentioned—a small dark mole on the jaw of one of the strangers—was for the moment about the only way the pair could be told apart. For it was now apparent that they were in fact almost identical twins.
Angel approached the man in question, went to one knee and reached inside his overcoat, came out with his Keramique. Next, he brought out a wallet and flipped it open. Then, standing up, he said, “Well, what do you know? At least part of their story is true. Russian ID, and this one’s called, er—”
“—Vladimir Androsov,” said the man with the mole, holding his arm awkwardly and grimacing. Then, looking at Fletcher, he flinched and slowly added, “Is very possible you are dislocating my shoulder.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Fletcher answered. “I was a physio in my time and can probably pop it back again. In fact I might even enjoy it.” Switching his gaze to the other twin, Fletcher jerked his head enquiringly and raised an angry
red eyebrow.
“Ah, yes.” Androsov carefully, painfully streched his neck, inclining his head to look at his colleague. “This is Venyamin, my brother. He is not speaking the English very much. You will please excusing his quiet.”
“Listen, you,” said Angel, checking his weapon and cocking it, his voice a low growl. “Please excusing my impatience—my quickly getting pissed off—and tell my friends here what you told me.”
Androsov nodded, grimaced again, and said, “Very well. You are the British E-Branch. We are from Russian E-Branch, Gustav Turchin’s men. Our listening stations are picking up the story about the Evening Star. We are on the same case. Turchin has said that if we are meeting up with you, we are the allies and no longer the opposition. So, Venyamin and me, we are locators. Twins, we magnify, we multiply each other’s skills. That is good, but when we apart we don’t working so well. We following the trail to this place, Sirpsindigi. Is not so difficult; we have the safe house in Bulgaria just across the border. But when we are getting here the trail—”
“—Disappears!” said Fletcher, starting forward. And then, to Sparrow and Angel: “These people are on the level.”
He moved to help Vladimir Androsov to his feet, but before he reached him Angel said:
“Wait! So why the rough stuff? Why didn’t they simply approach us, even try giving us a call?”
“This is Turkey,” Androsov shrugged, and winced again. “The telephones are bugged because of the trouble with Greece. Also, the separatists and fifth columnists are on the rise. Today the Turkish man trusts no one. You are lucky you got in. But Turkey needs the tourist money. Ah, but if you are questioned, why are you in this filthy Sirpsindigi? Why are you having the weapons? What troubles are you making? We could not taking the chance to come to you in daylight, in the open.”
“But at night?” said Angel. “To jump me out of an alley?”
Androsov tried to look apologetic. “We are not field agents but locators. We are finding nuclear submarines or tracking the USA’s mobile ICBMs. But now this thing is starting, Gustav Turchin’s agenda has changed. He is saying that the whole world—not just Russia—has the big troubles.” He looked at Fletcher. “You are a locator, we know that. Your shields are, well…” He let it tail off, and Bernie reddened.
“I glow in the dark, right? And that’s how you found me.”
“No, because we looking for you,” said Androsov diplomatically. “But your friends are…what, the special policemen?” He shrank down into himself. “We not KGB, not trained in their techniques. We do not know how they will be receiving. So, how to approaching? We do it like you see. A big mistakes.”
“Amateurs!” said Angel. “So I was right.” And now he helped Androsov to his feet.
Bernie Fletcher had been looking the Russians over—by no means a difficult task, for in checking out one Androsov he got an image of both. Six-footers, they were thin as rakes and angular in their features. Dark-haired, grey-eyed, and light-skinned to the point of being pale, they would be in their mid-thirties. They certainly didn’t look dangerous.
Office types, Fletcher concluded, desk-bound greenhorns who much like himself had suddenly found themselves thrust out into the wider, far more sinister world of the field agent. He found himself feeling sorry for them. At least he’d had a little previous experience.
“Okay,” said Joe Sparrow. “So what happens now? I mean, are we all on the same side or what?”
“Yes,” Fletcher answered. “And this could be the break I’ve been hoping for. Working with these fellows, I might be able to pick up the trail again. A bonus for Trask when he gets here.”
Meanwhile Angel was frisking the Androsov twins. Apart from the one gun he’d picked up from the floor—a Tokarev TT-33—they were clean. Examining the Tokarev, now he commented, “Will you look at this out-of-date piece of crap? World War Two shit. A stopper at close range, but that’s about all.”
And Vladimir Androsov said, “Why spending money on sidearms when ICBMs are making them obsolete?”
“Your philosophy, comrade?” said Angel.
“Cold-war philosophy,” Androsov answered. “They—the hawks and militarists—considered the space race more important. But the American SDI was a myth, and myths are elusive. Pursuing it weakened us. Anyway, that was then and things are swiftly changing. For the better, I thinking. In current situation, you and I are no longer at war.”
