The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  His opponent spun him around by the shoulders, forcing his head backwards into the sink so that now they faced one another. Winter’s vision returned to him, vague outlines hardening into detail. He saw the man’s smile widen as their eyes met, the teeth altogether too large for the mouth.

  He shut his eyes tight and tried to summon the image of the skull again, make it burn bright and white in his mind. It flickered tantalisingly against his eyelids, elusive as a fading signal.

  Two fists plunged down upon his breastbone, making it impossible to take more than halting snatches of air.

  ‘Flesh is memory…’ Winter was forcing the words between his teeth, using all the breath he had left. ‘Bone is memory…’

  The pressure on his chest eased. He opened his eyes and saw the man raise and unclench his fists. Both palms were presented to him, the fingers fanning apart. As Winter watched the skin cracked open, revealing stacks of tiny, razored teeth, gleaming wetly.

  He couldn’t see the skull now. All he could see were the teeth, grinding and hungering in the hands.

  There was a gunshot and a sudden jet of matter and fluid, hot against his face.

  Winter stared, incredulous. The man in the midnight-blue suit swayed above him. The edge of his head was gone, leaving a ruptured shell. Blood poured from the wound, dark and generous, running down the wormy skin. Whatever life had been in the quartz eyes was vanishing fast, even as the pupils fought to fix on Winter.

  The man teetered then pitched backwards, thudding into the tiles.

  ‘So yeah, that was a headshot, Mr Winter. I hope it met with your approval.’

  Libby Cracknell stood framed in the doorway, gripping her service-issue revolver with both hands.

  Winter wiped the stinging mess from his eyes, grimacing as it clung to his fingers. He took a moment to breathe, to steady himself.

  Finally he acknowledged her. ‘I told you to get out of Naples.’

  She gave a grunt of disbelief. ‘Do you ever run out of charm, mate?’

  Winter picked himself up, coldly furious as he straightened his suit. ‘You just don’t listen, do you? I told you to leave me alone.’

  She kept her eyes on him. The gun remained in her hands. ‘You’re such a prick.’

  ‘You want me to thank you for what you just did?’

  ‘It might make you less of a prick.’

  ‘So thank you,’ said Winter, brittly. ‘I appreciate the gesture. But your duty’s done.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘No more guardian angel. I keep telling you that.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly here as your guardian angel, mate.’

  Winter only half heard her, his eyes on the dead man. ‘I don’t need London on my case. I’m finished with it. All of it. You can tell Faulkner that from me.’

  Libby said nothing, watching as Winter began to drag the body from the bathroom floor. The corpse was heavy and he struggled with it but he pointedly didn’t ask for her help.

  Eventually he managed to wrestle it into the main room, heaving its dead weight by the arms. Crouching, he examined the head wound, his mouth curling in distaste at the crater of brain and bone.

  ‘I thought these things couldn’t be killed with bullets,’ said Libby.

  Winter examined the creature’s skin. It was the colour of spoilt milk and greasy to the touch, the kind of flesh that belonged somewhere sunless and deep. He knew he should leave this room. Escape this city while he still could. But his curiosity was winning.

  ‘You used a standard lead bullet, I take it? Nothing special from armaments branch?’

  She nodded. And she continued to grip the gun between her hands.

  ‘So how is it dead?’ he muttered, mostly to himself. ‘What are we dealing with?’

  Libby watched as he rifled through the pockets of the man’s suit. ‘We saw this thing in London. Was it working for Zerbinati?’

  ‘Soviet Intelligence. Looks like the Reds are recruiting beyond the grave now.’

  Winter lifted the left wrist and unbuckled the watch strap, hoping there might be intelligence secreted inside, just as he had found on that KGB agent in the house in Venice. He took his Festival of Britain pen-knife from his pocket and was about to slit the leather when he paused. There was a tattoo stamped on the pallid skin. A simple black arrowhead, with a row of Cyrillic numbers inscribed beneath it. He took a moment to place the symbol.

  Oymyakon.

