The Deepest Cut Read online

  He’d known all along.

  He’d phoned me while I’d been staring at the mirror. The cops had contacted him to tell him his apartment was a crime scene. I’d sat staring at the screen as it rang, looking at his name, ‘Russell’. Then I’d pressed green and said, “It’s del Roble, isn’t it? He’s back.”

  “Don’t talk. Come down. Now. We’ll talk here.”

  I’d gone to the wardrobe and pulled out my Smith & Wesson from where Maria had made me store it. I’d loaded it and slipped it into my waistband, then put a spare box of slugs in my jacket pocket. The game had changed. I wasn’t looking to find anyone anymore. I was planning to kill somebody.

  I had driven through the dark hours, racked by despair and terror for what might have happened to Maria and by waves of sickening, bestial rage. I’d arrived at Russell’s house in Fishbourne, as the eastern horizon was turning a pale blue-gray. I’d parked by the mill pond and looked at the rickety silhouette of his ancient house against the dawn. I had seen see warm light through the leaded panels of his ground floor windows. He had been up and about.

  I’d climbed out of the Daemon. The slam of the door echoed dull in the early morning. Somewhere an owl called out into the dying night. My feet were loud on the blacktop, and the blind windows of the sleeping houses seemed to scowl at me. I pushed through the gate and saw a crack of light as the front door opened and an anonymous silhouette was framed in the amber glow. It wasn’t Russell. My skin prickled and the hair on my neck stood up.

  My hand slipped to my waistband, but a voice I recognized said, “Please don’t shoot me, Murdoch. I’m afraid you might come off worse.”

  I dropped my hand and allowed myself a left-handed smile. “Brigadier, I had a hunch you might be here.”

  “Russell is in the kitchen frying bacon and making carajillos.”

  I stepped into the warm light of the house. The smell of bacon and coffee was rich on the air.

  He closed the door behind me. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with them—black coffee improved by the addition of a generous slug of whisky or brandy.”

  We’d eaten bacon and drunk carajillos, but when I had tried to talk to Russell about Maria, he had waved me to silence. Now we were on Hook’s yacht and Hook was saying to the horizon, “Even with today’s cutting edge technologies, water tends to sod up listening devices, and here”—he gestured at the vast open spaces around us—“it would be difficult to set up a listening device.”

  I nodded. “Who? Who would be listening, and, more to the point”—I shook my head and spread my hands—“why?”

  Russell stopped pacing and stared at me from behind his huge, black sunglasses. “My dear boy, are you in complete denial? Have you forgotten what happened to you in Spain?”

  I looked away, at the black shadows under the trees in the woodlands on Bosham. No. I had not forgotten. I would never forget. I had wanted to believe—Maria and I had both wanted to believe—that if we forgot it, if we put it behind us like it had never happened, it might all go away. I said, “No, Russell, I haven’t forgotten.”

  He kept staring, like he couldn’t get over his own disbelief. “Have you any idea just how powerful del Roble is?”

  A worm of irritation twisted my gut. “What do you think, Russell? Do you think I realize?”

  He frowned, a rare thing for Russell. “Well, apparently not. If del Roble wielded enough power to control some of the most powerful governments on Earth, how bloody powerful do you think his masters are, Liam?”

  I rubbed my face and said into my hands, “I try not to think about it, Russell.”

  His voice rose a little. “So, you never stopped to think that they might be just a bit annoyed with you?”

  I stared at the boards under my feet. “So, what? This is punishment? They’ve set up this whole, elaborate thing just to punish me?”

  He sighed and resumed his pacing. “Nothing is ever that simple with them, Liam.”

  Hook said, “You can be sure that is a big part of it. But they will have integrated it into some larger plan—part of something.”

  That made me uneasy. I said, “Like what?”

  Russell said, “We can’t be absolutely sure, but the messages they left you—the scrolls and your mirror—seem to confirm what I was beginning to suspect. They are punishing you and the HEAT Corporation is the hub of their activities now.”

