The Last Aerie

by Brian Lumley

  Tzonov’s nose was sharply hooked, which despite his light grey eyes might have marked him as an Arab; except Trask suspected it had been broken in an accident or a fight. Probably the latter, for the head of Russia’s E-Branch was a devotee of the martial arts. His mouth was well fleshed if a little wide, above a chin which was strong and square. His cheeks were very slightly hollow, and his small, pointed ears lay flat to his head. The picture overall was of a too-perfect symmetry, where the left and right halves of the Russian’s face seemed mirror images. In the majority of people this would be a disadvantage, Trask thought: the physical attractions of a face, its “good looks,” are normally defined by imperfections of balance. Turkur Tzonov to the contrary: paradoxically, he was a very attractive man.

  The secret lay in the eyes, which were a fascination unto themselves. Trask could well understand the Branch’s profile of this man, which detailed a long string of beautiful and intelligent female companions. None of them had voiced any complaint when he moved on; they had all remained “loyal” to him in their various ways. Trask wondered if it were true loyalty, or simply that Tzonov knew too much about them. How could any woman speak out against a man who knows every detail of her past life? Only a stupid or insensitive or entirely innocent woman would dare, none of which were Tzonov’s sort.

  And now those near-hypnotic eyes—those telepathic eyes of Turkur Tzonov—were intent upon Trask as the two heads of British and Soviet ESP-Intelligence measured each other across a distance of more than fifteen hundred miles.

  Trask’s appraisal of the other had taken moments; possibly the Russian had read something of it in his mind; in any case there had been nothing there he could possibly object to. And if there had been, well, he was the one who was asking for help. Trask nodded. “So you have a problem, Turkur … er, do you mind if I use your first name? I know you’re still fond of the term ‘Comrade’ over there, but we’re hardly that.”

  “Turkur, by all means.” The other shrugged and permitted himself the ghost of a smile. “As for ‘Comrade’: it’s true our organizations have had their differences in the past, Mr. Trask—or should that be Ben? But that is history and this is now, and the future is … oh, a very big place! In a world scrutinized by alien intelligences, perhaps even under the threat of attack, we wouldn’t find it so difficult to be comrades. Am I right?”

  His argument and the way he presented it were disarming, especially since Trask knew what he was talking about. Perhaps Trask knew even more than Tzonov thought. For instance, he knew or suspected that the—intruder?—from the other side was a man. And now there might be a way to confirm his suspicions.

  “Is that what you think?” he said. “That your visitor is a spy for the Wamphyri? Their advance guard, as it were? Someone working for Harry Keogh, perhaps?”

  If his words caught the other off guard there was little outward sign of it: a single blink, and the almost imperceptible narrowing of cool grey eyes. Then Tzonov’s answer. “The reputation of your Branch is well deserved, Ben. That is precisely what I think. It’s at least a possibility. Between us we control talents with which to combat any such incursion; but until we know what the threat is, or that it definitely exists …” He let his words taper off.

  “You haven’t been able to fathom him, then?” Trask took it that Guy Teale had been correct: what had come through the Perchorsk Gate was a man.

  “As yet we’re not wholly in a position to fathom him, no,” Tzonov said. “Rather, he is not in a position to be fathomed.”

  “Can you explain that?”

  “We’re holding him within the Gate,” Tzonov obliged. “At our end, just beyond the Perchorsk threshold. What? But do you think we’ve learned nothing from the lessons of the past? That we would simply let such a creature in without first considering our actions? A thing—possibly a man, which at least has the looks and present shape of a man—from the parallel dimension of the Wamphyri?”

  “Holding him?” Trask couldn’t help but frown. Since that time all those years ago when Harry Keogh had gone through the Gate, E-Branch had lost much of its interest in Perchorsk. It had been taken for granted that the Russians were adequately equipped to close the place down. Or if not that, certainly to deal with whatever might come through.

  “Ah!” said Tzonov, nodding. And for the first time during their conversation he seemed surprised, and pleased. “You don’t know of the—precautions—which we’ve taken at Perchorsk.”