  It was a notorious gulag, located in the ice-encrusted extremity of Russia’s Sakha Republic. As Winter recalled Stalin had created the labour camp specifically for disgraced Soviet military personnel. The cowards and the thieves and the insubordinates that infested any army. Deserters, of course, had been shot on sight, which might have been an act of mercy, given Oymyakon’s brutal reputation.

  Now he began to piece it together. This man had been human, once. A prisoner at Oymyakon, selected, he imagined, for experimentation. Wasn’t that what the Russians were up to? Searching for a way to fuse the DNA of the undead with their own soldiers? The dream of Operation Paragon, the one that Britain had chased too. And at Oymyakon they would have found a plentiful supply of test subjects, men already discarded and erased by the state, their lives now raw matter for research.

  So that’s what this creature was. Some kind of gruesome hybrid. It was an unsettling thought. Soviet science was evidently more advanced than Western intelligence suggested.

  And yet this thing – this man – had been taken down by a single shot. It wasn’t the deathless battlefield warrior that Moscow desired. Clearly it was a prototype of some kind. But if the Russians really were in an alliance with Don Zerbinati then it was purely a matter of time before they perfected their process.

  Winter glanced at Libby, expecting another question. He was irritated to see that she still had the gun in her hands. It was pointed midway between him and the body on the floor.

  ‘And for God’s sake, stand down,’ he told her.

  He turned away once more. He was about to strike the pen-knife against the watch strap when intuition made him pause. He returned his gaze to her.

  The small dark mouth of the barrel was levelled directly between his eyes.

  24

  Winter stared at the weapon then shifted his eyes to Libby. ‘What are you doing?’

  The gun remained trained on him. The girl’s double-handed grip was absolutely level, absolutely certain.

  ‘Cracknell…’

  ‘Stay on your knees,’ she instructed. ‘Put your hands to your head.’

  There was a distance in her eyes now. Something cold and pragmatic. Winter recognised it. This was the moment you shut down everything of yourself except duty.

  ‘I know the ritual,’ he said, dismissively. ‘I want to know why London wants me dead. You are London, I take it?’

  Libby’s expression hardened. ‘Stop talking, mate.’

  ‘So I’m a liability. I was just getting used to being an asset.’

  Her mouth was set, determined. The gun was steady. Winter sensed she could do this.

  ‘I told you to stop talking.’

  ‘So take the shot. Or I’ll keep talking.’

  ‘You think I couldn’t kill you?’

  ‘Are you out to prove you can?’

  He caught a rogue emotion in her eyes then, just for an instant. A flash of something hot and defensive. Winter took it as a cue to keep pushing her.

  ‘It’s your first kill on orders, isn’t it? Your very first kill where you don’t know why. And that’s always the hardest, believe me. London will claim a little bit of your soul the moment you pull that trigger.’

  ‘I can spare a little soul, mate. What have you got left?’

  ‘Not much. You’ve read the file.’

  ‘I’ve read enough.’

  He smiled now. ‘Faulkner doesn’t think you can do this, does he?’

  ‘And what do you reckon?’

  A vein began to beat against his brow.r />
  ‘Oh, I think you can do it, no question. But I also think you should pull that trigger as quickly as you can.’

  Her eyes narrowed, searching to make sense of what he had just said. ‘Why’s that then, Mr Winter?’

  He felt the magic stir in him, the intoxicating, bone-bright promise of power.

  ‘Because there’s something inside me that will kill you, given the opportunity. Something terrible. It’s part of me now. And I don’t know that I can stop it. Not if I don’t really try.’

  She considered this, her expression neutral. ‘You could take my life? That easily?’

  ‘Not easily.’ He saw the shadow scythe slicing through the men in the cavern. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Libby, but I can. So go on. Put the bullet in me before I have a chance to do it.’

  The vein was drumming. It was a pulse now, and there was something seductive in its solid, unwavering rhythm, loud as the thud of blood in his temples. It would be so easy to surrender to it, to let the power flood through him, sweet and dark and thrilling.

  Libby raised the gun a fraction, precisely targeting the vein.

