Marlen: Book 1

Chapter 84

Tyreen Mackenzie felt warm breath near to her ear, then the whisper: "Sorry about this, boss lady, but it's the only way. I can save you a lot of distress."

There was no need for any further explanation. Her intuition had been right. The cold muzzle of her own automatic pistol was pressed hard against her temple. For a second she thought Goldman was going to finish it all there and then.

Goldman reached over and snapped on the light, still holding Tyreen down on the bed. "Good morning, boss lady," he said. "We're going for a little journey, but you won't need much in the way of clothes. Also I have to tell you a story. For the good of your soul."

Under the wicked eye of the Walther PPK Special, Tyreen dressed, angry that she could not even shower. Goldman --- clad in night gear: black jeans, rollneck, hood, sneakers --- said time was short. "I've got to get you out of here before any of your own blokes latch on. Anyway, you're as slippery as an eel, Commander Mackenzie --- if you'll forgive the simile. I don't intend to offer you any chances. Lord knows what you'd do if I let you take a shower. I know a lot about this place, but maybe not everything. It could be booby-trapped. I'm sure you appreciate that I can't take the risk. More'n my job's worth, so to speak."

As she put on the clothes, neatly folded, or hung in the fitted closet before she had gone to bed, Tyreen's mind began to search for a way out. All over the house there were alarm buttons which, if touched, would alert the Regent's Park Duty Officer. Even if she got to one of those, she knew there would be an unavoidable time lag before anyone arrived. At HQ, the signal would come up on a VDU, flashing the words Scarborough Fair. The DO would then have to contact one of the very few people who knew the location of this most highly classified safe house.

Goldman was handling the situation with the natural caution of a very well trained man. At the order for Tyreen to get dressed, he leaped back, putting distance between them. Never stand close to a person you control with a gun, they taught. Rightly so, for there are a dozen ways to disarm someone with a handgun should he be foolish enough to stay close to you --- even without the added benefit of Tyreen's Arion strength and quickness. Nor did Goldman allow Tyreen's nakedness to distract him.

"Fingers laced and hands on the head." Goldman did not miss a trick. "Now, press down, elbows tucked in. You know the drill, boss lady. You go downstairs, real quietly. If you fall, or pretend to fall, you're dead and I'm not kidding. I wouldn't like it, either, because you're the best bit of collateral that's come way in a long time. Okay, let's go."

There were no alternatives. She could hear the genuine menace in Goldman's words. She had no doubt that a slip --- accidental or calculated --- would mean a shroud and, if she was lucky, a few lines in the obit columns of The Times.

She went along the passage and down the narrow stairs as though walking on eggs. At the foot of the staircase, he spoke again. "Stand still, boss lady. Good. Now, when I say 'go,' you walk very slowly into that nice sitting room." He was making certain his quarry could not stray from his line of vision. A couple of seconds later she heard him say, "Go."

"Keep the hands on your head, fingers laced... Now walk slowly to the chair by the bookcase... Good... Now, turn around and sit down. And please don't do anything stupid. It wouldn't help anyhow, because all the alarms are deactivated."

They now sat at opposite ends of the room. Tyreen still with hands on head and fingers laced; Goldman with the pistol very steady, finger tight on the trigger.

"How did you get in, Goldy, let alone dismantle the alarm system?"

"Questions, questions. No, boss lady, you don't get me to boast to you. How would you have done it?"

"I still don't know how you found me, and how you got in is a miracle. This house is kept as close as skin to flesh." As the events of the previous evening had shown, not even her mother knew where it was.

"All in good time. First, I've a story to tell. I read a book once, where someone in the intelligence game said just that, and when he'd finished the telling of it, the lives of those who listened changed dramatically. I think you'll find the same'll happen with this story."

"Tell me, then?"

"We've both seen a lot of life and a lot of death, right?"

She nodded.

"Violent, horrible deaths," he continued. "This is a bloody time for the world. Like the Bible says, there's a time for living and a time for dying. We live in an age when it's a time for dying --- suddenly, most often by war, or the hands of terrorists striking in the streets. It's like people such as us were born to die that way."

She nodded agreement.

"I find it obscene. Horrible. Just like you, right?"