  “We’ve always assumed you sealed the place up,” Trask told him. “Permanently. Any responsible authority would have seen to it at once.”

  “That had been tried before,” Tzonov answered with a grim smile, “before my time. But do you know, I’m told that it was far better to be in Perchorsk and living in fear, than out of that place and not know what was going on! And I believe it, for since then we’ve had the experience of an entirely separate but analogous comparison. I refer to Chernobyl, of course. You may recall that the Sarcophagus was a sealed unit, too—until they opened it up again … and again! But the place is still alive and dangerous, and will continue to be for a long time to come. Which is why they must now open it yet again, a third time, in order to be certain they know what’s happening. Well, Perchorsk was the same: we had to know what was happening.” He paused, and in a moment continued:

  “We’ve taken precautions, of course. Such as these safeguards are, they have allowed us to contain this most recent visitor at our end of the Gate. So that we now have a choice: we can study him, if it’s at all possible, or simply destroy him out of hand. I would prefer to study him.”

  “And you want to let us in on it?” Trask kept his face expressionless. “That would seem very big of you, if I didn’t already know that you can’t handle it on your own.” It was so, he knew; also that everything Tzonov had told him was the absolute truth. The needle on Trask’s mental lie detector hadn’t so much as wavered. “But what you haven’t yet told me is the sort of help you expect from us. How about it, Turkur? What is it we’ve got that you need?”

  “Several things.” The other accepted his reading, made no pointless attempt to deny the accuracy of Trask’s deductions. “Your Branch has a wealth of experience in such matters, for one thing. Not to mention a diversity of ESP talents. You yourself would be invaluable, Ben. Your ability to look at what we’ve got here and know the truth of it: whether our visitor is merely a man and harmless, or much more than a man and a monstrous threat. As I am sure you’re aware, your talent is unique and we have nothing like you. Then there are your prognosticators—your ‘hunchmen’?—Teale and Goodly. We too have a man who reads the future, our own precog, of course. Alas, his talent is”—Tzonov shrugged—“middling at best. And I’m sure you’re aware of that, too. But your men are the best! At the first sign of danger, they’d recognize it immediately. Indeed, it is their nature to know well in advance.”

  It was Trask’s thought to ask, What is it about this man or thing that interests you? Why don’t you just destroy it out of hand? What do you hope to gain from studying it? But if he asked those questions and Tzonov chose to lie or obfuscate, their newfound rapport could be broken, and Trask knew now that he needed the cooperation of the Russian telepath as much as he himself was needed. Of course he did, for if David Chung was correct and the visitor was in some way revenant of Harry Keogh …

  “If you won’t help us and we’re obliged to work on this alone”—it was as if Tzonov had got inside Trask’s head, but Trask prayed that he hadn’t—“and if there’s any profit in it, then we alone reap the benefits. Can you really afford to refuse us? I should think you’d jump at the chance to help!”

  He was right. If the visitor was like or “of” Harry, he must never be allowed to fall so easily into the Opposition’s hands. What a weapon they’d make of him! Before Trask let that happen, and if it should be necessary, why, he’d kill the visitor himself!

  “Very well,” he nodded, “you shall have our cooperation. But this is
a busy time, Turkur, and if we’re to work together in Perchorsk there are things I have to see to here first. I’ll get my duty officer to phone you back, within the hour, to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “To phone me?” Tzonov raised his customary eyebrow. “Is it not better to talk face to face?”

  Trask smiled. “The walls of trust are built by degrees, my friend. First pebbles, later boulders.”

  The Russian nodded. “And they are just as easily tumbled. Remove a pebble, and the whole wall breaks. That is one of our sayings.”

  “Exactly,” Trask answered.

  “Very well,” Tzonov agreed. “My duty officer will stand by for your duty officer’s call, for I too have things to put in order. Meanwhile, I shall look forward to working with you and yours.” His face disappeared from the screen and was replaced by white dazzle …

  “Just the two of us.” Trask spoke to his precogs. “Myself, and one of you two. The flip of a coin.” He held a penny, his good-luck piece of predecimal coinage, between thumb and finger.

