The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (57 page)

The explorer inched past a quietly buzzing metal structure, squatted, and put up a hand to signal Krishnamurthy to halt. The young Indian nodded, then looked horrified, raised his pistol, pointed it at Burton, and fired. The report was tremendous in the enclosed space. Burton felt the bullet brush past his ear and thud into something behind him. He turned. Hare loomed over him. Swinburne hollered as a ten-fingered hand clamped his forearm, yanked him into the air, and hurled him spinning into a wall. Burton dived toward a length of pipe he saw on a workbench, intending to employ it as a cudgel. Hare's great weight thumped down onto him before he reached it. He was aware of shouts and screams. More shots resounded through the chamber. A stone surface slammed into his face. He was flung upward, hit the ceiling hard, and dropped onto a table. It collapsed beneath him. Tools clanged across the floor. Burton tried to rise but the heel of a foot smashed into the side of his face. He went down again, felt himself lifted, and was enveloped in a crushing embrace.

Through blurring eyes, he saw Thomas Honesty fall back from the throne and collapse to the floor; saw the Enochians drawing pistols; saw everyone scattering for cover. Reports rent the air as guns fired.

Burton felt himself turned and forced down, back first, onto a knotted limb. His spine was bent to its limit then pushed beyond it. Pain flared. With his one free hand he punched, grabbed, and clawed, but to no effect. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

The agony increased. His vertebrae crunched. Darkness narrowed his vision as if he were sinking into a well.

He groped for his jacket pocket, found the opening, slipped his fingers into it, and retrieved the lock-pick.

Momentarily, there was nothing, then Burton's senses returned as he sprawled backward onto the floor, felt a tremendous release, and looked up at the bellowing and thrashing monstrosity standing over him. The lock-pick was deeply embedded in one of Hare's many eyes.

The explorer rolled out of reach and tried to take measure of the chaos around him. Swinburne was nearby, grappling with Francis Galton, the two men rolling on the floor, screaming and shouting as they punched and wrestled.

One of the Enochians was down with a bullet in his shoulder, but two more men, who'd been working in one of the side tunnels, had raced out and were taking pot-shots at Bhatti and Krishnamurthy, pinning them in a corner behind a barrel-shaped contraption.

Crowley's mesmerised captives clung to the ground, making themselves as small as possible. Sadhvi Raghavendra was nearby, crouching beside a thick column of bundled cables. Burton crawled toward her. Bullets ricocheted around him.

The Trans-Temporal Man opened his jet-black eyes. He turned his head and shouted at one of the Enochians, “Get over here and unstrap me. At once!”

“Sadhvi!” Burton called. He put his hand to the side of her jaw and turned her face until she was looking dazedly at him. “Break loose! Don't let him control you.”

The explorer radiated mesmeric authority. It was a technique he'd practised many times, attempting to dominate and influence through the eyes alone—but he'd only ever succeeded with it after preparation and in silent and calm environments. How could it possibly be effective in the midst of a pitched battle?

“Feel his presence in your mind,” he shouted above the din, “and step aside from it. Step aside, Sadhvi. He has no control over you.”

She frowned and blinked in confusion. All of a sudden, she and the column and the wall behind it jerked away from Burton and rapidly receded. For an instant, his disoriented mind struggled to comprehend what was happening, then he realised something was gripping his ankle and dragging him away from her. He snatched at a table leg. The furniture overturned, sending short lengths of pipe clanking onto the flagstones. He grabbed one, rolled onto his back, and used it to club Gregory Hare. The creature's hold loosened. Burton kicked himself free, staggered to his feet, reversed the pipe in his grip, and holding it at one end with both hands, stabbed it downward into to misshapen mass of Hare's body. It pierced the mottled skin and sank into flesh. Hare emitted an ear-splitting noise, like the whistle of a locomotive, and shoved Burton away, sending him reeling into a workbench.

Swinburne kicked free of Galton, charged at the thrashing creature, and launched himself into the air, landing amid the flailing limbs and applying his full weight to the pipe. It sank deeper. Blood fountained from its end.

Krishnamurthy bellowed across the chamber, “Get away from it, Swinburne!”

Before the poet could oblige, a knotted fist caught him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he toppled to the floor, skidding across it, leaving a smear of Hare's blood behind him.

Krishnamurthy immediately jumped from cover and loosed a volley of shots. Burton, on his knees, felt the bullets drilling through the air above him and heard them thump into Hare's body.

Hare shrieked and tumbled backward.

The explorer yelled, “Straight to hell with you, Gregory Hare!”

Beyond the floundering creature, Damien Burke stepped into view, having returned from the Dissenters' Church. He calmly took in the scene, pulled the odd-looking cactus pistol from his pocket, and shot a spine into Swinburne, who was struggling to his feet. The poet sagged back to the flagstones.

Burke turned his attention to Burton. The explorer scrabbled away from him but felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck. He reached up and plucked a spine from it. His senses began to swim. He sagged onto his side and, with dimming vision, watched as one of the Enochians unstrapped Crowley. The Trans-Temporal Man rose from the throne and shouted, “Enough of this!”

The gunfire stopped. Burton heard revolvers clicking fruitlessly. Those machines that were still sparking fell silent. Nothing that required ignition functioned.

Crowley vaulted over a bench, pounced on Krishnamurthy and Bhatti, and knocked their heads together. They folded to the floor.

Burton tried to rise but the strength was draining from him.

“Mr. Burke,” Crowley said, “check the cell. I want to know how Burton got out of it.”

An Enochian snatched up a large spanner, strode to the explorer, and stood over him. “Shall I kill him, Master?”

“Certainly not. Empty his pockets, and be thorough about it.”

