But Tom Hutton didn’t care. It was surely better to have seen Beauty again and die by her than to live on in the desert.
That was what he thought now, anyway. He hadn’t thought it before, but he thought it now. It’s what Dad would have said.
And he no longer gave a damn what anyone else thought. They could all do what they bloody well liked.
So he fell to his knees, commended himself to Beauty, and waited for the end.
Reginald Hargrove did not believe it was happening. Surely it was a dream. A very bad dream. He would wake in
a minute.
What was the matter with him?
He liked fear, didn’t he? He loved to see it in their little faces. And pain. He liked pain. It was what he paid for. All that
money.
But this wasn’t the same. It was supposed to be them, not
him.
He could feel heat from the flames.
His bowels were loose, his limbs slack.
Siding Star 167 His underpants were wet.
He could hear himself screaming but still he could not move. This was all wrong.
It was supposed to be them.
It was supposed to be them.
thirty-nine
M
aria Coleman was standing almost directly in the wolf’s path when it crashed into the chamber. Its charge knocked her aside, sending her reeling against the back wall. From there she watched as the wolf leapt at the nearest of the great candle stands and brought it down. The arc of its fall ended inches in front of her. She felt the rush of air as it tumbled and the heat of its flames. But already the wolf had hurled itself against the other candle stand. Then at the central pillar, and brought that down too. Oil gushed from it, spreading towards the curtain opposite in a gleaming pool that was immediately laced with fire. Flames were already licking at the heavy drapery as the wolf sprang to another panel and tugged. The black damask, clenched between gleaming teeth, ripped and tore like tissue.
Hutton was on his knees.
Hargrove was screaming.
The temple was disintegrating before her eyes.
Suddenly she realized that nothing barred her way to the
open door. She tried to run towards it— but her feet would not obey her. Whatever power had ruled in that place still held her fast. She could not move or even cry out. She was doomed.
170
ChristoPher BryAn And now to her horror the wolf turned toward her and for the first time seemed to see her. It was going to attack her!
It did not. Suddenly it stopped its triumphant progress and simply stood, and so standing, looked at her with great, sad eyes. And in the instant she met those eyes she knew that she was free.
She ran.
Across to the shattered doorway and through it and down the stairs. At the first landing she paused for a second and pulled off her shoes, then plunged downward on silent feet. The descent seemed endless. Flight after flight. At every step she expected something terrible to fall upon her. At every landing she expected to be seized and forced back. And now indeed she prayed. Oh God, if I get out of here I’ll never come back! Oh God, if I get out of here I’ll never come back! Nothing happened. Screams and cries came from behind her, but ahead she saw no one.
Now she was at ground level. Surely here they would stop her? Her luck held. The hall was deserted, the front door slightly ajar.
She opened it and plunged through.
In the street she felt at last able to pause, drawing in great gulps of cool air, scarcely able to believe she was uninjured. But only for a moment! She was still too close to the building. She put her shoes on and started to walk, high heels clicking on the pavement. She was not walking anywhere in particular. She only knew she was walking away. At this moment anywhere would do, so long as it was away from there.
And now here was her car, gleaming in the street light. The Porsche was, of course, parked where she had left it—but in the same instant that she recognized it she also realized it was useless to her. In her panic she had left her handbag with her car keys and coat in the anteroom to the temple.
It didn’t matter.
siding stAr 171 She wouldn’t go back for them. She wouldn’t go back for anything. The car would have to stay.
She walked on, quickening her step.
Forty
C
ecilia watched as the blonde woman put on her shoes and left. The front door was still open. Why was the woman not wearing her coat? Why had she taken her shoes off? Whatever had happened, she appeared to be in control of herself and in no particular distress. So Cecilia contented herself with filming her as she walked away down the road.
And now what?
A huge dog had appeared at the head of the steps with something in its mouth. A dog—no? A wolf? Another wolf? Or even—the same wolf? Cecilia watched in utter astonishment as it descended the steps, trotted straight to her car, and deposited its burden—which she could now see was a book—in the road by the driver’s door. It looked up at her for a moment, then bent down and pushed the book toward her. It looked up at her again, head slightly to one side, as if making sure she understood, then trotted away into the darkness.
Only when the wolf had gone did it occur to Cecilia that in her astonishment she’d forgotten to film it. Damn! Had there actually been a wolf? Was she hallucinating? Apparently not, for there on the pavement was the book, solid and dark. She didn’t make the same mistake twice. She removed the camera
174
ChristoPher BryAn from its tripod, opened the car door, and photographed the book from several angles. Then she filmed it with a five-pound note beside it so its size would be clear. Finally, she put the camera back in the car, took a pair of forensic gloves from a packet in the glove compartment, put them on, and picked the book up by its edges. She felt a surge of quiet triumph. It was a battered version of the one Wheatley’d given her. It was surely the original! And if it was and she could prove it, then she’d proved Henry Wheatley a liar.
She got back into the car.