  A seagull wheeled overhead, screaming something that sounded like ‘Oh fuck!’ We ducked into a small trough and spray leaped up from the bow. Russell made his way to a large cane chair by a round table then sat.

  “You will recall poor Rupert’s Uncle Hugo,” he said, once he was sitting.

  I nodded.

  “Del Roble’s interest in him was the fact that he had designed a workable fusion reactor. The reactor at Llyn Celyn is the very one that Hugo designed, and, though initially it was a government project, the HEAT Corporation moved in and took over, with the help and collusion of certain government officials.”

  I listened. For some reason the lapping of the small waves against the hull and the cry of the seagulls seemed to grow intensely clear. I had a hollow pellet of fear in my gut and my skin seemed to prickle. He sighed and went on.

  “We just don’t know who the HEAT Corporation is. We know there are a couple of very high profile investors, household names to most people, but a couple of the key investors are anonymous. Hook’s chaps have done some digging and it seems at least possible that the Brotherhood have a controlling interest. And, through them, del Roble.”

  I was quiet for a while. Then I said, “And you think that the message on the mirror was intended to let me know that the Brotherhood was behind the killings and Maria’s…”

  Hook said, “It’s almost certain, just as it’s almost certain that she’s still alive.”

  I squinted at him through the sun. “Why?”

  “My guess is that this is a personal vendetta. He wants to make you suffer as much as possible. Simply killing her wouldn’t satisfy that.” He paused and turned his head so he was facing me. His expression was cold, utterly ruthless. “So, you need to get to her before he does whatever he is planning to do, Liam.” He took a swig from a bottle of beer he had by his side and stood a moment, studying the label, like he had his lines written there. “Equally,” he said, still looking at the label, “it won’t be enough for him to just punish you.”

  For some reason, he looked at Russell, who was nodding.

  Hook went on, “He will need to show his power. You humiliated him, Liam. You didn’t just scupper his plans. You brought him to his knees, made him beg and humiliated him—this man, this creature! Whatever he is has a huge ego, and he will need to show you his power as well as punish you.”

  Russell quoted in a monotonous rhythm, “‘To silence the arrogant mouth, to still the proud heart, to eviscerate Man who has brought upon himself the heat of Hell’s punishing fire.’ That’s why he is using the HEAT Corporation.”

  Maybe for the first time in my life, I suddenly felt completely helpless. I looked at them both and said, “How the hell am I supposed to get to her? I don’t even know where she is? I don’t know where del Roble is? He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back to Çalares. So, where the hell do I search for him?”

  There was a long silence. The slap and wash of the water against the hull of the yacht, the cry of the gulls above, seemed to wash over the silence without disturbing it. In my mind, I could feel del Robles’ dark mind leaning out of the vast sky—watching, turning everything dark.

  Russell spoke suddenly. “He wants you to find her. More to the point, he wants you to find him. Because when you find them, he will exact his punishment and take his revenge. So, the clue lies in everything he has done and said. What is the message he has sent you?”

  I spoke without thinking, like the knowledge had been there all along, just below the surface of my mind. I said, “He has her in Wales, at Llyn Celyn. He has her at the HEAT Corporation.�
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  Hook nodded. “I agree.”

  Russell sighed. It was the first time I had ever seen him appear really worried. He said, “Liam, there is something you need to be aware of. The Brotherhood, or whoever these creatures are, appear to have three main areas of interest.”

  I frowned. “Yeah?”

  “As we have discussed before, they seem hell-bent—literally—on increasing the CO2 in our environment and making the planet hotter. They also have a huge interest in developing AI—artificial intelligence—and information technology, probably as a means of mind control…”

  I frowned harder. “And?”

  He looked at me and seemed to wince. “And genetics. For about sixty years, possibly a lot longer, they have been running a program of genetic research and manipulation.”

  I said, “The hybrids…”

  “Among other things. You need to be aware of that.”

  I nodded once. I didn’t know what he meant, and something inside stopped me from asking.

