Sepulchre

Sepulchre

EDITORIAL REVIEW:

This book is about a conflict of evils. There is a house called Neath that holds a dark and terrible secret. In that house, there is a psychic called Kline who is part of its secret. The keeper is guardian of the house, of the psychic, and of the secret. But now, an outsider must protect them from a terrible danger. Halloran will combat men who thrive on physical corruptions; he will find love of a perverse nature; he will confront his soul's own darkness. And eventually, he will discover the horrific and awesome secret of the Sepulchre...Remember with fear...

Sepulchre

James Herbert

'And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shall thou eat all the days of thy life.'

Genesis 3:14

THE SUMERIANS

Three thousand years before the birth of Christ, the first real moves towards civilisation emerged from southern Mesopotamia, around the lower reaches of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. Because the land was between two rivers - Sumer - the people there were called Sumerians.

Their ethnic origins have never been explained.

This race of people made three important contributions towards our advancement - four if you count the establishment of firmly governed communities.

The first two were these:

The measurement of time in hours, days and months; and astrology, the study of the stars' influences, which eventually led to the science of astronomy.

But the third was most important of all, for the Sumerian high priests discovered a way of making man immortal. Not by eternally binding his spirit to its earthly shell, but by preserving his knowledge. These high priests devised the written word, and nothing invented since has had a greater effect on mankind's progression.

Yet little is known of these people themselves.

By 2400 BC they had been swallowed up by surrounding, less enlightened tribes, who absorbed the Sumerian culture and spread it to other lands, other nations.

So although their achievements survived, the Sumerians' early history did not. For the kings, the princes, and the high priests destroyed or hid all such records.

Possibly they had good reason.

1 MORNING DUES

The man was smiling. Halloran was smiling and he shouldn't have been.

He should have been scared - bowel-loosening scared. But he didn't appear to be. He seemed . . . he seemed almost amused. Too calm for a sane man. As if the two Armalites and the Webley .38 aimed at his chest were of no concern at all.

Well, that wisp of a smile on his unshaven face would spirit itself away soon enough. This 'eejit's' reckoning was coming, sure, and it was a terrible unholy one.

McGuillig waved his revolver towards the van parked in the shadows of trees just off the roadside.

'Your man's in there.'

The harshness of his tone made it clear he held scant patience with Halloran's manner.

'And your money's here,' Halloran replied, nudging the bulky leather case on the ground with his foot.

McGuillig watched him coolly. When he'd spoken on the phone to the operative, he'd detected a trace of Irish in Halloran's voice, the merest, occasional lilt. But no, he was pure Brit now, no doubt at all.

'Then we'll get to it,' McGuillig said.

As he spoke, rays from the early morning sun broke through, shifting some of the greyness from the hillsides. The trees nearby dripped dampness, and the long grass stooped with fresh-fallen rain. But the air was already sharp and clear, unlike, as McGuiliig would have it, the unclean air of the North. Free air. Uncontaminated by Brits and Prods. A mile away, across the border, the land was cancered. The Irishman regarded the weapon he held as the surgeon's scalpel.

Just as McGuillig, brigade commander of D Company, Second Battalion of the Provisional IRA, watched him, so Halloran returned his gaze, neither man moving.

Then Halloran said: 'Let's see our client first.'

A pause before McGuillig nodded to one of his companions, a youth who had killed twice in the name of Free Ireland and who was not yet nineteen. He balanced the butt of the Armalite against his hip, barrel threatening the very sky, and strolled to the van. He had to press hard on the handle before the backdoor would open.

'Give him a hand,' McGuillig said to the other provo on his left. 'Don't worry about these two: they'll not be moving.' He thumbed back the Webley's hammer, its click a warning in the still air.

All the same, this second companion, older and more easily frightened than his leader, kept his rifle pointed at the two Englishmen as he walked over to the van.

'We had to dose up your man,' McGuillig told Halloran. 'To keep him quietened, y'understand. He'll be right as rain by tomorrow.'

Halloran said nothing.

The backdoor was open fully now and a slumped figure could be seen inside. The older provo reluctantly hung his rifle over one shoulder and reached inside the van along with the youth. They drew the figure towards themselves, lifting it out.

'Bring him over, lads, lay him on the ground behind me,' their commander ordered. To Halloran: 'I'm thinking I'd like to see that money.'

