——————— ◆ ———————
River Ishim
Western Suburbs
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
Ava awoke slowly.
She struggled to rise through the mental fog of sleep, but a thick bitter haze hung over her, pushing her down.
She was hot, and unbelievably thirsty. Her head was pounding, and the inside of her throat was dry.
Forcing her eyelids open slowly, she was rewarded with bursts of shimmering black, purple, and white stars exploding across the back of her retinas.
As her surroundings came half into focus, she saw she was lying on her back on the rusty floor of an old boat. It was an empty shell of dull brown metalwork, covered in layers of grease and dirt.
There was something lying on the floor beside her.
It took her a few moments to recognize Ferguson, slumped a few feet away.
The effort of moving her eyeballs to take in the scene caused a fresh series of explosions in her head.
She felt sick.
Somewhere in the distance she could hear a faint buzzing sound. It was low and smooth—almost rhythmical. She struggled to work out what it was, but it eluded her.
Out of the nearest smeary porthole, she could see the boat was moored in an old abandoned wharf next to a rundown railway bridge. The red-brown bricks were dirty and water-damaged—covered in stains and graffiti. The surrounding area was littered with old refuse—bottles, tins, and twisted plastic. A large scorched oil drum looked like it had last been used as a brazier. She guessed the area was home only to those who had nowhere better to go.
She tried to remember why she was on the boat, but her thoughts were disjointed, confused.
Struggling to piece her thoughts together, she suddenly remembered Masolo’s face, the needle, a swelling sense of warmth, then nothing.
She had been drugged.
That explained everything.
That was why she felt so sick.
As her memory of events began trickling back, she was suddenly aware of the stiffness in her shoulder where the wiry militiaman had twisted her arm, and the pain in her lower back where he had knelt on her.
Looking about, she wondered how long she had been there, then realized from the light filtering into the cabin that it must be the following day.
But despite the calm scene, she sensed something was wrong.
Something did not fit.
She coughed, her head still pounding, and glanced across at Ferguson.
He looked fine. He was breathing regularly—his face was red-cheeked and healthy.
She fought off the urge to sleep.
The buzzing was still bothering her.
It sounded familiar. But somehow out of place. Incongruous.
What was it?
Suddenly, her jumbled brain made the connection.
The engine.
The boat’s engine was on, ticking over slowly and quietly. It was purring smoothly—softly, but distinctly audible.
She frowned, struggling to understand.
Why was the engine running?
She looked out of the porthole again. It was as she thought. The boat was not moving.
Waves of light-headedness rocked her.
The taste in the back of her mouth was foul and metallic.
Then, from nowhere, the memory of why she was on the tug boat came flooding back.
The Ark!
She looked across to where the shrouded object had been resting the night before. The pallet was still there, but whatever had been on it was gone.
Her mind drifted back to the buzzing.
What was the engine doing on?
Why was it running if Kimbaba, Masolo, and the Ark had gone? And if it was on, why was the boat not moving?
She looked up at the porthole again, but the scene outside it remained unchanged.
The boat was definitely stationary.
She swivelled her eyes to glance again at Ferguson.
He was insensible to it all.
Through the mental fog, a disturbing idea suddenly occurred to her.
She looked around the cabin more carefully, peering intently at the portholes and hatch.
Then she saw it.
There!
There it was, in the corner of the hatchway, jammed into place by the lid—an ugly black rubber hose poking into the cabin, with a dark haze around its tip evidencing all too clearly the lethal sooty fumes pumping out of it.
As her brain tried to take control of the situation, the adrenaline kicked into her system.
She had no idea how long she had been breathing the poison, but knew that if she did not get out fast, she would drift back into unconsciousness.
Possibly for ever.
Perhaps Ferguson already had?
He was closer to the hose.
She tried to lift her arm to push herself up, but found to her horror that it would not move.
The renewed effort triggered another bout of nausea.
With no warning, a fuzziness began to descend, and she felt herself being pulled down by an immense fatigue. She was overwhelmed by the overpowering urge to sleep, suddenly more tired than she could ever remember. She began to wonder why she was even bothering with the effort of thinking about it all. If she was honest, it was easier just to be drifting. It was like being drunk. Perhaps she should simply enjoy it. She smiled to herself. It was not so bad.