  ‘So kill me, Mr Winter. Show me you can do it.’

  Winter locked his eyes with hers. She stared back, unblinking. The girl and the gun waited, as still as the room.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, calmly. ‘Make me believe in magic.’

  The moment was held.

  Winter shook his head, and as he did so the tremor between his eyes began to subside. He felt the rush in his veins retreating, melting back into his bones.

  ‘No. This is your move, Miss Cracknell. Your career prospects, after all.’

  She let the trigger quiver beneath her finger. And then, at last, she lowered the gun, the sour ghost of a smile on her lips. ‘You’re a prick, mate, but I’m not going to kill you.’

  Winter kept his gaze on the weapon, watching as it came to rest against her thigh. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you won’t kill me. And that’s not the man they sent me to take down.’

  She indicated with a nod that he could get to his feet. Winter walked to the bed, never removing his eyes from the gun. He sat on the edge of it, facing her, the watch and the pen-knife still in his hands.

  ‘What did Faulkner tell you?’

  ‘Never said it was Faulkner.’

  ‘It has to be Faulkner. I know the command structure, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t report to Faulkner. Not ultimately.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You took me to see him. That’s how this began, back in London!’

  Her mouth moved to form an answer but she hesitated, discarding whatever words had been waiting there.

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Make it simple,’ said Winter, his voice gentler now.

  She was silent again, her eyes on the wall as she wrestled with a response. She suddenly seemed very young to him.

  ‘Tell me,’ Winter urged her. ‘Believe me, I know what it’s like to be in the field and not trust the line of command.’

  ‘Chancery Lane Deep Shelter.’ The words had tumbled from her.

  Winter’s mouth creased quizzically. ‘That’s just a communications hub…’

  ‘No. It’s more than that. I report there. Have done for the last year.’

  ‘But it’s not a command centre,’ Winter insisted. ‘Least it wasn’t in ’63.’

  ‘It’s a command centre. Has been for some time. Look, Faulkner hired me, but he’s not the one who gave me the real chances. He’s not the one who trusted me with the proper jobs.’

  ‘So who are we talking about? Give me a name.’

  Again the words seemed to fall out of her. ‘Gallard. Lord Auberon Gallard.’

  Winter shrugged. The revelation meant nothing to him. ‘He’s not SIS. What is he, Whitehall?’

  ‘He’s British Intelligence. A part of it that’s above the SIS.’

  Winter found himself smiling at the idea. ‘No such thing.’

  ‘It exists, mate. It’s called the Sovereign Executive. It’s the top tier.’

  ‘Oh, come on, this is fantasy. The kind of paranoid horseshit I used to hear from Carl Hatherly in the Old Star and Crown on a Friday night…’

  ‘I’m telling you this is the way it is. Faulkner assigned me to watch you. Gallard gave me other orders. He’s the one who sent me to kill you.’

  ‘And you accepted those orders? Even though you’re SIS?’

  She nodded, perfectly prepared to justify herself. ‘You really have no idea what it’s like, do you? It’s an old boys’ club. Wear the right tie, know the right handshakes. Make sure you have a dick or you end up doing the tea and the typing. The likes of me don’t get given chances in this game. Gallard changed that. I owe him.’

  Winter’s tone was cold. ‘You owe your loyalty to the SIS. To Faulkner.’

  ‘The SIS screwed you over. What do you care?’

  ‘I care when someone puts my name on a bullet. Why does Gallard want me dead?’

  ‘He knows you. He knows the man you were. The things you did, back in the war.’

  Winter weighed this. ‘Then he should have killed me when I deserved it. He was part of Operation Paragon, wasn’t he?’

  Libby nodded. ‘I think so. I think he’s part of all of this.’

  Winter rotated the pen-knife, watching as the enamel handle caught the electric flicker of the ceiling light. His mind was turning through the possibilities. The past was a snare, he realised, something inescapable. A coil of razor wire that was beginning to tighten around him. And he had walked straight into it, oblivious.

