Eagle of Darkness

by Christopher Wright

  "Not me, I hope." He said it as a joke.

  "You failed me, Admiral."

  Spaxley smiled nervously. "Come on, Kramer, give me a break. You and I are buddies from way back. I could help, if you want another crack at Operation Oracle."

  "You're a stupid old man. You were even considered a liability when you were at the White House. Most of the staff were glad to see you go. You can blame Olsen for starting the rot, and Ahmed for his incompetence with the timings on the explosives. But look at your own failings. You let Tolley identify you at the press conference. A serious mistake, Admiral."

  "I was trying to help."

  "You don't understand my position. I can't afford to have anyone talking out of turn."

  "What about Stephan? The British SIS still have him."

  "Admiral, Admiral, what makes you think the man who arrested you both in Cheltenham was SIS?"

  "He was yours?"

  Kramer just nodded, a faint smile on his face. "I let you go because I thought you could keep your mouth shut. I couldn't trust Stephan."

  "Don't worry about me, Kramer." He smiled in return. "I won't talk."

  Kramer reached into his brown wicker basket. From it he produced a Colt 45 with a stubby silencer. "I can guarantee you won't, Admiral."

  IT TOOK nearly four weeks for Grant Spaxley's decomposing body to be found face down in the shallow water. Kramer was at Langley working on a Middle East security problem at the time, and expressed only a passing interest in news of Spaxley's death. He said he had trouble even remembering him. Wasn't he the White House press man with the nickname of Admiral? Yes, he'd got him now. He'd not seen him since ... since before the man retired.

  Chapter 73

  England

  THERE WERE times when Sam felt like knocking his head against the wall until he fell unconscious. The fractured ribs began to heal, but the metal pins holding his pelvis together became a constant source of pain. But the greatest hurt came from knowing that Panya faced a lifetime of paralysis.

  Three times a week a private ambulance took him from the city hospital to see Panya at the nearby Catholic clinic of Santa Maria. She could talk properly now, and often managed a smile. It made him angry to see her like this. There had been no public inquiry, no investigation into the plot to end the fragile peace of the Middle East. An advisor from the British government told him it wouldn't serve the cause of world peace. What a load of bull. That Gideon glider should have provided all the proof they needed, but the affair had been swept away with a stern warning to keep the matter to himself.

  Perhaps investigations were proceeding in secret. The findings of these inquiries were never revealed. They fingered incompetent people in top posts. No wonder everyone in authority wanted it hushed up.

  Chapter 74

  England, Seven months later

  IN EARLY JUNE the doctors agreed to release Panya into her next stage of care, in a convalescent home run by a group of Catholic Sisters. A quadriplegic with a high-level spinal injury, her one boast was that she wasn't incontinent.

  "I love the grounds," Sam said, taking hold of the handles on the wheelchair. "I'll push you." He at least had recovered, although the steel pins in his back had to stay in place for a few more months. He'd watched the plastic surgery on Panya's face becoming more effective with each operation at the hospital, but it would be a long time before she could go out without drawing horrified glances from the public.

  "Thanks, Sam. I want you to take me through the woodland walk."

  "You'll have to show me the way," he said. He'd been out of action and not able to see Panya for the last two weeks, while the surgeon at his own hospital had decided to reset two of his ribs. He had quite a bit of news to share.

  Panya looked up from her wheelchair. "Could you put my glasses on for me? They're in the purse on my lap."

  He picked them up. No longer the slim violet frames, this large replacement pair were made from heavy pink plastic. No doubt some well-meaning helper had chosen them. Panya deserved better than this. He determined to get her a pair identical to the ones she was wearing when they first met. He hesitated. Was it possible to turn the clock back? Was it even advisable to try? "Is there some something special you want me to see?" he asked.

  "One of the Catholic Sisters here has been telling me about the water lilies in a pool in the woods."

  It was strange the way their relationship had developed. Two disabled people sharing pain, and never once questioning whether they should continue to see each other. Perhaps if they'd emerged from Cairo unscathed they would have drifted apart by now. He fitted the clumsy glasses over the scarred nose and ears. Panya could raise her arms stiffly, but her hands were without feeling and without movement.