Halloran nodded. 'I'd like my client examined.'

McGuillig's tone was accommodating. 'That's reasonable. Come ahead.'

With a casual flick of his hand, Halloran beckoned the heavyset man who was leaning against their rented car twenty yards away. The man unfolded his arms and approached. Not once did Halloran take his eyes off the IRA leader.

The heavy-set man strode past Halloran, then McGuillig. He knelt beside the prone figure, the Irish youth crouching with him.

He gave no indication, made no gesture.

'The money,' McGuillig reminded.

Halloran slowly sank down, both hands reaching for the leather case in front of him. He sprung the two clasps.

His man looked back at him. No indication, no signal.

Halloran smiled and McGuillig suddenly realised that it was he, himself, who was in mortal danger. When Halloran quietly said - when he breathed - 'Jesus, Mary' he heard that lilt once more.

Halloran's hands were inside the case.

When they re-appeared an instant later, they were holding a snub-nosed sub-machine gun.

McGuillig hadn't even begun to squeeze the .38's trigger before the first bullet from the Heckler and Koch had imploded most of his nose and lodged in the back of his skull. And the other provo hadn't even started to rise before blood was blocking his throat and gushing through the hole torn by the second bullet. And the Irish youth was still crouching with no further thoughts as the third bullet sped through his head to burst from his right temple.

Halloran switched the sub-machine gun to automatic as he rose, sure there were no others lurking among the trees, but ever careful, chancing nothing.

He allowed five seconds to pass before relaxing. His companion, who had thrown himself to the ground the moment he saw Halloran smile, waited just a little longer. McGuillig thought.

2 Achilles' Shield

The sign for Achilles' Shield was as discreet as its business: a brass plaque against rough brick mounted inside a doorway, the shiny plate no more than eight by four inches, a small right-angled triangle at one end as the company logo. That logo represented the shield that the Greek hero Achilles, if he'd been wiser, would have worn over his heel, his body's only vulnerable part, when riding into battle. The name, with its simple symbol, was the only fanciful thing about the organisation.

Situated east of St Katharine's Dock, with its opulent yacht basin and hotel, the offices of Achilles' Shield were in one of the many abandoned wharfside warehouses that had been gutted and refurbished in a development which had brought trendy shops, offices and 'old style' pubs to lie incongruously beneath the gothic shadow of Tower Bridge. The company plaque was difficult to locate. To spot it, you had to know where it was. To know, you had to be invited.

The two men sitting in the third floor office - a large, capacious room, because space wasn't at a premium in these converted warehouses - had been invited. One of them had been invited many times over the past six years.

He was Alexander Buchanan, a suitably sturdy name for an underwriter whose firm, Acorn Buchanan Limited, had a 'box' on the floor of Lloyd's of London and company offices near Fenchurch Street. Acorn Buchanan's speciality was K & R insurance. Kidnap and Ransom.

The person with him was his client, Henry Quinn-Reece, chief executive and deputy chairman of the Magma Corporation PLC. He looked ill at ease, even though the leather sofa on which he sat was designed for maximum comfort. Perhaps he did not enjoy the scrutiny he was under.

The scrutineers were three, and they were directors of Achilles' Shield. None of these men did or said anything to relax their prospective client. In fact, that was the last thing they wanted: they liked their interviewees to be on edge, and sharper because of it.

The one behind the large leather-topped desk, who was in charge of the meeting, was Gerald Snaith, Shield's managing director, officially titled Controller. He was forty-nine years old, a former major in the SAS, and had trained soldiers, British and foreign, all over the world. His main service action had been in Oman, his exploits largely unknown to the public because, after all, that particular conflict-or more accurately, the British Army's participation in it - had never been recognised officially. A short man, and stocky, his hair a slow-greying ginger, Snaith looked every inch a fighting man which, in truth, he still was.

