Day of the Serpent (Ouroboros Book 3) Page 10

  Denny quickly found the sequence.

  “You're right,” she said, showing Brad. “He looks like he's sucking a lemon. Is that significant?”

  “Surely it just means they hate what we call civilization,” put in Brad. “We already knew that.”

  “Yes,” agreed Norton, “but civilization began long before the Iron Age. The pyramids were built with wood and stone technology. So why single out iron?”

  “Something to do with magnetic fields?” Denny hazarded.

  “Iron, cold iron, is master of them all,” said Norton. “Iron in folklore is the Devil's enemy. Hence the practice of putting an iron horseshoe over one's door for luck.”

  “I'm guessing that's a quotation?” asked Brad. “The first part, I mean?”

  Norton gave his familiar, superior smile.

  “Hardly anyone reads Kipling nowadays, but he knew a thing or two.”

  ***

  “Your action was not only unauthorized, it was counter to the entire spirit of the organization,” said the Director. “You may not have done your friend any good, either.”

  The gray-haired man gestured at Healy, lying in bed connected to a bewildering array of monitors that beeped and buzzed quietly to themselves.

  Knapton shook his head.

  “Somebody once said that if he had to choose between betraying his country or his friends, he hoped he'd have the courage to betray his country.”

  “A bad attitude,” said the Director. “Think what kind of a world we'd be living in if we all thought that way.”

  “Not very different from the one we've got,” returned Knapton.

  A young female doctor appeared carrying a tablet computer. She gave both men an appraising look.

  “I don't suppose there's any point in asking what really happened to him?” she asked. After a moment's silence she walked past them to start checking Healy's condition.

  “Any change, doctor?” asked Knapton.

  “No, he's still comatose, still showing signs of some kind of toxic shock syndrome. I've consulted colleagues in Africa, Australia, and the Americas about what venom he might have been exposed to. It's like no kind of snakebite they've seen.”

  She looked at the Director.

  “But if I were a gambler I'd bet good money you've seen it before. Am I right?”

  The older man ignored her and spoke to Knapton.

  “We'll have a formal hearing, of course. I'll be in touch.”

  “You should do something to stop this!” said Knapton, but the Director left without another word.

  “I take it that old bastard works for one of the dirtier bits of our glorious government?” said the doctor, going back to her checklist.

  Knapton thought for a moment, then a useful phrase came to him.

  “You may think that, I couldn't possibly comment.”

  The doctor gave a short laugh.

  “Very tactful. And I wasn't being wholly honest while that old bugger was here.”

  “He's improving?” asked Knapton.

  The doctor shrugged.

  “He's been verbalizing, as we call it, which is a fancy way of saying talking in your sleep.”

  The woman reached into her coat and took out a digital voice recorder.

  “Make of this what you will,” she said, handing it over. “I probably shouldn't have recorded him but it was creeping the nurses out, so I thought it should be on the record somewhere. You can drop it off at the main desk for me when you're done. Now, if you'll excuse me, visiting time is over and I have a lot of other patients.”

  For the next five minutes, Knapton sat in the reception area, headphones on, listening to what Healy had said. It made little sense.

  Fragments from a ruined mind, he thought. Some trace of the boss I knew. Not much, though. Too badly damaged.

  He realized he was crying and blew his nose before leaving the hospital to sit in his parked car to get himself together. Then he returned the digital recorder and set off back to Scotland Yard. As he wove through the traffic, Healy's chaotic mumblings swirled in his head. But one phrase kept returning.

  'With the chaos will come the breeding.'

  ***

  Dusk had almost fallen as Carlton parked his Fiat carefully alongside the jetty and got out. There were a few locals standing around talking, a couple of kids fishing. Again, he felt an odd sense of trepidation despite the commonplace scene.

  Get a grip, man, he told himself. This is your chance to blow the lid off a conspiracy, or at least a hoax.

  The old pleasure cruiser seemed deserted, though.

