Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

by George C. Chesbro

  He disappeared into the pantry area for a few minutes. When he emerged, he was wearing another silk robe, this one a solid jet black, and he was barefoot. He carried two tall, slender, black candles in black pewter candleholders. As per his instructions, we stood back against a wall, within earshot, but well away from the sitting area where the paralyzed Al lay on the floor.

  "You can't know how to do that!" Al shouted, clearly startled and afraid, as Sinclair set the black candles down on the floor, on either side of the young man's head. "It's impossible!"

  "Your grandfather taught me, junior," Sinclair replied evenly. "You and I are going to chat. I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you're going to answer them."

  "No!"

  "You're going to tell me everything about Black Flame. I want to know where to find your father and every other member of the society. I want to know every business or operation with which Black Flame is currently involved. You will tell me the names and positions of all the nonmembers, like Emmet P. Neuberger, you control. You will tell me where your records are kept and how to access them. Your society has existed for more than a thousand years, junior, but you're going to help me destroy it. Together, we're going to blow out Black Flame."

  "It won't work on me, Sinclair," Al said in a voice that was now controlled and defiant. "I can resist it, just as you resisted the herb drink. I'm as good as you are. All you can do is kill me, but my father and the others will find and kill you, and all the people you love."

  "We'll see," Sinclair replied easily, and then proceeded to draw the heavy drapes across the bank of windows behind him.

  The library was plunged into darkness. A few seconds later the twin flames of the candles flickered to life, and Harper, standing close beside me and clutching my hand, gave a little cry. Sinclair had opened windows, or turned on fans, somewhere for ventilation, for I could feel a slight draft; but despite the flow of fresh air, I could clearly smell the distinct, sourish aroma given off by the candles. I also imagined I could somehow feel the scent, for I was growing light-headed. The effect was similar to what I'd experienced one time when I'd walked into a room where people had been smoking hash, and I'd gotten a contact high. My first sensation was dizziness, but that quickly passed, and was replaced by a heightened tactile sensitivity that was hallucinatory; the darkness felt like a rubbery substance pressing against my skin, and the air in my lungs like a heavy liquid, like mercury. Every sensation was highly magnified, including the sound of our breathing. The sensation was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, only distinctly peculiar. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and pressed it to my nose, but that didn't help.

  Around the flames of both candles there was a distinct halo of black.

  Sinclair began by asking Al a simple question, in a casual, conversational tone. "Where is your father, junior?"

  Al's response was a soft moan. There followed a prolonged silence, and I gradually became aware of another sensation. It began as a slight tugging feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me slightly nauseous; then I realized it was caused by something I was hearing. Sinclair was singing—chanting—in a very soft voice. There were no words, only sounds, syllables, chanted in a minor key. The sound gradually grew in volume. Once again I grew dizzy and had to lean back against the wall for support. Harper was leaning heavily against me, clutching my left arm tightly with both hands.

  The sound of Sinclair's voice somehow amplified the hallucinatory effects of whatever ingredients were burning in the candle, for with each syllable I felt a pulse beat in the pit of my stomach. My thoughts raced uncontrollably, and I had vivid compressed images of my life, all of it, flashing, as if on a movie screen, just behind my eyes. For me, the effect was wondrous—but I suspected Al was experiencing something altogether different, for he was moaning in pain.

  Sinclair abruptly stopped chanting and asked Al the same question. When Al's only response was a tortured groan, Sinclair began to chant again—slightly louder and higher, in a different key.

  I suddenly felt an unutterable sadness and loneliness, and I began to cry.

  Al began to scream.

  Sinclair stopped after a minute or two, and Al began to talk freely, his words tumbling over one another. No more questions were needed.

  All of Black Flame's records—its history, its membership role, accounts of assassination through the centuries, individuals and corporations under its control, and complete financial records— were stored electronically in Cornucopia's computer network, and Al provided the information necessary to access any and all of it.

  Emmet P. Neuberger was back on duty, presiding over Cornucopia and Black Flame's business affairs from a wheelchair, since he'd had both legs sawed off.