  Ian Goodly shook his head; his high-pitched voice belied his mournful expression as he answered, “No need for that, Ben. We already know.”

  Guy Teale pulled a wry face. “I’m staying here. That’s how we see it, anyway.”

  Trask shrugged and said to Goodly, “Then you’d better get your things together. It won’t be long.” His advice wasn’t necessary, but between them the espers kept their conversations as near normal as possible. As the precogs left his office, Trask saw David Chung waiting in the corridor and called him in.

  “David?”

  “I’d like to come with you.”

  “You think you’d be of use?”

  “I’m fascinated to know the connection between this thing and Harry Keogh.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “More or less.”

  Trask shook his head. “You’re one of our best, David, and I know you have enough to do right here. Also, I have to think of the Branch. If anything were to happen to us out there … well, the organization would be weakened enough without losing you, too. Still, it’s not my decision entirely; I’ve just been speaking to the Minister Responsible. He’s okayed it, however reluctantly, but just for the two of us. So I’m afraid that’s that. Incidentally, you’ll be in the chair while I’m away. And if anything was to happen to us in Perchorsk, you’d most likely stay in the chair. So you see: there’s no way we can also jeopardize the life of the heir apparent!”

  Chung remained silent, standing there before Trask’s desk, until the head of Branch felt obliged to ask: “Was there something else?”

  Chung looked embarrassed. “Don’t you think it’s possible you made a mistake when you were talking to Tzonov on-screen?”

  “In what way?”

  “When you asked him if he thought his visitor at Perchorsk might be a spy for the Wamphyri, possibly working for Harry? Up until then Harry Keogh hadn’t been mentioned. It seemed to me an error, to bring up the question of the Necroscope.”

  Trask shook his head. “I only mentioned him by name, not by talent. I deliberately avoided even thinking of Harry’s talents. But you see, you’d already put thoughts of Harry into my head. They were in there, fresh after sixteen years. Tzonov is possibly the world’s finest telepath: his eyes look right into your mind. So even covered by all that static, I still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t read something. The easy way out was to mention Harry, but slightly out of context. That way, Tzonov would ‘know’ what I thought he thought and look no further. You see, David, through you we’re reasonably certain that something of Harry Keogh has come back into our world. But the Opposition knows nothing of that, not yet.” He smiled. “It’s just one more reason why I won’t take you east with us. You’re much too valuable right where you are.”

  He stood up and saw Chung to the door. Out there, the long central corridor was empty now, silent. Chung said, “What about Harry’s room?”

  Trask nodded. “It can’t hurt to look inside. What was that you said about it? Always cold in there?”

  As they walked down the corridor and paused at the door in question, Chung answered, “Cold, yes. Always. The heating is on but the room stays cold.” He reached for the doorknob …

  And the door opened!

  Both men gasped and started, then breathed mutual sighs of relief, glancing at each other sheepishly as the cleaning lady, Mrs. Wills, came into the corridor. Armed with her appointments—galvanized bucket, short-bladed squeegee, mop and dusters—she perspired freely.

  Sure that his shock was still registering, Trask made an effort to cover his embarrassment. “Well … Mrs. Wills doesn’t look very cold,” he said. And speaking directly to the cleaning lady: “Mr. Chung was telling me how this room always feels too cold. How do you find it?”

  Mrs. Wills was a short, rather stout, fiftyish Londoner. Not especially bright, she was a hard worker and had a heart of gold. She was the only permanent member of staff who was in no way “talented,” and in all her fifteen years’ service to the Branch she had never had the slightest idea what it was all about, except that its simple rules were for obeying and its people not for talking about. Indeed, Mrs. Wills had been chosen for her singular lack of curiosity. Now her face lit up ruddily as she beamed first at Trask, then Chung, two of the gentlemen “what she did for.”

  Finally Trask’s question got through to her. “What, Mr. ‘arry’s room, sir? Cold, did yer say? Can’t say I’ve noticed it meself. But the ’eating’s working, all right!”