  What if they're simply not there? Maybe it's all a joke at my expense. They might be up to something elsewhere on the loch, and needed me out of the way.

  Trying to push his doubts to the back of his mind, Carlton walked up to the Talisman and stood hesitating.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Hello,” came the reply. The voice was husky, unmistakably feminine, oddly thrilling. But Carlton could not see the speaker. Then he saw a brief movement at the cabin hatchway.

  “I'm here to see Doctor Clay?” he called.

  “I'm afraid Jonathan had to go ashore for a while,” said the hidden woman. “Perhaps I can help? Do come aboard, Mike, we can talk more privately inside.”

  Carlton scrambled onto the boat and went to the hatchway, looked down. There was a dim, flickering light, evidently from a candle. It revealed only the wooden planking of the cabin floor. Then a striking face appeared, smiling up at him.

  “Come on down! It's nearly time to eat.”

  Climbing clumsily down the ladder, his back to the woman, Carlton said, “Oh, I already ate, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Well,” she said, “I hope you don't mind if I have a rather large meal.”

  “Not at all, feel free,” he began, but stopped as he turned around to find her towering over him. In the faint light of a candle on a small table she seemed even more prodigious, a being of myth rather than mundane reality. She reached up above his head and closed the cabin hatch.

  My God, he thought, she must be nearly seven feet tall.

  “Before I dine,” she said, smiling down at him, “let's settle this silly dispute once and for all.”

  “Of course, Miss – erm,” Carlton struggled to remember if Clay had mentioned any of his team.

  “Call me Cleo,” she said, taking him by the arm and leading him to a small fold-out table and chair. “Take a seat.”

  She sat on the floor next to him, and her eyes were still level with his.

  “Well, Cleo,” he began, trying to keep his tone light, “I have to say you made a very good mermaid. Is your tail anywhere around here?”

  Her eyes widened and she gave a throaty laugh.

  “Really, Mike, you just meet a girl and straightaway you're asking to see her tail?”

  Carlton felt himself blush, and stammered, “I meant the prop, the fake – you know what I mean, it looked very professional.”

  “Thanks!”

  She leaned forward and before he could react, she had taken his chin in one sinewy hand. Her flesh seemed remarkably cool, and he got a whiff of intense perfume.

  “But I can't show you my tail until you understand why you're here. Why I need a man of just your size.”

  “Size?” Carlton said, distressed to hear that his voice had gone up an octave.

  “Oh yes, size is very important to me,” she breathed.

  Carlton smelled something strange now, an undertone almost smothered by the flowery scent Cleo wore.

  The reptile house at the zoo, he thought.

  “Size, and the fact that you won't be missed for a good while. Poor, lonely little man.”

  “That's not true,” he protested.

  Cleo pulled him closer to her, so that her eyes were inches away from his. Now he could smell the odd reptilian odor more clearly. It seemed to be growing more intense. He raised both hands to try and break free, but this prompted her to put her oth
er hand behind his head. It felt like he was in a vice. And, as he struggled futilely with her, he felt her cool skin roughen beneath his fingers.

  “Don't struggle, Mike,” she breathed. “Look into my eyes.”

  He wanted to close his eyes or look away, but he had to obey her.

  Were her eyes that color before, that golden yellow? And the pupils – could they be contacts?

  A few moments later and his mind stopped trying to rationalize what was happening. Instead, he became fascinated by a writhing form that appeared in the depths of her amber-tinted gaze. It grew clearer, larger, and suddenly stopped moving. It seemed to become aware of him, Carlton. He felt himself scrutinized by an intellect ancient, cold, and utterly inhuman. It was pure in a way no human mind could be. Pure in its desire, its fixation on consuming prey. He saw himself as a tiny creature while the glowing, sinuous entity circled, coiled, pounced.

  “No!” he shouted, jerking backward. He realized that he was free of Cleo's grip just as he banged the back of his head against the hull. Cursing and rubbing his bruised scalp, he looked around but could only make out vague, dark forms.