Once more she nodded.

"Okay. There's a song my mum used to sing. She died when I was twelve, and the Old Man never got over it. Cashed in his own ticket on the train of life a couple of years later. Taught it by my grandma she was --- the song, I mean. Later I got to know it was a poem really --- Down by the Salley Gardens. Part of it suits me and my story. It goes:

He hesitated, as though Yeats' poem genuinely moved him. "Sentimental, is it, boss lady? Maybe. But I was young and foolish, and there was a girl. All my life I've had discipline, boss lady. Became a boy soldier at fifteen and spent my leaves with my grandparents, though the Army was father, mother, brothers, and sisters to me. But there was this girl. Nearly twenty years ago. We was going to get married. But I got posted abroad --- one of those sudden things, you know. Telegram recalling you off leave. Radio silence, so to speak. We was still giving away bits of the Empire in those days, and there was a lot of policing to do, if you know what I mean." He gave a wry smile and winked at her. "Any old how, I didn't hear from my girl. Wrote to her parents. Nothing, not till I got home and found she'd had my baby, and died of it. Maudlin stuff, eh, Ms. Mackenzie? Kind of woman's love story stuff. But I can tell you that hurt more'n any bullet."

"I know." She meant it. She knew as well as anyone.

"One thing I swore. I'd always look after the child. And I did. She was mine. I never married, but she was looked after. I paid and spent all my leave with her --- she lived with her grandparents, my poor dead girl's mum and dad. Then I did the selection course and got into the SAS. After that, every time I risked my life it was for her. For Rachel. Took my name and all. Rachel Goldman. Good Jewish girl, boss lady, and so she was until just over a year ago. I got home on leave and she was gone. Her grandparents were in pieces over it --- but what mattered to them was that Rachel had turned her back on her faith and found a new one. It was even worse than if she'd become a goy --- a Christian, a shiksa."

She nodded again.

"Anyhow, I found out where she'd got to, and went down to see her, in that damned great mausoleum, Manderson Hall. Tried to reason with her, naturally, like any father would. But all she could talk about was her new religion --- that Valentine, or Scorpio, or whatever you want to call him, really does hold them. Gives them a kind of madness, a fervor. 'Got a lot of your faith in it, Dad,' she said. 'We say Kaddish for the dead even.' Hu! As if Kaddish was all that mattered. I tell you, Ms. Mackenzie, I know a fair bit about comparative religions. Read a lot. She thought it was good because in this airy-fairy mishmash of religions they still said Kaddish." He was silent for a moment, eyes ablaze. Tyreen could not have moved against him even if it was possible.

"She thought that was enough. She was a Meek One. You think they said Kaddish for those poor buggers in Glastonbury? Or the ones in Chichester? Or the thing that'll happen, God knows where, today? Will they hell!"

"You know where it's going to be today, Goldy?"

Goldman laughed. "You always had me for one of them, didn't you? I could sense it, from the moment we got involved in the car business --- coming down from Hereford --- you had me marked. Well, you were right, I suppose. In one way you were right. But, more important, you were wrong. So wrong that I held back from saying anything."

"That's why you come to me in the night, with my own gun?"

"The only way you'll listen, boss lady. The only way any of your people'll listen. Yes, I became involved with the Meek Ones and that murdering Father Valentine who acts as their son of god made man --- that's what he is to them, you know. He's the Messiah to the Meek Ones. What he says goes. Go forth and kill thyselves in a crowd near this politician, or that VIP. They go. Don't look back or you'll be turned into a pillar of salt. And my little Rachel, not quite twenty yet, is the light of this bastard's life. Because she's had a baby --- oh, married of course. Their ceremony followed by a trip down to the Register Office to make it fully legal. So she's all set to go to the Meek Ones' paradise in a hundred fragments. And, for all my cleverness, there's really nothing I can do. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, eh boss lady?"

"That's what they say."