Burton was unable to offer resistance as his clothes were searched. It took all his concentration just to cling to consciousness.

“I think he picked the lock,” Burke reported.

Crowley bent and hauled Krishnamurthy up by his collar. He dragged him toward one of the bays. “Find whatever he used.”

“A locksmith's tool,” Burke replied. “Mr. Hare has it in his eye. He's dead. May I kick Burton in the head, Mr. Crowley?”

“Yes, Mr. Burke, but I'd be obliged if you'd avoid doing any critical damage.”

Groggily, Burton pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Burke as he approached.

“You killed my partner,” Burke said.

Burton sneered and slurred, “Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.”

A boot smashed viciously into his jaw.

Awareness came, departed, and returned. Hazy shapes moved, and voices drifted in and out of cognition. Slowly Burton realised that the cold, flat surface pressing against the side of his face was a flagstone. Blurs coalesced and gained edges. He saw a barred gate.

He was back inside his cell, with the five coffins, but without Swinburne. Instead, he found Thomas Honesty sprawled beside him.

The explorer stifled a groan, rolled over, and sat up. The cell swayed around him. He held his head in his hands and fought the urge to vomit.

I'm tired. So bloody tired. How much more of this madness can I take?

As much as is necessary to get the job done.

Then Damascus.

Except he didn't want Damascus any more.

He gritted his teeth, raised his head, and looked at Honesty. The groundsman's eyes were open but glazed, his face slack.

Burton reached out, shook him by the shoulder, and croaked, “How are you feeling, old chap?”

“Where am I?” Honesty slurred.

“That's a long story. What do you remember?”

The man rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Saw you murder John Judge. Nightmares. Have I—have I been in the Cauldron? Why do I think that? I recall—no—I don't know. By God, I feel weak.”

Burton got to his feet. His head was aching abominably and his lower left molars felt loose. Half-dried blood caked his moustache, lips, and the left side of his face. His arm was throbbing.

He looked through the gate. Crowley's people were clearing the central passage, moving the machines and equipment into the side corridors. The twisted, multi-limbed carcass of Gregory Hare lay where it had fallen, with blood pooled around it. The Trans-Temporal Man was sitting cross-legged on a table and appeared to be meditating.

A voice hissed from the cell to the right. “Sir Richard, are you with us?”

“Is that you, Krishnamurthy?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, sir—that didn't quite go to plan.”

“My fault. I shouldn't have got caught in the first place. Is Algy with you?”

“No, just Bhatti.”

Swinburne's voice came from the left. “I'm here. What shall we do?”

“Watch and wait.”

Sister Raghavendra, perhaps hearing the whispering, looked up and saw that Burton had revived. She walked over and checked the padlock. “If you attempt to escape again, Sir Richard, you'll be shot in the kneecaps. The Master wants you alive but he has no reservations about causing you immense pain. Tomorrow you will serve not a primitive government, but a visionary leader.”

“A despot!” Burton snorted.

She winked at him. “Benign. All those who support him will be artificially advanced to a new stage of physical and mental development.”

“And those who oppose?” he asked, puzzled by the wink.

“They will provide manual labour or die.” Raghavendra leaned closer to the bars and, in barely audible tones, said, “I'm free of him but he doesn't realise it. Stand ready, Richard. I'll do what I can.” Aloud, she added, “Do not cause further disruption. If you attempt anything, your friends will be killed in front of you.”

“What's he doing?” Burton mouthed, nodding his head in Crowley's direction.

“He's settling into his new form. Its brain has been designed to accentuate his mediumistic connection with his alternate selves but it will take him time to learn how to use it. I have to leave you now, else I'll rouse suspicion.”

She moved away.

Burton watched her go then turned back to Honesty and squatted beside him, peering into his eyes. “You were possessed, Mr. Honesty. I shall try to explain.”

For half an hour, the explorer spoke quietly and rapidly, describing the
nosferatu
and how, like a parasite, it had lodged in John Judge before transplanting itself into Honesty. He told how Honesty had been used to create
strigoi morti
in the East End, their presence causing panic, and how that panic had been channelled into rioting by the Enochians' seditious anti-German campaigning.

“Un-dead,” Honesty mumbled. “And me? Oh, God! Am I
strigoi morti
?”

“I don't think so. Perdurabo can't feed off the
volonté
of a body he inhabits and didn't occupy you long enough to transform you into a
nosferatu
, but when we're through with all this, we'll have Monsieur Levi examine you to make sure.”

Burton pointed past the bars of the gate at Crowley's new form. “Our enemy has his own flesh now,” he said. “There's no other presence inside it to resist him the way you did, which means he can move around in daylight as easily as any of us. He's intent on attacking the British and Germanic governments when they gather in Green Park tomorrow morning.”

“Attack how?”

“I don't know. We'll have to—”

A low whistle from Krishnamurthy interrupted him. He moved to the corner of the cell and murmured, “What is it?”

“I was listening. I know how he intends to do it.”

“Tell me.”

“For half the length of the River Effra, where the new sewer tunnel encloses it, there's a wide brick shelf running alongside the water. For the rest of the way—the upper reaches—the shelf narrows and is of hard clay, but between those two stretches there's a short section where the clay has been cut away and shaped ready for the next section of brickwork. The workmen have dug a large niche into the wall there for storing their tools and materials. Bhatti and I encountered two Enochians by it. We overpowered them and found they'd been guarding a wheeled trolley on which rested a big barrel-shaped affair. We took a closer look. I'm certain it was a bomb, Sir Richard—a bloody huge one. If Crowley drops it on Green Park, it'll leave nothing but an enormous crater.”

Burton was silent as he digested this. Then, “Drop it how? He'll never get past the
Orpheus
. It would take—” He stopped. His eyes widened. “Bismillah!”