  Bloody hell, he thought. How long have I been under?

  The candle had gone out, or been snuffed. Only the faint gray light of the dying day illuminated the cabin as Carlton tried to struggle upright.

  “You can't go, Mike,” said Cleo. “You must stay for dinner.”

  Her voice seemed even deeper, and there was an odd lisp to it. With a great stir of movement on the opposite side of the cabin he saw Cleo's head and shoulders rise up in silhouette. There was something not quite right about the way she moved. It was too smooth, as if she were being lifted by some kind of machine. Then he felt a hard object touch his calf. He reached down and felt scales, living flesh, steely muscles.

  “Jesus, there's a snake in here!” he shouted, and tried to rush to the hatchway ladder. His ankles were caught in muscly coils and he crashed onto the planks. Winded, he sensed swift movement and heard a cracking, stretching sound. Cleo's head and shoulders changed shape, elongating until there were no shoulders at all, only a wedge-shaped head atop a column of shadowed flesh.

  “Help!” shouted Carlton, thinking of the people on the jetty. Then he remembered the closed hatch.

  “You are helping,” said a voice that was now barely recognizable as Cleo's. “You've heard of eating for two? I'm eating for many more than that.”

  He began to punch and kick, and his fist connected with something sharp. He grabbed hold of what must be a mouth, though it was vast. As he tried in vain to push the creature away, the mouth opened wider still. Carlton remembered a wildlife documentary in which a snake ate a rabbit almost as large as itself. He remembered the sickening snap as the reptile's lower jaw unhinged.

  The sound this time, when it came a few seconds later, was far louder.

  Chapter 8: The Crannog

  “How do I pronounce any of these names? Apart from Fort Augustus."

  Brad was supposedly navigating as Denny drove them north from Glasgow. He had never entirely trusted GPS and similar gadgets, hence his purchase of an actual paper map. Unfortunately, whenever Denny asked for advice about an upcoming junction, Brad struggled to make sense of Highland names. Among the ones baffling him now were Dunlichity, Errogie, Beauly, and Drumnadrochit.

  "Do what I do with unfamiliar words,” she advised, “just take a good run at them and hope for the best."

  Brad had to smile, despite the grimness of his mood. The closer they got to Loch Ness, the worse their situation would be. He looked out at the mountains that hemmed in the winding road. As a geologist, he knew they were many millions of years old, formed by the violent upheavals of the planet's fiery youth. The valleys in them had been gouged by glaciers comparatively recently, a mere thousands of years ago.

  And we're up against something just as ancient, just as impervious to human desires.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” said Denny.

  “If we can't find and destroy the Zamyatin devices, we need a solid Plan B,” he replied. “And I'd feel a lot happier devising one if I had a gun.”

  “A gun?”

  In the driving mirror, Brad saw James Norton sit bolt upright. The folklore expert had been dozing off since their departure from the city. But the word 'gun' had galvanized him.

  “Yeah,” Brad went on, “I had a semi-automatic pistol when we took them on in Poland. It gave me an edge, kind of.”

  “I won't be party to actual crime,” said Norton, his voice once more that of the prissy English professor. “Well, not violent crime, and certainly not of that sort.”

  Brad sighed.

  “I know guns and firearms are illegal in England.”

  “Pistols are illegal,” put in Denny, “you can get a license for shotguns or sporting rifles.”

  “But even if I could get a license,” protested Brad, “I can't go around waving a twelve gauge! A pistol is what I need!”

  “You'd have to buy it illegally,” Denny put in. “And that's not something I can be associated with. I couldn't pass that off as research.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Brad exploded. He had never understood the British fixation on curbing gun ownership. “The world might be coming to an end and you're worried about one little handgun? It's not like I was planning to order an H-bomb!”

  There was an awkward silence, then Denny went on, “As I was about to point out, there's a good chance the police would catch you if you tried to get a black market handgun. They're very hot on that kind of thing. And where would we be then?”

