Vamphyri!

by Brian Lumley

  “Good!” said Dolgikh. “I’m sure I’ll work something out along those lines. And of course I’ll be the only witness …”

  Light footsteps sounded and Zek Föener appeared on the office threshold. She merely glanced coldly at Dolgikh, . then fixed her gaze on Gerenko. ‘Kyle is a goldmine—the sane part of him, anyway! There is nothing he doesn’t know, and he’s releasing it in a flood. He even knows a good many—too many—things about us. Things I didn’t know. Fantastic things …” Suddenly she looked tired.

  Gerenko nodded. “Fantastic things? I had supposed that they would be. Is that why you think he’s partly insane? That his mind is playing him tricks? Believe me, it isn’t! Do you know what they destroyed in Romania?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but … it’s hard to believe. I—”

  Gerenko held up a warning hand. She understood, felt caution emanating from him. Theo Dolgikh was not to know. Like most of the other espers at the Chateau, Föener hated the KGB. She nodded, and kept her silence.

  Gerenko spoke again. “And is it the same sort of thing that lies hidden in the mountains beyond Chernovtsy?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Very well.” Gerenko smiled without emotion. “And now, my dear, you must return to your work. Give it total priority.”

  “Of course,” she answered. “I only came away while they were dosing him again. And because I need a break from …” She shook her head dazedly. Her eyes were wide, bright with strange new knowledge. “Comrade, this thing is utterly—”

  Again Gerenko held up his child’s hand in warning. “I know.”

  She nodded, turned and left, her footsteps a little uncertain on the descending stone stairs.

  “What was that all about?” Dolgikh was mystified.

  “That was the joint death certificate of Krakovitch, Gulharov and Quint,” Gerenko answered. “Actually, Quint was the only one who might have been useful—but no longer. Now you can get on your way. Is the branch helicopter ready for you?”

  Dolgikh nodded. He began to stand up, then frowned and said, “First tell me, what will happen to Kyle when you are finished with him? I mean, I’ll take care of that other pair of traitors, and the British esper, Quint, but what of Kyle? What will become of him?”

  Gerenko raised his eyebrows. “I thought that was obvious. When we have what we want, everything we want, then we’ll dump him in the British zone in Berlin. There he’ll simply die, and their best doctors won’t know why.”

  “But why will he die? And what of that drug you’re pumping into him? Surely their doctors will pick up traces?”

  Gerenko shook his walnut head. “It leaves no trace. It completely voids itself in a few hours. That is why we have to keep dosing him. A clever lot, our Bulgarian friends. He’s not the first one we’ve drained in this fashion, and the results have always been the same. As to why he will die: he will have no incentive for life. Less than a cabbage, he will not retain sufficient knowledge or instinct even to move his body. There will be no control—none! His vital organs will not function. He might survive longer on a life-support machine, but …” And he shrugged.

  “Brain-death.” Dolgikh nodded and grinned.

  “But there you have it in a nutshell.” Gerenko emotionlessly clapped his child’s hands. “Bravo! For what is an entirely empty brain if not dead, eh? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a telephone call to make.”

  Dolgikh stood up. “I’ll be on my way,” he said. Already he was looking forward to the task in hand.

  “Theo,” said Gerenko. “Krakovitch and his friends—they should be killed with despatch. Don’t linger over it. And one last thing: do not be too curious about what they are trying to do up there in the mountains. Do not concern yourself with it. Believe me, too much curiosity could be very, very dangerous!”

  In answer to which Dolgikh could only nod. Then he turned and left the room …

  As their car drew away from the checkpoint towards Chernovtsy, Quint might have expected Krakovitch to carry on raging. But he didn’t. Instead the head of the Soviet E-Branch was quiet and thoughtful, and even more so after Gulharov quickly told him about the disconnected cable.

  “There are several things I not liking here,” Krakovitch told Quint in a little while. “At first I am thinking that fat man back there is simply stupid, but now not being so sure. And this business with the electricity—all very strange. Sergei finds and fixes that which they could not—and he does it quickly and without difficulty. Which would seem to make our fat friend at the checkpoint not only stupid but incompetent!”