  He placed the knife and the watch on the blanket. And then he rose from the bed and walked to the safe. There were finger-sized indentations in the steel. They had clearly been made by a hand that possessed preternatural strength.

  Winter glanced at the body on the floor. The man in the midnight-blue suit had been on an intelligence sweep for the Russians. He must have been attempting to break open the safe when Winter had put the key in the hotel room door. So Zerbinati had told Kulganek of the failed assassination attempt – and informed him it was a British operation, no doubt. Wonderful. This entire cyclone of shit was expanding exponentially.

  The combination lock spun. Winter took his passport and plane ticket and crammed them into his jacket pocket. He knew what he had to do now.

  Libby watched him. ‘You’re getting out of Naples, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. I’m getting out of this room. And then I’m going to sort this mess out. Because if I don’t it’s never going to let me go.’

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘And disobey a direct order?’

  ‘I’ve disobeyed it already. You’re still breathing, mate.’

  Winter regarded her wordlessly. Then he nodded. Returning to the bed he slit the watch strap and peeled back the leather, pinching his fingers to extract the sliver of paper he expected to find within. Some fragment of information that might supply an insight into the Soviet presence in the city. A name, a word, a scrawl of numbers…

  There was nothing inside.

  He tossed the pen-knife to the bed with a sigh. A second later a sheaf of shiny black-and-white prints landed beside him.

  ‘Good job I took these, then, isn’t it?’ said Libby.

  Winter picked up the white-bordered squares. He recognised the prints as coming from a Minox subminiature camera, service issue, sometimes camouflaged as a cigarette lighter or a compact. The images had the telltale grain that suggested they had been snatched in low light but they were adequately detailed just the same.

  ‘Where did you take these?’

  ‘La Salamandra. Cesare’s office at the back of the club. I was doing a little unpaid overtime, let’s say.’

  They were photographs of a map, portions of cartography in close-up. They showed the familiar, twisting arteries of central Naples. One area had been circled with a swathe of ink.

  ‘What am I looking at here?
’

  ‘The Avvocata district. There’s some kind of excavation project going on. They’re digging beneath the city. Look at the last photo.’

  Winter stared at a shot of headed notepaper and an itemised budget, counter-signed by Cesare. He knew the logo. He had seen it on the streets. ‘This is the gas company, right?’

  ‘They’ve made a deal with the Shadowless. Cesare’s hiring vehicles and equipment. It’s a big, pricey operation. And he’s hiding it in plain sight.’

  ‘What’s he looking for?’

  ‘Something buried under Naples, that’s all I know. You’ve infiltrated them. You didn’t pick up on this?’

  There was a cheeky hint of competition in her voice. Winter ignored the bait.

  ‘They know I came here to kill Don Zerbinati.’

  ‘You took the shot?’

  ‘I wasted the shot.’

  Libby absorbed this. And then she reached inside her white cord jacket and pulled out another print. It skimmed into Winter’s lap. ‘Well, then. Someone’s going to want their money back.’

  He examined the photograph. It showed a bank statement, the transactions stacked in tight rows of letters and digits.

  ‘Cesare’s account?’

  ‘Look for the biggest number on the page.’

  Winter spotted it. He quickly calculated its worth in sterling.

  ‘One million pounds?’

  ‘Paid to a Swiss account. I followed the money trail. Traced it all the way back to Venice.’

  Winter heard the words but it took a moment for the implication to hit him. He looked up from the photograph. If it was true it changed everything.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked, astonished.

  Libby nodded. ‘No mistake. He bankrolled the hit. Looks like Cesare’s the one who wants dear old daddy dead.’

  25

  There was an uncharacteristic stillness to the Spanish quarter at four in the morning.

  The mad throb of the place had retreated with the day’s heat. Alleyways that had roared and clattered in sunlight were muted now. Only a handful of windows burned in buildings whose dark, crumbling façades might otherwise have been taken for derelict. Outside the market stalls crates of unwanted flowers had been left to wilt. Across the cobbles fish lay piled on half-melted slabs of ice, ready to rot by dawn.