  We emerged into the English Channel. The Isle of Wight rose like a black behemoth on our right, to the south and west. The breeze picked up suddenly out of the northwest and the yacht surged, crashing through a roller and sending spray exploding high into the air. Hook hollered something, but I knew what to do. I scrambled to my feet and, for a while, there was a rush of activity, with Hook setting the course southeast and me releasing the boom so that she was dove-winging with the wind behind us. When I’d secured the sheet, I went and stood by Hook’s side at the helm. Russell had his hands on his belly and seemed to have gone to sleep in the midst of all the action.

  I said, “How does he do that?”

  Hook smiled. “They could write volumes about what we don’t know about Russell.”

  Something in his voice made me glance at him. “How long have you known him?”

  “Since prep school.”

  “He was a kid once, then.”

  He laughed out loud. “I didn’t say that. He might have been one of the masters.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and I smiled. I turned, leaning my elbows on the hatch, looking back over the stern at the small sails, white, intense blue, crimson, all heeling and darting with the wind.

  I said, “I’m going to Llyn Celyn, but I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get there.”

  He spoke to the horizon. “That isn’t the issue. The issue is what you do before you go. He will dictate what you do once you’re there. All you need to do is let him know you’re going.” He glanced at me. “Have you ever done any martial arts, Murdoch?”

  “No, not unless you count getting beaten up as a kid on the streets of LA.” I shrugged. “I improvise.”

  “Have you even been up against a professional assassin? An expert?”

  I looked away, back at the darting sails shrinking behind us. “Yeah. Once.”

  He seemed surprised. “And you lived to tell the story? I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I was lucky. He should have killed me several times over.”

  He nodded. “You can’t rely on luck. She is fickle. There is only one thing to do when you face an opponent who is stronger and more skilled than you.”

  “What’s that? Shoot him?”

  He chuckled. “If you can, that will help. But if he’s that good, he won’t give you the chance.” He shook his head. “No, go with him. Let him lead. In a word, yield.” He sensed I didn’t like the word then glanced at me and smiled. “Whatever your balls are telling you, Murdoch, winning is the prize. So, you do what you have to do to get the prize.”

  I didn’t say anything and, after a moment, he went on. “Everybody has a vulnerable spot. Homer taught us that. If you are attacked by a superior force you cannot resist, yield, and, while you yield, study your attacker and find that weak spot. And when you find it, strike with devastating lethal force.”

  I studied the grain of the wood on the deck. He was right. My enemy was largely unknown and invisible, but what I did know of them was that their power was incalculable. I was outgunned and outclassed in every way. Almost.

  I spoke to my shoes, mulling over each word as I said it. “So, I let him—del Roble or whoever it is—know I am going to Llyn Celyn. How?”

  His tone became brisk, professional. “He has eyes and ears on the ground here. That much is obvious, because he has been leading you till now. So, tell the people who have been involved so far…”

  I looked up at him. “Russian Pete, Dr. Loss, Grant…”

  “Tell them you need a break. You need to get away from it all and come to terms with what has happened.”

  I took over. “When word makes its way back to del Roble—or whoever—he’ll know what I’m really doing is going after him.”

  “Exactly as you were supposed to. And here, by going with him, you expose his first weakness—pride, arrogance. It has clouded his vision and he has underestimated your intelligence and your intelligence network.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “I hear you. So, I book a room, where?”

  “Not too close. Go to Pembrokeshire. There’s a village there, on St. Brides Bay, called Little Haven. Stay in a bed and breakfast there. It will give the impression you are trying to keep off the radar. Drive up to the reactor. See if you can go for a guided tour. Ask impertinent questions.

  “They have an office in Wrexham. Drop in for a visit. You know the drill. Pretend you are trying to keep a low profile, but you’re not a pro, so you’re making a mess of it.”

  I watched the seagulls wheeling overhead, screaming their ugly, mournful cry to the empty sky. I said, “And wait for them to make their move, show me what the next stage of my punishment is.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What if the next stage in my punishment is where…where he does to Maria what he—?”