  Brad let out a sigh, but he could not contradict her. He would be no use to anyone if he got arrested. And he had no desire to spend what might be the last days of Western civilization cooling his heels in a police cell.

  “Well, if not a gun, then some sort of weapon,” he said. “And no, James, don't tell me I need a hero's sword. If Ouroboros is summoned from the deep, it'll take more than a bit of sharpened iron to deal with it.”

  He saw Norton's reflection grow pensive and asked, “What is it?”

  “Probably nothing,” said the Englishman. “For a second there, I almost had an epiphany. A vision, if you like. Very unscientific of me. I'm sure it will pass.”

  Denny smiled slyly at Brad.

  “Okay,” she said, “we need to get our plans sorted. But instead of Plan A with B as a fallback, how about launching a sort of pincer movement?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Norton.

  “I mean,” said Denny, “that the cultists are going to have their hands full when they finally get round to their summoning. So anything we can do to throw a spanner in the works would be good, right?”

  “Okay,” said Brad, starting to grasp her line of thought. “You think we should attack the Zamyatin devices and Cleo's gang at the same time?”

  Denny nodded.

  “If we mess up their stolen Soviet technology they'll know it, and come after us anyway,” she said. “So why not confront them when they start their ritual, or whatever?”

  Brad mulled this over. It would make sense for Norton, and perhaps Denny, to keep away from the cultists. Especially from Cleo, who was a killer. He could confront Kelly and her friends while Denny and Norton went along the shores of the loch, wrecking the devices. But to find them in the first place would require some expertise with the magnetometer. The detector was in the trunk of the rental car, and he doubted if he could train either of his companions to use it in less than a day. He explained his doubts to the others.

  “It's a bit patronizing to assume I can't learn stuff quickly,” said Denny. “Also, I don't need to do a mineral survey with the damn thing, just find a few things that are producing really powerful energy fields. How hard can that be?”

  “When put like that, shouldn’t be too hard,” admitted Brad.

  “What I find much more questionable,” said Norton, “is that you propose to fight these people on your own. It's not High Noon, you know.”
<
br />   “Yeah, in that movie he had a gun,” Brad replied sourly.

  “You're hoping blood is thicker than venom, aren't you?” Denny asked.

  The phrase was shocking, but Brad had to admit the journalist was right. He was still hoping that, when it came to choosing between creating her brave new world and her own father, Kelly would change sides. But he did not dare say it aloud, in case it came out sounding even more naive, or desperate.

  “She's had plenty of chances to leave them,” Denny said quietly. “She's never wavered. I know we want to believe in people we love. But sometimes they're … well, they're not the people we think they are.”

  They drove in silence for another half hour or so. Finally, they rounded a hillside and saw a town spread out below them. Fort Augustus was neat and compact, its buildings clustered around the tapering southern end of Loch Ness. And in the small bay just off the quayside of the town was the circular island that had featured in Brad's dream.

  “Cherry Island,” Denny said. “That's a cute name, considering …”

  It is, thought Brad, peering at the brown oval in the blue-gray water. Like something out of a children's book. Hard to believe it's the place where a global disaster could be triggered.

  “A crannog,” put in Norton, leaning forward to see as they wound their way towards the edge of town. “A stone age artificial island, essentially a stone platform just offshore. Purpose unknown.”

  “I read that some people believe crannogs were built over the water for defense,” said Denny. “Like the Lake Town in The Hobbit?”

  “Tolkien may have been aware of that theory,” conceded Norton. “Though I think Venice was his model for that particular flight of fancy.”

  “The Eye of Ouroboros,” said Brad. “That's what it is. A center for ritual worship of the deity. A forgotten purpose, for thousands of years.”

  “Until clever Doctor Clay figured it out,” added Denny.

  “Or Cleo got some kind of psychic message from her goddess,” returned Brad.

  “You’re sure that's where they're going?” asked Denny. “I mean, it’s just a round platform, no structure to hide in. And you can't just land there without permission. It's a registered national monument. The police would send out a boat.”