She could feel herself slipping uncontrollably into unconsciousness, like sliding into a warm bath.
No!
A voice thundered deep inside her.
Move!
The urgency of the voice triggered a memory. For a moment she was back outside Thal in Southern Waziristan. She was lying in a mud hut, delirious with a raging fever, while her fellow MI6 officer left her so he could push deeper into the north-western frontier, to make contact with a potential asset.
She had lain hallucinating on the sodden straw until it was too dangerous for everyone if she stayed any longer. Wracked with fever, she had stumbled south for two days to Bannu, where she had found a UN rep and been put on a plane out of the country.
On her febrile forty-eight-hour trek, she had been conscious that she was alone in one of the most dangerous regions on earth for a foreigner—especially a woman, and a western spy. But a deep animal survival instinct had pushed her relentlessly on.
She had moved only at night, staying off roads and tracks, avoiding all human contact, holing up by day in whatever derelict shelter she could find.
Although she had learned from being abandoned that the mission always came before any individual, the experience had also taught her how strong the mind could be, even when the body was badly damaged.
But she was not sitting safely on the plane out of Bannu now.
She was suffering from advanced carbon monoxide poisoning, along with the effects of whatever she had been injected with.
Her vision was blurring.
She knew she had get out of the cabin.
She did not have the strength to stand, so would have to move onto her front and push herself up.
Summoning what little energy she had, she tried to raise her right shoulder off the floor.
For what seemed like an age, she feared she did not have the strength.
With increasing desperation, she blocked out all other thoughts except forcing her shoulder over. On the verge of passing out, she finally felt her body roll, and she flopped over onto her front.
Her face was suddenly crushed painfully against the metal floor, but she barely noticed.
She willed her arms to extend, and a kaleidoscope of flashes exploded in her head, but she kept pushing until she was on her knees.
With a strength she did not know she possessed, she began to crawl.
It was painfully slow at first, inching her way across the rusty metal floor towards the blistered wooden hatch cover. Her movements were drunken and uncoordinated, and she cut her hands on the sharp twists of metal sticking up from the floor. But she was oblivious to it.
Her lungs were starting to burn from sucking down increasingly rapid breaths. Her body was crying out for oxygen. She knew she was inhaling poison, but gulped it down hungrily, unable to stop herself.
As she got closer to the black cracked hose belching out its toxic gas, her head felt like someone was hammering red hot nails into it, and her mouth was on fire, as if she was drinking scalding water.
She was teetering on the threshold of unconsciousness, half-hallucinating a nightmare in which she was being hounded by a clock counting inexorably down to nothingness.
As she somehow reached the short flight of black steps, the darkness finally descended, and she blacked out.
But she was only unconscious for a few seconds, before the sensation of retching brought her round for long enough to take a swipe at the hose nestling in the corner of the broken hatchway.
She missed.
Her vision was fading fast, and she realized she only had seconds before passing out again. Perhaps this time for good.
With a resolve that came from some primal cortex of her brain, she powered herself up the decrepit stairs in one last burst of effort, hammering the warped wooden hatch lid off with her shoulder, sending the hose flying harmlessly out onto the rusty deck.
As her legs gave way, she crashed through the hatchway, collapsing onto the surrounding wooden housing.
With her head finally away from the toxic smog below, she began gulping in huge mouthfuls of fresh cool air.
As her lungs saturated her blood with oxygen and her heart pumped it quickly round her body, she could feel the nausea and dizziness starting to recede.
She lay there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, staring blankly at the cold sky until her hammering heart started to calm.
But she could not relax. She needed to move quickly.
When she felt sufficient strength, she forced herself to stand up and head haltingly back to the stairs.
Steadying herself on the handrail, she descended into the cabin again, and over to where Ferguson was lying.
He was too big for her to lift, so she grabbed him by the wrists and, with more willpower than bodily strength, dragged him towards the hatch.
As she reached the base of the steps, the hose now gone, she left him there to breathe in the chill morning air.