  "Bill Tolley's out and about again and making a nuisance of himself with Dr. Wynne," he said, as he began to push the wheelchair towards the woodland walk. "Bill phoned me yesterday for a chat. I was going to tell him to get lost, but I suddenly felt sorry for the man."

  Panya nodded. "We could ask him to meet us here sometime soon."

  "Dr. Wynne called round to see me yesterday morning. Bill Tolley's persuaded him to have another go at getting sound out of the grooves on Frau List's cylinder."

  "And?"

  "I said it's a job best left to experts. He ought to give it to one of the museums, but he insisted on leaving it with me. Said no museum wanted to get involved after the Institute fiasco."

  "You're as crazy as Gresley Wynne if you've got yourself dragged into that."

  Sam smiled. "I've got a few ideas I want to try. That yogurt pot wasn't the best way. I'm going to use sound filters on my computer. Dr. Wynne wants me to keep my findings hush-hush."

  "I don't imagine he trusts anyone nowadays." Panya shook her head. "I'm not sure I trust anyone either. I still wake up hearing that explosion in the church and thinking it's happening again."

  He looked down quickly at Panya. Her long black skirt covered her misshapen legs. "You seem to be taking it well."

  "It's the only way," she said quietly, but without any great conviction.

  "Yes?"

  She tipped her head forward and the glasses fell onto her lap. Her eyes blazed. "Look at me, Sam. Nothing has come out right."

  He wanted to calm her down. He'd touched a raw nerve. "You've every right to feel bitter."

  "I'm not bitter. Mixed up, confused, frustrated. But not bitter." For a moment her face flickered with an involuntary movement and she turned her head away quickly. "Damn it, Sam, I still cry so much you wouldn't believe it."

  He stopped pushing, and crouched down to put his arm round her. "A few months ago I thought you had all the answers."

  "I've never had all the answers. All I have is my faith."

  "It doesn't seem to have done you much good."

  "Is that what you think?" Panya sounded angry. "Jesus Christ didn't have an easy life on earth, and he didn't promise an easy life to his followers. We're only here for a few years. He's promised to be always with me, and because of that, I intend to achieve something for him."

  Sam stood back, embarrassed. "I was trying to imagine what it's like to be in a wheelchair."

  "But you can't."

  "You're right, I can't." He felt like kicking himself for being so tactless.

  Panya bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I'm being selfish. Tell me about Bill Tolley. What did he have to say?"

  Sam recalled his phone call with the reporter. "He's been back at work for a month. He's really fired up. Wants to find out who Endermann was working for, but he's not liked to bother us."

  "That doesn't sound like the Bill Tolley who used to turn up on your doorstep every day."

  Sam laughed. "I think the fall from the window affected his brain. He's not nearly as obnoxious now. He wants to help."

  "Tell him to start with what's left at the Institute of Egyptologists. The police still haven't charged anyone with the murder of Denby Rawlins."

  He felt in his pocket for th
e letter. He'd kept the best news till last. "I got this from the health authorities today. They think I'm well enough to look after Karen and Tom full time now. They're being allowed home for one night. As a trial."

  "Have you ... you know ... talked with Sally about keeping the children full time?"

  "She doesn't want anything more to do with them -- or me. I'm going to get my life back to normal. The children came round to see me yesterday afternoon and I showed them Heidi List's cylinder. I even tried to play it for them with a yogurt pot."

  Karen and Tom had giggled at what they called daddy's "silly noise." He was glad they'd been relaxed enough to laugh. It was the first time Karen had given him so much as a smile on their occasional get-togethers. Had he been a fool in Egypt to imagine Panya standing with him at the front door as the children ran up the path into his arms? He'd probably been a fool to imagine Panya wanting to do anything with him. And now, even if she wanted to, she couldn't. She was stuck in the wheelchair, unable to move anything except her head and arms.

  "A penny for them."

  He looked up, almost guiltily. "My thoughts? I was thinking about when we first met."

  "Are you sorry?"

  "Of course not. I just wish it had come out differently -- for both of us." Maybe it was time to talk about something else. "I hear the Unity group is still in business, in spite of everything."