  He cut across me and his voice was like a slap in the face. “Stop!”

  I turned to face him and his eyes were the hardest, most ruthless thing I had ever seen.

  He barked at me, “Focus.” He studied my face till he knew I was focused, then he said, “For reasons I can’t share with you, we know that is highly unlikely. In any case, there is no point thinking about things you can’t do anything about. Focus. Focus on drawing del Roble out and finding his weak spot. That is all you can do.”

  Then Russell was climbing to his feet. He came and placed a hand on my shoulder. He took off his giant insect glasses and let me see his eyes. They looked ancient but full of power.

  He said, “Your enemy sees that he has rendered you powerless to move, but you see that he has focused your mind on victory. You win. Now, luncheon, my boy. Food!”

  Chapter Twelve

  I had told Grant I needed a few days to get over the trauma of Maria’s disappearance, and I’d given him the address and phone number of a B&B that Hook had provided me with. He’d just stared at me and told me not to leave the country. I’d told him I wouldn’t and left.

  I’d tried to contact Pete, but he had been unavailable, so I’d left a message with Melanie, who seemed to have been promoted to his personal assistant. She’d said she’d let him know. Then I’d called Dr. Loss and she’d said she thought it was a very good idea and asked me to stay in touch. If I needed anything, to let her know.

  Then I’d tried to call Noddy. His phone had rung twice and gone dead.

  Now I was standing on the cliffs above Little Haven, looking out at Stack Rocks, floating like some bizarre ghost-ship among the sea mist on a day the TV had called the hottest day in recorded history. I was watching a small group of men walking about. They seemed to be busy doing something, but at that distance, I couldn’t make out what. In any case, my mind wasn’t really on them. I wondered absently how they’d gotten there, but I was thinking about Maria and my next move. Believing she was still alive was an act of faith, but I had no choice. Imagining a world, a future, without her in it was not an option.

  But faith in what, or in who, I had no idea.

  I
was about to turn and make my way back to the Daemon when I noticed one of the guys had stopped and was standing, peering up at the cliff. He was too far away for me to be sure, but I had the weird feeling he was looking at me. I stepped up close to the edge and shielded my eyes from the sun, trying to see the men more clearly. They seemed to be wearing jumpsuits. Some were crouching down. Others seemed to be walking, scanning the ground. This one guy suddenly mirrored my action and raised his hand to shield his eyes. I dropped my hand and, after a moment, he dropped his.

  I watched him a couple of seconds longer, then turned and made my way down the footpath to where I’d parked the TVR.

  Google told me it was slightly more than three hours to Llyn Celyn. I reckoned I could make it in two and three-quarters. I fired up the big V12 and crawled through the narrow roads, shielded by eight-foot hedgerows and steep banks, toward the A487, which would pretty much take me all the way.

  The heat was fierce and the humidity was off the charts, but instead of putting the air con on, I put the top down and let the speed cool me.

  I’d been on the road half an hour when I saw it. For a moment, I thought I’d driven through a time-warp. Up ahead in the slow lane was a VW camper. It looked original ’69 or ’70, painted in vivid orange and yellow psychedelic designs. Hendrix figured large, as did details from Santana’s Abraxas album. Che was there, too, and big bulbous letters with the legends, All You Need Is Love and Your Love Is Here. It made me smile, and as I drew level, the driver, a guy with long hair and big shades, waved at me, laughing and calling something that sounded like, “Follow the love, man! Follow your heart!”

  As I pulled past, I saw in the rear-view mirror the front of the van was painted with a big golden apple and the word Kallisti written across the top.

  Kallisti, the goddess of chaos. The golden apple from the garden of the Hesperidies—Hesperus, Venus, hope. Something in my memory told me that Spain—España—was a corruption of Hesperus, and meant ‘hope’. Russell would know. I dismissed it and drove on, watching the throwback shrink and vanish in the mirror. As I did, I glimpsed the plate—KAL15T