"When I went down to see her the first time, I got introduced to their god, to our Father, Valentine. He saw me as a likely lad and I played along. Went down to Pangbourne a couple of times. Then went to the wedding. I couldn't stop it, even though the bloke's a dyed-in-the-wool Marxist at heart. He believes all the Meek Ones stuff because, subconsciously, he sees it as part of the great revolution. That was eleven months ago now, and she's had the baby --- I'm a grandfather at thirty-seven, boss lady. Little boy. Jacob. At least she had the decency to give him a good name. And it was after the wedding that Valentine put the bite on me. 'I don't want you to live with us, Joshua,' he said. 'I know you draw strength from your daughter being one of us, and I see you also believe.' I'd played the cards right, you see. I'd let them all think I was sold. 'I need you in the world,' Valentine tells me. 'I need you to watch, listen, and report for me. You shall be like the spies the blessed Moses sent to spy out the land of Canaan.' Very good he is. Quotes the Bible, the Koran, and a hundred books that might not exist for all I know."

"Yes?" Tyreen's arms were tiring, but she did not dare move. She found Goldman's narrative more interesting than she had expected. There were chinks here that she could exploit, lever open, and use to advantage.

Goldman still talked. "Valentine --- Scorpio if you like --- told me that when the moment came he would have specific things for me to do. He'd want information. Then, a month or so ago, he gave me a list of people. Just names. Never heard of any of them. I was to let him know if one of the names became a face at Bradbury Lines. Yours did. So I informed on you and nearly got us both killed. Any old how, he was well pleased, and I strung along as best I could. Stupidly I wanted to trap him. I kept him well informed. Right up to the Glastonbury business, and after. It was only then that I saw what he was really at, and it worried me sick, boss lady, because the last time I was with him --- just after little Jacob was born --- he told me that a great opportunity had come up. When it was over, Britain would be a place fit for heroes. The world would follow in the wake of what was to happen. He also told me that my little Rachel had probably the most important part to play in this great thing --- this dawning of a new age. He said I should be proud of what she would do."

Tyreen believed every word. Nobody could tell this story without it being true. "What happened at the clinic, Goldy?"

"Yesterday? What didn't bloody happen? That Yankee kid --- Harper --- stumbled on the three guys in Trilby's room. There was a lot of noise coming from in there --- not surprising, they were about to kill her. Harper opened the door, and they stood like statues. I knew them all. The whole trio, they're part of Valentine's personal bodyguard, personal hoodlums if you ask me. Anyhow, they recognized me and one of them shouted, 'What's going on?' I pretended they'd been rumbled and they started to get out.

"So what happened then? And why are you really here, Goldy?"

"I had this emergency number, from Valentine. To use if there was trouble. I legged it out of the clinic, then hid up and telephoned the number. I was told where you were --- this was ten o'clock last night. They knew exactly where you were. Just like they knew about the alarm system. They said it would be easy, because you would not be watched. The place was so secure, your Service didn't need to watch you. They've got it all sewn up. But you figured that, didn't you? They have someone right there, in the heart of your Service, who might have been working for them a long time. Whoever it is, he's trusted, and he --- or she --- gives them each move."

"Yes, I thought that. And it's worrying, because it has to be someone I've cared for over a long time. But, Goldy, what are you going to do?"

"My orders are to bring you in. Take you to our Father, Valentine."

"So you're going to do it? I'm to be your hostage for your daughter, Rachel."

"No. No, I don't see it like that. I thought that, maybe, the two of us stand more chance of really getting this madman. I want a partnership, boss lady. Let them think I've brought you along. Mind you, I suspect the great Father Valentine has some plans for you. You and the Yank Harper. They still have him."

"Maybe it's human sacrifice time."

"Nothing would surprise me. Will you come --- I mean quietly --- as my partner, not as a hostage?" He paused, letting the pistol drop into his lap. "If I can't get my daughter out of it and make her sane again, I might as well not be around. It's really up to you, boss lady. I leave it all up to you. See?" He took hold of the Walther by the barrel and offered it, across the room.

Tyreen let her hands drop from her head, reached forward, and took the pistol by the butt. "So where do we have to go, Goldy? Where's he hiding?" She checked the gun and noted the safety was off. Goldman had meant it. He would have killed her if necessary, though he had come for another purpose, to plead for her help --- not to save her country, but his daughter.