  "I'm still helping."

  He looked at the frail, broken woman. "You shouldn't be. Not in your condition."

  Her eyes made contact with his. Sparky eyes. "I've been dictating letters, dictating articles. I can control the recorder with a special mouth switch. There's even a possible TV interview."

  "We ought to keep our heads down," said Sam. "Especially you."

  "You surely don't think I'm frightened of the secret services."

  He stood up, took hold of the handle and pushed the wheelchair again. "Let's sort out our own lives first." He stopped in a clearing in the small wood, beside a pool filled with yellow water lilies, unable to bear the thought of Panya being hurt any more.

  "It's something I believe in, Sam. Passionately."

  He realized now what had attracted him to Panya in the first place. It wasn't really her looks, or the thought of her body next to his. She had ... yes, she'd used the word herself: passion. "Maybe I can help you with your work." He looked away. His offer sounded pathetic.

  "Thanks, Sam, I'd like that." And he saw tears in her eyes as she smiled.

  He nodded. "I'm bringing Karen and Tom to see you tomorrow afternoon."

  "Not with my face like this." Panya sounded shocked.

  "It doesn't bother me, and it won't bother them." He leaned forward and kissed the forehead where the burnt skin had hardened into a series of coarse ridges. "I..." He found this difficult to say. "I phoned the airline today. I wanted to see if they'd have me back -- when the doctor gives me the all clear."

  Panya looked startled. "Your children are going to need a father who's home, not one who's flying around the world. And I need you here with me, Sam."

  "Cardinal Fitz can get you back to Philadelphia any time you like." It wasn't what he wanted to say. Maybe he was just testing Panya's reaction. "Your parents are ready to look after you."

  "Don't you understand? I never thought it would happen. I thought we were just friends."

  He took hold of Panya's hand, gripping it ever so carefully. Not that she would be able to feel his touch, but she could see what he was doing. "Remember what you told me about the path over the mountain? I think it's time you told me more about it."

  Panya looked at him closely. "Only if you really want me to."

  "Mr. Bolt? Mrs. Pulaski?" An American in a dark suit came down the path, a simulated smile on his face.

  "If it's about my visa," said Panya, her face coloring, "I want to stay in England."

  "My name is Martin Kramer." The American held out his hand. "I wonder if we could..." He looked around the clearing. "If we could have a quiet talk. Visas are no problem, Mrs. Pulaski, but I need your cooperation."

  Sam felt uneasy as he shook hands half-heartedly. It wasn't only the smile: the whole comfortable attitude seemed false.

  The visitor stood in front of the wheelchair, blocking the way forward. "I want to pass on the gratitude of my American countrymen for all your hard work in helping maintain world peace."

  "They're my countrymen as well, Mr. Kramer," said Panya. "I'm an American too."

  Sam noticed her catch his eye and frown. Perhaps she also sensed that this man was not to be trusted.

  "I'm sure the whole free world owes you both something," said Kramer. "But we have a security problem."

  "Who are you with?" Sam asked directly.

  The visitor hesitated. "You won't have heard of me. I'm just a small cog in the wheels of security for the United States government. We're still investigating Endermann's plan to destabilize the Middle East."

  "Destroy Israel, don't you mean?" Sam felt even more dislike of the man now.

  Kramer raised a hand. "Whoa there, Mr. Bolt. Nothing was proved. Such a pity you killed Endermann. He could have given us the names of other in his group."

  "Killing him seemed a good idea at the time," said Sam. "So what's the problem?"

  "The thing is, we've been using our agents to infiltrate various terrorist groups around the world. Our inquiries are far from over. If you talk publicly about this, you could put our agents in danger."

  "Oh," said Panya.

  "So we say nothing," added Sam.

  Kramer nodded. "For the sake of our agents and their families. There, I knew you'd understand."

  "Sorry," said Sam, "but I don't understand."

  The American visitor stepped closer. "Let me put it more plainly, Mr. Bolt. Endermann worked for anyone willing to pay him, even the American military at times. But he had no connection with the secret services. He was a maverick who was running a terrorist camp. His agents have not all been rounded up, and they may come looking for you. Revenge can be extremely nasty."