  When Al finished, Sinclair, kneeling, leaned over into the black and golden glow cast by the candles. He put his face very dose-to Al's and made a loud, barking noise that was like a shout, but at the same time unlike any other sound I had ever heard uttered by a human. The noise made both Harper and me jump, and it echoed in the vast stone, wood, and glass library for what seemed a very long time. The candles went out.

  We heard Sinclair's footsteps in the darkness, and then the heavy drapes were pulled back, allowing sunlight to once again stream into die library. The man with the steel-gray hair and eyes opened a window, and the black, greasy smoke from the extinguished candles began to waft out into the morning. My head immediately began to clear. Insolers stepped off to one side to stand in front of a bookcase, while Garth, Veil, Harper, and I walked over to the sitting area, looked down at the still figure on the floor. Al was dead, his face a frozen mask of unspeakable agony.

  Sinclair took a crocheted shawl from the sofa and draped it over Al's face. Then he went to Jan, put his arms around her, gently kissed her on the forehead.

  "You're going to New York?" the woman asked.

  Sinclair nodded. "After we tidy up things here. I owe Neuberger a visit, and the complete records can only be accessed from there. I have to finish it, Jan."

  "Yes, Chant. I know."

  Suddenly, there was an ominous click-clack-clonk of metal hitting metal, a magazine being shoved home, an automatic rifle being cocked. We all wheeled around in the direction of the sound, and I was shocked to see Duane Insolers still standing back across the room by a bookcase. One of the dead Black Flame soldiers' weapons that had been picked up and leaned against the wall was now in his hands. The bore was pointed at Sinclair's chest.

  "I want everyone to remain perfectly still and do exactly as I say," Insolers said calmly. "Sinclair and Kendry, I want both of you to slowly spread your legs apart, then cross your arms over your chests and squeeze your hands in your armpits. Do it right now. If you hesitate, I pull the trigger."

  Veil and Sinclair did as they were told.

  "Duane!" Jan cried, anger and sorrow in her voice. "Oh, Duane!"

  "Be quiet, Jan," Insolers said without looking at her. He had moved the bore of the rifle slightly, now aiming it at a point midway between Veil and Sinclair. "I'm sorry to have to end up the skunk at the garden party, folks, but it had to happen like this someday, and Sinclair knew it. Our relationship has always been a bit tenuous. I'm only interested in Sinclair, and there's no reason for things to become any more unpleasant than they are so long as none of you tries to interfere with me. But know that I will kill any one, or all, of you if I have to."

  "Do as he says," Sinclair said in an even tone.

  "Thank you, Sinclair. Now, I want the rest of you to move away from him. Kendry, you make sure you keep your hands in your armpits and feet on the floor and apart. Shuffle. Don't turn your body."

  Jan abruptly stepped next to Sinclair, thrust her chin out defiantly, and glared at Insolers. "If you're going to kill Chant, Duane, you may as well kill me too."

  "Oh, I will if I have to, Jan. I like you very much, but I'm a professional, and I have a job to do. Tell her, Sinclair."

  "Move away, Jan," Sinclair said in the same even tone as he
stared back at Insolers.

  "Chant?"

  "It's all right. If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it immediately, without all this chitchat. Duane has something else on his mind, so it's best to let him get on with it. But he will pull the trigger if you provoke him, or if he feels you're trying to use your body to screen me. So do as he says, please." He turned his head slightly, smiled reassuringly at Jan, who finally stepped back away from him. Then Sinclair looked back at Insolers. "I hate to leave things unfinished. You'll take care of eliminating Black Flame for me, won't you, Duane?"

  "For sure. I heard everything the little son-of-a-bitch told you, and I'll pass it on to Interpol, the NYPD, the FBI, and everybody else who needs to know. I personally guarantee they'll be put out of business."

  "Thanks. I appreciate that."