  “You think we were deliberately delayed?” Quint felt an uneasy, dark oppressiveness settling all around him, like a positive weight on his head and shoulders.

  “That telephone call he got just now,” Krakovitch mused. “The Commissioner for Frontier Control, in Moscow? I never heard of him! But I suppose he must exist. Or must he? One commissioner, controlling all of the thousands of crossing points into the Soviet Union? So, I assume he exists. Which is meaning that Ivan Gerenko got in touch with him, in the dead of night, and that he then personally called up this little fat official in his stupid sentry-box of a control hut—all in ten minutes!”

  “Who knew we were coming through here tonight?” Quint, in his way of going to the root of things, asked the most obvious questions.

  “Eh?” Krakovitch scratched behind his ear. “We knew it, of course, and—”

  “And?”

  “And my Second in Command at the Chateau Bronnitsy, Ivan Gerenko.” Krakovitch turned to Quint and stared hard at him.

  “Then, while I dislike saying it,” said Quint, “if there is something funny going on, Gerenko has to be your man.”

  Krakovitch gave a disbelieving snort, shook his head. “But why? What reason?”

  Quint shrugged. “You have to know him better than I do. Is he ambitious? Could he have been got at—and by whom? But remember, we did have that trouble in Genoa, and didn’t you remark how surprised you were that the KGB were trailing you? Your explanation was that they’d probably had you under constant surveillance—until we put a stop to it, anyway. But just let’s suppose there is an enemy in your camp. Did Gerenko know you were meeting us in Italy?”

  “Apart from Brezhnev himself—through an intermediary who cannot be brought into question—Gerenko is the only one who knew!” Krakovitch answered.

  Quint said nothing, merely shrugged again and raised an eyebrow.

  “I am thinking,” said Krakovitch slowly, “that from now on I tell no one how I moving until after the move is completed!” He looked at Quint, saw his troubled frown. “Is there something else?”

  Quint pursed his lips. “‘Let’s just say this Gerenko fellow is a plant, a spy in your organization. Am I right in thinking he can only be working for the KGB?”

  “For Andropov, yes. Almost certainly.”

  “Then Gerenko must think you’re a complete fool!”

  “Oh? Why do you say so? In fact he thinks most men are fools. He fears no one, Gerenko, and so can afford to think so. But I? No, I believe I am one of the few men who he respects—or used to.”

  “Used to,” Quint nodded. “But no more. Surely he must know you’ll work all of this out for yourself given a little time? Theo Dolgikh in Genoa, and now this shambles at the Romano-Soviet border? Unless he himself is an idiot, Gerenko must know he’s for the high-jump as soon as you get back to Moscow!”

  Sergei Gulharov had managed to understand most of this. Now he spoke to Krakovitch in a soft, rapid burst of Russian.

  “Hah!” Krakovitch’s shoulders jerked in a humourless chuckle. For a moment he was silent, then he said, “Perhaps Sergei is smarter than all of us. And if he is, then we’re in for trouble.”

  “Oh?” said Quint. “What did Sergei say?”

  “He said, perhaps Comrade Gerenko feels that he can now afford to be a little slipshod. Perhaps he isn’t expecting to see me again in Moscow! And as for you, Carl—we just crossed th
e border and you’re in Russia.”

  “I know,” Quint quietly answered. “And I must say, I don’t exactly feel at home.”

  “Strangely,” Krakovitch nodded, “neither do I!”

  Nothing more was said until they reached Chernovtsy …

  Chapter Fifteen

  BACK IN LONDON AT INTESP HQ, GUY ROBERTS AND KEN Layard had traced Alec Kyle, Carl Quint and Yulian Bodescu. The Devon-based team of espers had travelled back to the capital by train, leaving Ben Trask to mend in the Torquay hospital. Having used the journey to catch up on some sleep, they’d got into HQ just before midnight. Layard had roughly “located” the three figures in question, and Roberts had attempted to scry their whereabouts a little more precisely. Desperation had seemingly honed their talents and the familiarity of their surroundings had helped them to get results—of a sort.