Inserted between the pages at several points were ribbons. Opening at one of them—and still careful even with gloves on not to handle the thing save by its edges—she was presented with what seemed, once again, to be Hebrew. She strained her eyes in the yellow light, oddly fascinated by the curves and lines of the script. Dark and graceful it lay across the cheap paper. Serpentine. Ingratiating. Almost she felt that if she looked long enough she’d grasp its meaning.
She shook her head and let it close.
She looked up at the still open door to the academy. Should she go in? Her curiosity was fierce and the temptation strong— but then, the wiser step was surely not to risk the academy’s becoming aware of her surveillance but to withdraw with the spoils she had and see what could be learned from them. Above all, she needed to find out what was in the book. She should have Michael Aarons look at it. Yes, that was the first priority.
She turned the key in the ignition. Then, as was she pulling out of her parking place, she became aware of flashing lights and sirens behind her. At the end of the block she pulled over and looked back. Smoke was streaming from the upper story of the academy. Lights were going on in surrounding houses. Someone must have dialed 999.
Within minutes there were appliances outside the building and firefighters swarming around it.
siding stAr 175 There was still, however, the matter of the wolf. She didn’t know where it was by now, but surely the police should be alerted? A call from her mobile could be traced, and at this stage of her investigation she wasn’t at all sure who needed to know she’d been watching the academy, so—
Ah, problem solved! There was a British Telecom call box opposite.
She didn’t say who she was: merely gave her information and replaced the receiver.
When she’d left the box (it stank of urine) she stood for a few moments in the night air, looking back toward the academy. Already it looked as if the situation
was pretty well under control.
Then she returned to her car, and drove away.
Forty-one
W
heatley was a man who never allowed himself to be without an avenue of retreat. As soon as the wolf entered the temple he perceived the situation, stepped smartly aside, and walked quickly behind the hangings to a door that led to the back stairs. The door was locked, but he had a key. He stepped out onto the landing, closed the door behind him and locked it again. He would not have the creature following him.
He paused for only a moment. Then—since shrieks and crashes from the temple still sounded uncomfortably close—he descended a couple of floors and made his way to the board- room. Here the noise was muffled, and he could think more clearly.
For his colleagues, he gave not a damn. He doubted very much whether any of them would survive. He had a vague recollection of seeing Coleman making for one of the doors. Hargrove had tripped on the drapes and fallen in a pool of flame, and he recalled Hutton’s going down. He couldn’t remember noticing the chairman at all.
But it didn’t matter.
None of them mattered.
178
ChristoPher BryAn What mattered was that the Ceremony of Power had been interrupted, the precious notebook almost certainly burned, and the inauguration of the New Order now indefinitely delayed. Moreover, the interruption of the ceremony meant that his attack on the Cavalieres had been interrupted, too.
Would the half-completed ceremony have been sufficient? He doubted it.
They were both intelligent and perfectly healthy, so far as he
knew. They were almost bound to have survived. For his dedication he had, at the chairman’s direction, pledged two lives to the power he served. If that pledge were not fulfilled, those lives not given—by sunrise—then his own life would be forfeit. The power knew no mercy, and he knew the rules.
So he stood looking out of the window, and pondered his next step. His attention was caught by movement: a dark form slipping along the pavement. It was—yes, it was surely the creature that had attacked them in the temple, the wolf, with something in its mouth. It stopped by a car and—quite deliberately, it seemed—laid the something on the pavement. It was a book—indeed, it was surely the book. For a moment the wolf stood, staring at the car. It bent its head and nuzzled the book, looked again at the car, then trotted off.
Should he go down? Perhaps he could retrieve it? Too late—the car door was opening. And now someone was getting out, someone in a tracksuit and baseball cap. A boy? No, a woman. Then, to his utter astonishment, he saw it was the policewoman. Cavaliere! But how on earth…? He watched as she first photographed and then removed the book. And as he watched, his frustration and his fury mounted. It was his book. The precious book he’d taken so much trouble to get. The book, now he thought about it, that he’d lied to her about. The book that undoubtedly had his and Kakoyannis’s fingerprints all over it, as she’d soon discover—for the care with which she handled it did not escape him. Damn the woman! Screw her. Screw the interfering bitch.
siding stAr 179 But how the hell had she known to come here? All right, he’d told her about the academy. But how had she known to come tonight? Did she have information? Had someone betrayed them? Was there a mole? One thing was clear. He’d never thought she was stupid, but even at that he’d underestimated her.
He watched her drive off, then considered his own car, parked nearby. He looked at his watch. First things first: what- ever she knew or didn’t know, whatever her sources of information, she couldn’t possibly know what he was going to do next, for he’d only just decided it himself.
It was her parents who were the immediate concern and if he left at once there was still time to deal with them. He could be in Exeter in fewer than three hours, well before sunrise. Once there, revenge and expediency pointed in the same direction.
Then, armed with new powers from his completed dedication, he would deal with their daughter.
And that would be a pleasure.