  "So you really did know all along what you were talking about, Insolers," I said, trying to move just a bit closer to Veil. I wondered why the CIA operative was waiting to do whatever it was he planned to do, but I was in no great hurry to resolve the mystery. "There was indeed a CIA special assassin, an insider who was a real threat—you, you prick." I paused, swallowed, tasted bile. "You weren't trying to run me; you were running me right along, using me to get next to John Sinclair, and I delivered him right into your lap. You're a clever man, Insolers, but you're still a fuck. I'm thinking it may be very good insurance for your future personal security if you killed me, pal, because I'm working up a real good mad at you."

  Garth said, "Shut up, Mongo."

  Insolers nodded curtly. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Frederickson. But you're right. I did have to find a way to get close to Sinclair, without making him suspicious and putting him on his guard. Like I said, our relationship has always been tenuous, founded more on mutual interests than real trust. I had no way to contact him, knew he wouldn't contact me, and I could never have called or come here without a very good excuse. That was taboo. I'd like to think not, but he might even have killed me if I ever came here alone or tried to contact Jan. I didn't need him angry with me; I needed him off guard."

  "So you made a snap decision and crammed all that information into my head at the very beginning, hoping that I'd do exactly what I did—eventually find my way here, bringing you along with me. But you had to be brought here against your will, kicking and screaming all the way, as a captive. It was the only way Sinclair here would buy your story that you'd come to help, the only way you could hope to get the drop on him like this."

  Insolers' response was another curt nod.

  "You took a very big chance in the car back out on the highway, mister," Veil said in a deceptively easygoing tone that was tinged with regret. "You were pretty convincing when you had that garrote around Mongo's neck, and you can't imagine how close I came to killing you."

  Garth said, "This is what we get for listening to Mongo."

  Insolers shrugged. "Big jobs require big risks, and there's no bigger job than running John Sinclair to ground. I simply couldn't think of any other way to do it."

  I didn't so much actually see as sense a minute shift in the balance of the spread-eagled man standing next to me. Something was about to happen. And, despite all evidence to the contrary, not the least of which was the automatic rifle in the hands of the man standing across the room, I did not feel Duane Insolers was going to be with our little group much longer—unless I intervened, which I did. I had one big question to ask Insolers, and I wasn't going to get the answer if he was dead. Also, dead men's fingers can twitch, and that was all it would take to kill one or more of us.

  I raised my right arm and put the back of my hand against Veil's stomach in what I hoped looked like a casual gesture. It was enough to stop him—for the moment.

  "Explain something to me, Insolers," I said quickly. "John Sinclair has the knowledge, training, and mental skills to defeat that tasty truth tea Al gave us, but you don't. When Al questioned you, you did say that you'd come to help Sinclair. You didn't toss your cookies when you said it. It means you were telling the truth at the time, which makes it hard to understand what you're doing now. Care to comment?"

  Insolers grunted, ejected the magazine from the rifle, dropped both it and the weapon on the floor. "Actually, there's nothing to explain. I was trying to make an impression on Mr. Sin—Jesus Christ!"

  Veil and John Sinclair had moved as one, taking their right hands out of their armpits and flicking their wrists in a single motion so quick that I perceived the motion only as a blur out of the corner of my eye. An instant later, both the throwing knife I had given to Veil and a steel shuriken thudded into the wooden casing of the bookshelf behind Insolers, a weapon on either side of his head, both barely an inch from his ears. The blood drained from his face as he took a step forward, then turned and looked back at the two razor-sharp pieces of steel that could have been embedded in his skull.

  "It looks like your luck is still holding, mister," Veil said to Insolers as he and Sinclair exchanged glances and approving nods.

  "You can thank Mongo for the fact that you're still alive. That's twice he's saved your life in twenty-four hours. I hope you're going to remember him in your will."

  Jan made a hissing sound of disgust, shook her head. "Duane, you're an idiot."

  "You look a little shaky, Duane," Sinclair said with a wry smile. "You want a drink?"

  The CIA's deputy director of operations shook his head. "No," he said, and swallowed hard. "Let's just all sit down. I have a few things to say to you, Sinclair."