  Now Roberts held a briefing: in attendance were Layard, John Grieve, Harvey Newton, Trevor Jordan, and three others who were permanent members of the HQ’s staff. Roberts was red-eyed, unshaven and itchy; his breath reeked of an endless chain of cigarettes. He glanced around the table and nodded to each man in turn, then got straight into it.

  “We’ve been trimmed back a bit,” he said, untypically phlegmatic. “Kyle and Quint are out of it, perhaps permanently; Trask is banged up a bit; Darcy Clarke’s up north, and … and then there’s poor Simon Gower. And the result of our outing? Our job isn’t only that much harder, it’s that much more important! Yes, and we’ve less men to do it. We could certainly use Harry Keogh now—but Alec Kyle was Keogh’s main man, and Alec’s not here. And as well as the danger we know exists—out there, loose—there’s now a second problem which could be just as big. Namely, the espers of the Soviet E-Branch have got Kyle on ice at the Chateau Bronnitsy.”

  This was news to everyone except Layard. Lips tightened and heartbeats stepped up. Ken Layard took up the briefing. “We’re pretty sure he’s there,” he said. “I located him—I think—but only with the greatest difficulty. They’ve got espers blocking everything in there, far more concentrated than we’ve ever known it before. The place is a mental miasma!”

  “That’s a fact,” Roberts nodded. “I tried to pin-point him, get a picture of him—and failed miserably! Just a general mind-smog. Which doesn’t bode at all well for Alec. If his being there was all above board, they’d have nothing to hide. Also, he’s not supposed to be there at all but here. My guess is, they’ll be milking him for all he’s worth. And for all we’re worth. If I’m cold-blooded about it, believe me it’s only to save time.”

  “What about Carl Quint?” John Grieve put the question. “How’s he faring?”

  “Carl’s where he should be,” Layard said. “Near as I can make out, in a place called Chernovtsy under the Carpathians. Whether he’s there willingly is another matter.”

  “But we think willingly,” Roberts added. “I’ve managed to reach and see him, however briefly, and I think he’s with Krakovitch. Which only serves to confuse things further. If Krakovitch is straight up, then why is Kyle in trouble?”

  “And Bodescu?” Newton asked. He now felt he had a personal vendetta with the vampire.

  “That bastard is heading north,” Roberts grimly answered. “It could be coincidence, but we don’t think so. Ultimately, we think he’s after the Keogh child. He knows everything, knows the guiding force behind our organization. Bodescu has been hit, and now he wants to hit back. The one mind in this entire world which is an authority on vampires—particularly Yulian Bodescu—is housed in that child. That has to be his target.”

  “We don’t know how he’s travelling,” Layard carried on. “Public transport? Could be. He could even be thumbing lifts! But he’s certainly not in any sort of hurry. He’s just taking it easy, taking his time. He got into Birmingham an hour ago, since when he’s been static. We think he’s put up for the night. But it’s the same story as before: he exudes this mental swamp. That’s what it’s like: groping around in the heart of a foggy swamp. You can’t pinpoint him at all, but you know there’s a crocodile in there somewhere. At the moment, Birmingham is the centre of it …”

  “But do we have any plans?” Jordan couldn’t stand the inactivity. “I mean, are we going to do something? Or do we just sit here playing with ourselves while everything goes to hell?”

  “There are jobs for everybody.” Roberts held up a huge, controlling hand. “First I need a volunteer to go up and help Darcy Clarke in Hartlepool. Apart from a couple of Special Branch men—who are good blokes but simply can’t be expected to know what they’re on—Darcy’s on his own. The ideal thing would be to send a spotter, except we don’t have one right now. So it will have to be a telepath.” He looked pointedly at Jordan.

  Harvey Newton got in first, however, saying: “Tha’s me! I owe Bodescu that much. He got by me last time, but he won’t do it again.”

  Jordan shrugged and no one else objected. Roberts nodded. “OK—but stay sharp! Go now, by car. The roads will be empty, so you should be able to go flat out. Depending on how things go at this end, I’ll probably be joining you sometime tomorrow.”