Forty-two
I
t was now past midnight, but Cecilia drove by Saint Andrew’s on the off-chance—it was, after all, practically on the way to her hotel—and sure enough, there were lights on in the Lady Chapel and the rectory.
She pulled her car into the gap in front of the big double gates, stopped, and got out, clutching her camera and the book, now secured in a plastic evidence bag. She walked up to the main entrance to the church and gently pressed the door. It swung silently open. Even dimly lit in the glow from the Lady Chapel, the interior was a marvel of cream and gold elegance. It reminded her of Rossini: warm and joyful. She walked softly through it toward the light. Even if Michael weren’t here, she was glad she’d come.
But he was there, in the Lady Chapel, sitting in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Then she saw his face. Mother of God! She’d walked into a conversation between lovers. She ought not to be here.
She drew back and would have left, but as soon as she moved Michael Aarons turned and smiled at her.
“Hello,” he said, as if her wandering into the Lady Chapel at half past midnight were the most natural thing in the world.
182
ChristoPher BryAn Feeling suddenly secure, if slightly light-headed, she went and sat beside him.
For a while they sat in comfortable silence.
“I hadn’t realized how beautiful Saint Andrew’s is,” she said. “When I came in it felt like Rossini, but in here it’s like Mozart.”
He looked at her. “Now that’s interesting. I’ve always thought of the church as Mozart and the Lady Chapel as Handel.”
For several moments they sat, each considering the other’s perception, then simultaneously they said—
“Well, yes, I see what you mean—”
“Yes, I can see what you mean—”
—and laughed.
“But neither, I think, is Johann Sebastian Bach.”
She considered for a moment. “No, not Bach.”
“Wagner?”
“Ugh!”
Michael chuckled. “My sentiments entirely!”
These matters resolved, again they again sat in silence.
“May I tell you something?” she said at last. “Would you mind?”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind. I’d be honored.”
So she told the entire story, so far as she knew it. Of Nikos Kakoyannis and the cathedral. Of the wolf. Of Henry Wheatley. Of the sequence of deaths. And of what had happened now. Finally she produced the book, still in the plastic evidence bag.
“I think this,” she said, “is almost certainly the book we found with Kakoyannis’s body in the cathedral. If we can show a trace of its having been in Kakoyannis’s possession—maybe a hair or two from the carpet bag—then we’ve at least proved that Wheatley is a liar. And if we find both their prints… well, you see the point. So I’m being very careful with it. But maybe you could look at it and give me some idea what’s in it.”
“Let’s go to my study,” Michael said. “The light’s better there.”
They began with her photos, which they looked at on
siding stAr 183 Michael’s computer. He recognized Hargrove and Hutton at once and was able to confirm that the former was indeed a conservative Member of Parliament notoriously to the right of most of his party, the latter a union leader of pronounced leftwing views. He recognized none of the others. She emailed the entire set to DS Verity Jones with a note explaining when and where they had been taken, and asking her to find out what she could about the subjects as quickly as possible.
“Verity Jones will have fun with these,” she said. “She’s an enthusiast. When you ask her to look for something, she never gives up until she finds it!”
Next they turned to the book. Cecilia again put on the plastic gloves, and held it by its edges, open so that Michael could see it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Even with gloves on, if I touch the flat surface I might wreck a print.”
&nb
sp; “It doesn’t matter. This is fine.” He bent forward and started to read.
“Turn the page, please,” he said after a couple of minutes.
Then, “Turn to the first ribbon.”
His voice sounded peculiar.
Then, “Go back to where you were. Turn the page, please.”
Several minutes passed while he read. As he did so, his lips tightened. After a while—it seemed the gesture cost him an effort—he closed his eyes and spoke without looking at it.
“Cecilia, this book is extremely dangerous. I wish it could be destroyed.”
Cecilia waited.
“If I still had any doubts about the evil that is in the academy,” he said at last, “that book would end them. And the wolf brought it to you!” He stopped for a moment before continuing. “It holds the key. I recognize it. Beriyt et-Mavet—a covenant with death.”
“You know about this?”
Michael nodded. “After I abandoned the faith of my fathers, for two or three years before I became a Christian, I was… I…” Again he stopped.
Cecilia saw the pain in his face. She put out her hand and laid it over his. “Michael, please,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
He shook his head and gave her a half smile.
“It’s all right.” He took her hand in both of his for a moment. Then he gently relinquished it, got up, and walked to the window. He stood for several minutes, gazing out at the night sky. At last he turned back to her.
“Twenty-one years ago a drunk driver hit my parents’ car. I was in the back—I never even saw him and I doubt mum and dad did. I woke up in hospital pretty well unscathed—well, physically. But I was told mum and dad had died instantly. So had the drunk driver.
“After that, I gave up the faith of my fathers. I gave up… living, you might say. I just got—lost.” He sighed. “I was an only child. Mum’s and dad’s families were European Jews, and they’d been more or less wiped out in the war. My granddad survived, but he was too old….”
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