  Veil unceremoniously dragged Al's body out of sight behind the sofa. Then we all sat down, with Insolers sitting in a straight-backed chair, and the rest of us on the sofa.

  "What just occurred could have happened differently, Sinclair," Insolers continued, "and I'm not referring to the fact that you or Kendry might have killed me. You could have taken a sniper's bullet in the brain while you were standing on your balcony or walking around the grounds. The fact of the matter is that I volunteered to come over here to kill you, because if I hadn't come they were going to send somebody else—somebody who would have gotten the job done. Black Flame wasn't the only outfit gradually closing the distance over the years. The agency has also been getting closer and closer to you every day, to uncovering the truth about a lot of things. After this Cornucopia thing in Switzerland went down, they used a computer to start combing through all your files one more time. This time they were taking another, very serious look at all the manipulations that went into the creation of our countess here, and her inheritance of R. Edgar Blake's castle and entire estate. Before too long, they're going to make all the right connections, and they're going to know that the story we made up to tell them is a lie. They already suspect it, and they strongly suspect a connection between you, Jan, and this castle. They wanted to send somebody over here to set up surveillance of this castle—somebody with expert sniper's skills to blow you away just in case you did happen to saunter into his sights. Like I said, I assigned myself to the job. In other words, Sinclair, the party's over. I can't go back unless I can say I've killed you, and offer some kind of convincing evidence. Otherwise, I'm blown. Now, you can certainly kill me as a partial solution to the problem, but I don't think you want to do that. Besides, they'll just send somebody else. You can close up shop here, but now I think they're going to concentrate on tracing and tracking Jan. If she doesn't go deep underground, which I don't think you want, she'll lead them to you. So if you two want to stay together, Chant Sinclair is going to have to die. I've gone to a lot of trouble, and taken considerable risks, to get myself into a position where I could not only deliver this message but make certain you took it seriously. So you're dead. Got it?"

  Sinclair's response was to smile thinly, scratch his head. "You do make a strong argument, Duane. I've got it."

  Insolers nodded, relief clearly evident on his face. "You died here last night. You managed to kill off these Black Flame members, but you and Jan died with them. If we blow up the castle w
ith all the bodies in it, there's no reason for the agency not to believe the report I give them. I may even say I blew it up. Whatever. It will work as long as you don't one day decide to go back into business."

  Sinclair put his arm around Jan, pulled her close to him. "It sounds like a good plan, Duane," he said easily.

  Jan smiled at the man with the piercing gray eyes. "Does this mean we're going to be able to live like normal human beings?"

  "It looks that way, my dear. If Duane gets the rest of it right."

  Harper said, "Black Flame is part of the rest of it. What about the rest of them, Mr. Insolers?"

  "I'll do what I said I would, Harper. My guess is that within a week Black Flame will no longer exist; their operations will be shut down, their members and associates arrested or killed, and their finances confiscated."

  I cleared my throat. "I'll want to deal with Emmet P. Neuberger personally."

  "You've got it. I'll put Frederickson and Frederickson on the CIA payroll as temporary consultants, and you and your brother can not only take care of your business with Neuberger but watch over my shoulder while I take care of the rest of it. Agreed?"

  I nodded. When Insolers looked at Sinclair, he nodded.

  "Good," Insolers continued. "Now, it's going to take me some time to make arrangements to bring in enough explosives to blow this place up, so I suggest that—"

  "It's already been taken care of," Sinclair said. "There's enough C-5 planted in strategic places in the walls to bring the entire structure down. The wiring is in place as well, and all that has to be done is to connect it to a detonator and timer." He must have seen the surprised look on all our faces, for he paused for a few moments, looked at each of us in turn, then continued, "I always knew I would have to retire someday, and this seems as good a time as any. I also knew that one day somebody might connect me to Jan and this castle. Just as in Duane's plan, the plastique was put in place to cover our escape and make it appear as if we'd died in the explosion."