  That was all Newton had wanted. He stood up, nodded once to all in general, got on his way. “Take a crossbow,” Roberts called after him. “And Harvey, next time you ‘shoot your bolt’ make sure you hit the target!”

  “What’s my job?” Jordan asked.

  “You’ll work with Mike Carson,” Roberts told him. “And with me and Layard. We’ll try to locate Quint again, and you telepaths can take a stab at sending to him. It’s a long shot, but Quint’s a spotter, he’s a psychic sensitive; he might just feel you. Your message to him will be simple: if he can he’s to get in touch with us. If we can get him on the phone, we can perhaps find out about Kyle. And if he doesn’t know about Kyle—well, that in itself will answer one question. Also, if we do manage to contact him, it might be a good idea to tell Quint to get the hell out of there—if and while he can! So that’s the four of us tied up for the night.” He looked round the table.

  “The rest of you can concentrate on the proper running of this place before it comes apart at the seams. Every man Jack is on duty full time as of now. Right, are there any questions?”

  “Are we the only ones in on this?” John Grieve asked. “I mean, are the public, the authorities, still entirely in the dark?”

  “Totally. What do we tell them—that we’re chasing a vampire through the countryside from Devon to British West Hartlepool? Listen, even the people who fund us and know we exist don’t wholly believe in us! How do you think they’d react to the facts about Yulian Bodescu? And as for Harry Keogh … of course the public is in the dark about it.”

  “With a single exception, anyway,” said Layard. “We’ve had the police alerted to the fact that there’s a mad killer on the loose—Bodescu’s description, of course. We’ve told them he’s heading north, possible destination the Hartlepool area. They’ve been warned that if he’s spotted they’re not to apprehend him but get in touch with us first, then the Special Branch lads who are up there on the job. As and when Bodescu gets closer to his target, then we’ll be more specific. That’s as much as we dare do for now.”

  Roberts looked from face to face. “Any more questions?” he asked. There were none …

  3:30 A.M. at Brenda Keogh’s tiny but immaculate garret flat overlooking the main road through the town and, across the road, an old, old cemetery. Harry Jr. lay in his cot sleeping and dreaming baby dreams, and his father’s mind slept with him exhausted from a struggle he now knew he had no hope of winning. The child had him, it was as simple as that. Harry was the baby’s sixth sense.

  In the wee small hours of the misty morning, with dawn still half an hour away, a thicker mist was forming in slumbering minds bringing horror as it swirled and eddied in subconscious caverns of dream. And out of nowhere, telepathic fingers were reaching, probing, discovering!

  Ahhh! came that gurgling, clotted mental voice in the two Harrys’ mind
s. Is that you, Haarrryyy? Yesss, I see it is! Well, I’m coming for you, Haarrryyy—I’m coming … for … you!”

  The baby’s scream of terror ripped his mother from her bed as if it were the hand of some cruel giant. She stumbled to his tiny room, shook herself awake as she entered and went to him. And how he cried, cried, cried when she took him in her arms, cried like she’d never heard before. But he wasn’t wet, and no nappy pins were sticking in him. Was he hungry? No, it wasn’t that either.

  She rocked him in her arms, but still he sobbed, and his little eyes wide and wild and full of fear. A dream, maybe? “But you’re too tiny, Harry,” she told him, kissing his hot little head. “Far too tiny and sweet and so very, very young to be dreaming naughty dreams! That’s all it was, baby, a naughty dream.”

  She carried him back to her own bed, thinking: Yes, and I must have been dreaming too! She must have been, for the baby’s scream when it woke her hadn’t sounded like the scream of a child at all but that of a terrified man …

  It was 3:30 in London, where Guy Roberts and Ken Layard, assisted by the telepaths Trevor Jordan and Mike Carson, had spent the last ninety minutes trying to “get through” to Carl Quint—without any success that they could measure.

  They were working in Layard’s private locations room, an office or study set by solely for his use. Wall racks carried maps and charts of the entire world, without which Layard’s work for INTESP would be almost impossible. The map which had been spread on his desk for the last two hours was a blown-up aerial recce photograph of the Russo-Moldavian border, with Chernovtsy circled in red felt-tip.