After a few minutes, she could see the telltale rosy colour of the poisoning leaving his face as he started to breath more regularly. When at last his eyes opened and he awoke, she put his left arm around her neck, and hauled him up the stairs.
The July morning was crisp and bright. There was no other traffic on the river, and the dilapidated wharf was still.
There was not a soul in sight.
Ferguson hung over the boat’s railings, coughing hard and sucking in air. Ava leaned against the wheelhouse, her eyes closed, breathing deeply.
When she felt strong enough, she walked over to Ferguson.
He looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot, and the rosiness in his cheeks had been replaced by an ashen pallor.
She realized she must look similar.
“Come on,” she croaked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Let’s get the blood flowing.”
They stumbled off the boat and onto dry land.
“I told you I didn’t need a babysitter,” she rasped, as they found their feet and began trudging along the quay. There was no triumph in her voice. It was a statement of fact.
Looking around for any recognizable landmark, she saw in the far distance the large latticework white tower topped with the golden egg. She pointed to it. Ferguson nodded, too tired to speak.
With resignation, they turned towards it, and began the long walk back into Astana.
——————— ◆ ———————
Quedlinburg
Saxony-Anhalt
The Federal Republic of Germany
Malchus headed fort he picturesque old quarter, the
Altstadt.
Ever since the pretty German town of Quedlinburg emerged from behind the Iron Curtain in 1990, it was permanently busy with sightseers.
But now it was early in the morning—and the normally bustling central
Marktplatz
was empty. Later in the day, tourists would be sitting at the cafés’ immaculately laundered tablecloths sipping bitter German
Kaffee
and eating sweet cakes with lashings of whipped cream. But at this hour, all was quiet.
Malchus glanced up at the aged and imposing St Benedikti church, with its small house halfway up the spire—a bizarre medieval sentry box for the town’s watchmen of old.
If only they knew.
He was keenly aware that, like so many ancient churches, it lay on the site of a much older tradition.
At the corner of the picture-postcard
Marktplatz
he turned off abruptly into a maze of narrow medieval streets.
He was oblivious to the blasts of wind rolling down off the rugged Harz mountains, and he ignored the clusters of antique houses expertly maintained by the Communists for so many years.
He was not here for the tourist sites.
Quedlinburg held other attractions for a man of his interests.
He gazed up at the Brocken, twenty miles to the west—the highest peak in northern Germany. When the weather was good, tourists enjoyed its botanical gardens and narrow-gauge railway. But, as Malchus knew well, the mountain had a far more sinister side.
For centuries, traditionalists had congregated there on its isolated and desolate slopes to mark
Walpurgisnacht
—the eve of Mayday: the cross-quarter day between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Local girls kept up the age-old spring fertility ceremonies by weaving ribbons around a maypole. Neo-pagans lit bonfires and celebrated their spring rituals. Malchus had been there many times, to the Devil’s Pulpit and the Witches’ Altar, where he had witnessed other darker and still more ancient rites that continued to take place there on that sacred night. Just as they always had.
Walpurgisnacht
was a hallowed time for those who followed the path. That is why the
Führer
chose it in 1945 as the evening on which to commit suicide a hundred miles to the north-east, in the doomed and febrile atmosphere of the Berlin bunker.
As Malchus strode deeper into the
Altstadt
, his hard-soled leather shoes rang out on the smoothed cobblestones. Leaving the modern world ever further behind him, the medieval houses were now uniformly half-timbered
Fachwerk
, punctuated with low doors and small windows.
Arriving at his destination, he stopped sharply. It looked at first like a residential house, although a small sign to the left of the door indicated it was a discrete shop: ‘
Okkultismus’.
He pushed the wooden door open. As he stepped down onto its cold stone-flagged floor, a small brass bell mounted on the doorjamb rang once.
It was gloomy inside, and the air smelled faintly of bitter herbs, incense, and wax.