In a straight-backed chair to the side of the Controller's desk sat Charles Mather MBE, a keen-eyed man of sixty-two years (those keen eyes often held a glint of inner amusement as though Mather found it impossible to treat life too seriously all the time, despite the grim nature of the business he was in). Introduced to clients as Shield's Planner, or sometimes Proposer, staff within the organisation preferred to call him 'The Hatcher'. He was tall, thin, and ramrod, but forced to use a cane for walking because of a severe leg wound received in Aden during the latter stages of that 'low intensity' campaign. A jeep in which he was travelling had been blown off the road by a land mine. Only his fortitude and an already exemplary military career had allowed him to return to his beloved army, sporting concealed sears and a rather heroic limp; unfortunately a sniper's bullet had torn tendons in that same leg many years later when he had been GOC and Director of Operations in Ulster, hence the stick and early retirement from the British Army.

The only non-English name among a very English assemblage was that of Dieter Stuhr, a German-born and at one time member of the Bundeskriminalamt, an organisation within the German police force responsible to the Federal Government for the monitoring of terrorists and anarchist groups. Stuhr sat alongside Snaith at the desk. Younger than his two colleagues and four years divorced, his body was not in the same lean condition: a developing paunch was beginning to put lower shirt buttons under strain, and his hairline had receded well beyond the point of no return. He was an earnest, over-anxious man, but supreme at organising movement, finances, time-tables and weaponry for any given operation, no matter what the difficulties, be they dealing with the authorities in other countries (particularly certain police chiefs and high-ranking officials who were not above collusion with kidnappers-and terrorists) or arranging 'minimum risk' life-styles for fee-paying 'targets'. Within the company he was known very properly as the Organiser.

He bore an impressive scar on his face which might well have been a sword-scythed wound, perhaps the symbol of machoism so proudly worn by duelling Heidelberg students before and during Herr Hitler's rapid rise to infamy; but Stuhr was not of that era and the mutilation was nothing so foolishly valiant. It was no more than a deep, curving cut received while falling off his bicycle after free-wheeling down a too-steep hill outside his home town of Schleiz. A truck driver ahead of him had been naturally cautious about crossing the junction at the bottom of the hill and Stuhr, an eleven-year old schoolboy at the time, had neglected to pull on his brakes until it was too late. The bicycle had gone beneath the truck, while the boy had taken a different route around the tailboard's corner catching his face as he scraped by.

The scar stretched down from his left temple, and curved into his mouth, a hockey-stick motif that made his smile rise up the side of his head. He tried not to smile too much.

Gerald Snaith was speaking: 'You understand that we'd need a complete dossier on your man's background and current lifestyle?'

Quinn-Reece nodded. 'We'll supply what we can.'

'And we'd have to know exactly how valuable he is to your corporation.'

'He's indispensable,' the deputy chairman replied instantly.

'Now that is unusual.' Charles Mother scratched the inside of one ankle with his walking stick. 'Invaluable, I can appreciate. But indispensable? I didn't realise such an animal existed in today's world of commerce.'

Alexander Buchanan, sitting by his client on the leather sofa, said, 'The size of the insurance cover will indicate to you just how indispensable our "target" is.'

'Would you care to reveal precisely what the figure is at this stage of the proceedings?'

The question was put mildly enough, but the underwriter had no doubts that a proper answer was required. He looked directly at Quinn-Reece, who bowed assent.

'Our man is insured for ’50 million.' said Buchanan.

Dieter Stuhr dropped his pen on the floor. Although equally surprised. Snaith and Mother did not so much as glance at each other.

After a short pause, Buchanan added unnecessarily, 'A sizeable amount. I'm sure you'll agree.'

'I dread to think of the premium involved,' Mather remarked.

'Naturally it's proportionate to the sum insured,' said the underwriter. 'And I'm afraid the discount on the premium to Magma, even if you accept the assignment, will be accordingly low. Ten per cent instead of the normal twenty.'

'I imagine, then,' said Mother to Quinn-Reece, 'that we are discussing the safety of your chairman.'

'As a matter of fact, no,' came the reply. 'The person to be insured doesn't actually have a title within the company.'

'We can reasonably assume that he doesn't serve the tea, though,' Mother said dryly. 'I'm sure Mr Buchanan has already informed you that a "target's" name never appears on any document or insurance slip concerning such a policy, even though documents will be lodged in various vaults - we demand total secrecy for security reasons, you see - but can you at least tell us your man's role within the Corporation? We'll come to his name later, if and when there is an agreement between us.'

Quinn-Reece shifted in his seat, as if even more uncomfortable. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you that either, not at this stage. Once a contract is agreed, then Magma will give you all the necessary information - on a "need to know" basis, of course.'