  "What are you suggesting?" asked Sam.

  "I'm suggesting you have to think of Mrs. Pulaski's safety as well as your own. I understand you are about to receive custody of your two children. Think about it, Mr. Bolt. Would you be happy to put their lives at risk?"

  Chapter 75

  England

  "LET'S HEAR it." Bill Tolley sounded impatient. "A trumpet from beyond the grave, you reckon."

  Sam looked at the small gathering in the convalescent home. Panya in her new slim glasses, Bill Tolley, Dr. Wynne, and Karen and Tom all waiting in excitement. "Panya's the only one who's heard it so far," he said. "And she's not convinced. I've made a recording using a wooden thorn as a gramophone needle, and a frequency filter in my computer to cut out a lot of the background noise from the clay. You'll hear loud clicks from the repairs. There's something that could be a voice." Thankfully, it wasn't one of his elderly aunt's love songs bringing back memories of having to kiss... He looked at Panya and smiled to himself.

  "That is what I especially wish to hear." Gresley Wynne stood in wheezing anticipation. "I have studied the ancient Egyptian language, but of course no one alive has ever heard it spoken. It will..."

  "Sssh." Panya could only smile. There was no way she could put a finger to her lips. Karen knelt by Panya's side, slightly more at ease now, while Tom had positioned himself at a safe distance to stare at her in silent fascination while sucking his thumb.

  Sam switched on the tape player. From the small speaker came a hiss, then the sound he was convinced was a brass instrument, exceptionally crackly, but played with a series of short blasts.

  "Is that it?" Bill asked.

  "It's over three thousand years old," said Sam tartly. "What did you expect? Hi-fi? Wait for the voice. That's really spooky."

  "It takes a little time to know what you're hearing," said Panya from her wheelchair as Karen put a hand cautiously on her shoulder.

  Sam smile
d. "Panya's being tactful."

  The room fell silent, apart from spitting sounds from the tape player. Then came a moaning sound, almost an echo, as though its ancient origin had erased the sense of reality. Three similar sounds followed.

  "Well?" asked Sam as it came to the end.

  "Rubbish," said Bill Tolley.

  "It's the Pharaoh Akenaten," said Gresley Wynne breathlessly. "The voice of the king as clear as the day he spoke."

  "At least someone agrees with me," said Sam. "The rest of you need hearing tests."

  "If he spoke like that, he had a serious health problem," Bill Tolley said.

  Dr. Wynne rubbed his hands. "I know my labors at the Institute brought me ridicule, but with this recording I might be able to gain academic recognition. This is a wonderful achievement, Mr. Bolt. Would you consider being made a Partner if I restart the Institute?"

  Sam shook his head. "Absolutely not." And Karen and Tom giggled.

  Dr. Wynne rubbed his hands together. "May I hear the voice again?"

  "No." Sam took hold of Panya's limp and unfeeling hand. It occurred to him that if Dr. Wynne was the only other person who could hear anything significant, maybe he should keep quiet about the discovery. The sound might be as much a figment of his imagination as the prophecy was of Dr. Wynne's. "I've made a couple of tapes. I can let you have one."

  "I'm not admitting I can hear anything," said Bill Tolley, "but I'd like a copy too." He took out a cigarette, caught Panya's look of disapproval, and pushed it back into the packet. "We don't know how fast the cylinder was turning when it was recording."

  "You mean if it was recording," said Sam.

  "Suddenly the man is lacking confidence," teased Tolley. "Speed it up ten times and what would you hear?"

  "What would you hear?" asked Sam.

  Tolley shrugged. "I know a sound engineer who could filter out the extraneous sounds and leave the trumpet."

  Sam glanced at Gresley Wynne. "Isn't that what Olsen was doing, taking out all the words he didn't want, and leaving the prophecy?"

  Dr. Wynne pursed his lips but said nothing.

  Tolley pocketed one of the tapes. "I'll see what I can do."

  "You can do what you like, as long as you don't put our names in anything you write," Sam warned.