  Concerned, she followed them back in. At the rear there was a recess with a sliding door, containing a washbasin, shower, and toilet. In front, just a small overnight bedroom, maybe four paces by five, from the days when the top floor, too, had belonged to the hotel. The floor space along one wall was occupied by an obsolete computer console, with a chair and space below for the operator’s feet, plus a second swivel chair and ample work surface. In a corner, a small wardrobe stood open; it was equipped with coat hangers, and shelving to one side.

  Chung nodded to indicate the wardrobe’s interior. “Some of Harry’s things,” he told Trask. “A shirt of his, trousers, and a jacket. A bit mothy by now, I should think. Plus a few other bits and pieces on the top shelf there. The other items were left behind”—he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Mrs. Wills, who had found a speck of dust to wipe from the computer console—“by people we lost from time to time. I kept them … because I didn’t like to destroy them. As a locator, I’d used them all in my time. Stuff belonging to Darcy Clarke, Ken Layard, Trev Jordan. These things formed my link with them in the field …”

  As Chung talked Trask was looking into the wardrobe, but he wasn’t seeing. Rather, he was feeling. And Chung was right: the room was cold. Or if not cold, empty. Despite the computer console, the wardrobe, and its contents, it felt like an empty space, as if nothing was here. Not even Trask, Chung, and Mrs. Wills. Trask felt like an echo of himself in this room, like a shadow. He felt if he stood here just a little while longer he might fade into the walls and disappear forever. The place was psychically charged, definitely. And the cold wasn’t physical but metaphysical, psychological … supernatural? Whichever, Trask shivered anyway.

  Mrs. Wills had finished with her dusting. “There we are,” she said, drawing Trask back into himself. “All spick-’n-span again. As my Jim’s always saying, ‘Meg, me love, whatever yer do, just be sure yer keeps ’arry’s room spick-’n-span. That’s what my Jim always says.”

  As she turned away Trask’s jaw fell open and he glanced at Chung. Then she’d gone back out into the corridor, and the two espers were after her in a moment. “Er, Mrs. Wills.” Trask caught her by the elbow. “Did you and, er, Jim—I mean, did you know Harry, then?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes went wide. “Oh, my! Was I talking about Jim again? Oh, dear, I am sorry, sir! I mean, after all these years, yer’d think I’d let it be, now wouldn’t yer?”

  Trask raise
d his eyebrows, looked mystified, waited.

  “See,” she said, “My Jim was a talker. Lord, Jim could talk! Of a night before we’d go ter sleep, he’d just talk and talk and talk! About all and everything, and nothing very much. I used ter tell him, ‘Jim Wills, yer’ll likely talk yerself ter death one day!’ And bless him, he did. A heart attack, anyway. But … well … yer see, I was so used ter Jim’s voice, that sometimes I ‘ears it even now! And even if I never did know Mr. ’arry, ’oever he is, it seems my Jim must ’ave known him, or ’eard of him, anyway. Truth is, my Jim says an ’ell of a lot of ’em knows—or knew—’arry Keogh.”

  That did it. There might be plenty of Harrys in the world, but by Trask’s reckoning there could only be one Harry Keogh. The Necroscope’s second name had never been mentioned—or it shouldn’t have been—in front of Mrs. Wills. Her knowledge of his Christian name was easy to explain: she’d been reading it five days a week, plainly visible on the plaque on the door. But his surname? Trask glanced at Chung.

  David Chung was thinking much the same things as his boss. Through Harry, the espers of E-Branch had learned that death is not the end but a transition to incorporeality, immobility. The flesh may be weak and corruptible, but mind and will go beyond that. People, when they die, do not accompany their bodies into dissolution but become one with the Great Majority; and merging into a sort of limbo—a darkness where Thought is the all—the minds of the teeming dead occupy themselves naturally with whatever was their passion in life. Great artists continue to visualise magnificent canvases, pictures they can never paint; architects plan faultless, world-spanning cities they can never build; scientists follow through the research they weren’t able to complete in life, whose benefits can never be passed on to the living.