“These people are what they say they are,” said Bernie Fletcher. “It’s like back at the HQ in London: I can feel a certain kinship with them. I’m in the presence of espers, locators. You can give him back his gun.”
“Sure,” said Angel, and handed it over—after removing the clip. Androsov had seen him do it and nodded.
“Trust is coming slowly,” he said.
“Fuck it!” said Angel, pacing the floor. “I’m out of cigarattes. Nicotine deficiency. I’m on edge, that’s all.”
And standing up, Venyamin Androsov took out a pack of Marlboros, offered it to Angel, and shrugged. “Why you no saying? I smoking plenty. American blend. Black market. Very expensive.”
Angel looked at him, and a slow grin spread over his craggy face. “You mightn’t speak English too well,” he said, “but you certainly pick the right things to say!”
Following which, relations rapidly improved…
In a little while, Fletcher and the Androsovs got down to it.
In front of the Special Branch men, Fletcher didn’t use the term “vampire”; and fortunately, the Russian espers didn’t know what they were tracking, only what little Turchin had told them—that these mutual enemies were exceptionally dangerous. Like Fletcher himself, they’d been advised only to locate the source of the alien aura, then to stand off and contact or wait for E-Branch to arrive, which Turchin had known must happen sooner or later. Sooner, as it had turned out.
Now, at 2:30 in the morning local time, the three parapsychologists sat at a small table and concentrated on a map of Sirpsindigi and the outlying district. The map’s legend was in Turkish, but Venyamin compensated for any deficiency in his English with an excellent grasp of the Turkish language.
“At first,” Vladimir Androsov explained, “from Bulgaria, we are locating these strange—how do you say it? Like your London when the vapour is coming off the river and all the peoples are doing the coughing—these mental ‘fumes,’ yes?”
“Mindsmog,” said Fletcher at once. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Vladimir nodded. “The smog in the mind, yes. But then, when we are coming here, the—mindsmog?—it quickly goes away. We feel it fading until it has gone.” He stabbed at the map with a finger. “It was there.”
Fletcher looked at the map, at a district already ringed in Biro, but couldn’t make head or tail of it. “It’s about—what? Half a mile south of here?”
“One kilometre,” Vladimir nodded. “South and a little west. Then, because the mindsmog is gone, we are thinking is not dangerous to going there. It is the better part of the town. More better than here.”
“We passed through when we drove in,” said Fletcher. “But I wanted to stay at a place that was less prominent.”
“Understanding,” Vladimir answered. “We are the same.”
And Joe Sparrow, standing close to the table, came in with, “So, what did you find there?”
Vladimir looked up at him. “Nothings,” he said. And then he frowned. “But there was…I don’t know…somethings. Like a bad taste in the mouth, but in the mind. It soon went away.”
Cliff Angel pulled a face and said, “You psychoids are very weird people! You get results, I know, but I’ve never been able to figure you out.”
“Believe me,” said Fletcher, looking up at him, “you really wouldn’t want to figure this out.” And then, to Vladimir. “What about physically? I mean, was there anything about that part of town that especially impressed you—or depressed you? Did you take note of where you got this bad taste, its exact location?”
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And now Venyamin Androsov nodded, turned to his brother and said something to him in Russian. Fletcher caught just one word, Kino, which he knew meant “cinema” in German. So maybe it was the same in Russian. And:
“Kino?” Fletcher repeated him. “The cinema? What about it?”
“No,” Vladimir shook his head. “This place is not quite the cinema. Films are showing there, but is also the cabaret—like the opera but not the opera—ah, the burlesque? The political satire? Also, the belly-dancing, yes! Especially the girls when they are dancing.”
Joe Sparrow said, “I thought the Turks were just as fond of little boys?” Fletcher’s minders were far less than politically correct.
And Cliff Angel added, “Like they’ll fuck anything, right?”
Vladimir nodded his head this way and that—an impatient, be-that-as-it-may motion—and said, “Possibly, but better the naked ladies, I thinking. My brother speaks true: this place is the belly-dancing, er—Schauplatz?” He paused to seek confirmation from Fletcher.
And recognizing the German word again: “Theatre.” Fletcher nodded.
“Good!” said Vladimir. “This ‘theatre’ was source of mindstink, yes.”
“Mindsmog,” Fletcher reminded him, and the Russian shrugged his acquiescence.
“So, what’s on?” said Angel.
“Eh?” Vladimir looked questioningly at the two minders.
“What’s showing at the theatre?” said Sparrow.
“Ah!” said Vladimir. “The ladies, I thinking. I seeing the posters. Very crude posters, but girls, certainly. The English girls, I thinking.”
“A revue?” said Fletcher. “Like a troupe? Out of England?” The twins glanced at each other, but neither one of them could say for sure.
Fletcher thought about it for a moment, then said, “If you feel like it, we could try locating something now.”