Looking up, he saw a familiar phrase burned in gothic letters into a gnarled low black beam:
HE THAT WALKETH FRAUDULENTLY REVEALETH SECRETS
BUT HE THAT IS OF A FAITHFUL SPIRIT CONCEALETH THE MATTER
Malchus noted approvingly that, unlike the gaudy tourist bazaars around the
Marktplatz
, this shop had no chrome and glass displays, no canned music. Instead, it was piled high with arcane books and objects.
He looked appreciatively at the titles on the dusty shelves—
De Philosophia Occulta, The Book of Abramelin the Mage, Arbatel of Magick, The Black Pullett, Corpus Hermeticum, Kybalion, The Lesser Key of Solomon, Necronomicon, Hermetic Arcanum,
and others familiar to him for many years.
He brushed past a table of ceremonial tools—knives, censers, lamps, and braziers. He smiled to himself, enjoying the fact this was not a place for teenage girls wanting glittery candlesticks or love spells. No. This place was for those who trod a different path. An ancient, more sinister one. And he savoured it.
As he stepped to the back of the dimly lit shop, he breathed in the pungent smell of the incense packets bristling in a rack on the side wall.
Reaching the oversized dark wooden counter, he noted there were no knick-knacks on it, no leaflets or posters. There was not even a cash register.
Almost immediately, a short man came out from a doorway in the grimy back wall. His thinning grey hair was long, tied in a ponytail with a small black ribbon.
The man took in Malchus’s hairless fleshy features, heavy eyelids, and bulky dark overcoat. He recognized his peculiar customer immediately. “
Guten Morgen
,” he nodded. “Please, a moment. I have your order.”
Malchus did not acknowledge the greeting.
The shopkeeper disappeared into the back of the shop again, returning a few moments later with a silver flight case, which he carefully laid onto the counter.
“My sincerest apologies for the delay,” he muttered to Malchus. “But I think you’ll be pleased.”
He flipped open the metal catches on the case, carefully lifted the lid, and turned the box around so Malchus could see its contents.
Inside, on a bed of thick dark blue velvet, lay two round bronze discs, each three inches deep and ten inches wide. Countersunk depressions filled all but a small rim of their top faces.
“Are the sizes exact?” Malchus asked, examining the discs closely. “Precisely?” His German still carried a slight eastern accent from his native Dresden.
“Of course,” the shopkeeper nodded gravely.
“Exactly faithful to the drawings I provided?” Malchus stretched out a hand and picked the discs up. They were cold and heavy. “I must insist upon this.”
The shopkeeper suppressed a look of irritation. “Yes,
mein Herr
. I know my trade. You are not the only one who has requested such things.”
Malchus’s eyes shot to his. “You have made these for someone else?” His tone was sharp.
“Of course not.” The shopkeeper gave him a placatory smile. “Not these. Different designs.”
The shopkeeper looked down at the discs which Malchus had placed back in the flight case. “I guarantee you, this work is unique.”
Malchus touched the discs again. All that mattered was that they were flawlessly accurate.
The details were vital.
The shopkeeper looked earnestly at Malchus, clearly sensing his unease. “I assure you,
mein Herr
, there’s nothing to worry about. The objects are completely faithful to your instructions. The delay was only because I wished to verify your drawings against the originals. I therefore had to obtain a high quality image of Dr Dee’s designs. Such a task is not easy in the case of a four-hundred-year-old drawing, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. You should not trust modern reproductions.” He nodded towards the inscription on the beam. Malchus read it again:
HE THAT WALKETH FRAUDULENTLY REVEALETH SECRETS
BUT HE THAT IS OF A FAITHFUL SPIRIT CONCEALETH THE MATTER
Malchus was annoyed now. “What I gave you was precisely what I wanted.” He glared at the shopkeeper.
The man looked back at him with respect. “And I changed nothing. Your drawings were flawless.”
Malchus snapped the flight case’s catches shut. “I do not make mistakes.” He reached into his breast pocket for a small crisp envelope, and handed it to the shopkeeper. “As agreed, the second payment of one thousand euro.”
The shopkeeper counted the ten notes, then slipped the envelope into his trouser pocket. “Thank you.” He reached for a ledger. “Would you like a receipt,
Herr
… .” He looked apologetic as his voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Malchus replied, picking up the flight case brusquely and heading for the door.