"A long way from here. He's set all the fuses. Organized his bit of terror, guaranteed to leave England in tatters, with no General Election and no government. It's set, like the fuse on a time bomb --- several time bombs. He's not going to be around while it happens. He's long gone, together with those of the faithful that are left. Those who aren't earmarked to die as yet, for his paradise and his bank accounts."

"Where?" As she asked, the telephone started to ring. "I thought you fixed the electrics?" She looked from the phone to Goldman.

"Everything but the telephone. If you don't answer, your people will be here like ferrets down a rabbit hole. Answer it."

C was at the other end. "The clinic again," he said almost cryptically.

"What about it?"

"Nobody dead as far as we know. But they lifted Trilby and their man got away."

"El Kadar? Also known in death as Joseph?"

"The same. No trace of Scorpio, though."

"I might have."

"Oh?"

In the background Goldman whispered that they should get going.

"Don't worry if you find me missing."

"We need you here." C had caught the clue. Now he gave Tyreen a chance to offer information.

"A possibility's come up. It's okay. Something that can help in a really big way. Ultrasensitive."

"Got you." He had caught the "ultra," which was a plea for a team to watch wherever she went. "Far?" he asked.

"Wait and see. I'll get back to you." In plain language, "Probably. Make sure the team's prepared."

"Right."

"I'll be in touch," she said, hanging up, reasonably secure in the fact that even a small team would be on their tail if she could stall Goldman for a short time.

She looked back at Goldman. "Come and help me pack --- only the bare necessities."

"It really will have to be bare. I was supposed to pick you up and have you running in what you stand up in."

"Where is Valentine?" she asked as they moved up the stairs.

"With around sixty of his flock."

"Where, Goldy? Or I don't leave here --- with you or without you."

"Okay. We take a Piedmont Airlines flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. Then we go down to a real millionaire's paradise off the coast of South Carolina. It's a perfect hideaway in spite of the well-heeled tourists. Place called Hilton Head Island --- hotels, private homes, great beaches, seabirds, golf courses by the dozen, rattlesnakes, alligators, and water moccasins. A good mixture."

"Just the place for friend Valentine/Scorpio. He should be at home with the water moccasins. They're almost as deadly as he is." The water moccasin, she knew, is a highly belligerent snake with a deadly bite. It is also one of the few snakes that will readily eat carrion.

"Perhaps he thinks you'll make a nice meal for them."

They quickly made the decision that Tyreen was to act the rôle of Goldman's prisoner in order to carry out what the SAS man called "A Wooden Horse Op on Scorpio." Yet there was still a great deal of talking to do. She was not prepared to go blind into the devil's mouth. So there followed a long question-and-answer session, during which he passed on a great deal of information regarding the Meek Ones in general, and his daughter Rachel in particular. He even showed her a passport-type photograph of the girl, red-headed, freckled, and laughing into the camera. "She was always laughing," he said with a hint of self-pity. "Rachel's much more serious now."

They made coffee and toast, sitting in the main room of the narrow little house talking, with Tyreen discussing strategy. Outside, the dawn came up, not with the bang of thunder, but with a whimper of cloud and a chilly breeze. Night slowly turned to day.

"We'll have to get a shift on." Goldman began to get agitated as the time wore on. They went upstairs and the conversation turned to specifics.

"No way can we go in armed," Goldman said as Tyreen searched the main bedroom cupboards --- finding one of the R&D Section's neat overnight-briefcases. There were usually at least two kept in readiness at Scarborough Fair.

"That's the truth." She gave him a blank look. The large black briefcases were really very special. Not only did they have a foolproof method of screening, for the airport security machines, but they also contained an undetectable false section large enough to take several of R&D's more ingenious items, plus a weapon. "Must pack my makeup bag." She headed into the bathroom, leaving him leafing through the latest edition of Intelligence Quarterly.

Once out of sight, she activated the locks to reveal the safe compartment, which had once been checked by no less than a dozen security officers, none of whom detected the foam-rubber-lined secret area. Working quickly, she checked that the weapon was in place --- a neat Browning Compact, developed from the FN High-Power to provide a genuine pocket pistol capable of firing full-power 9mm rounds. The other special equipment was there also.

The house had seen many comings and goings, and its walls held the secrets of years. Men and women had been lodged here for varying periods of time, and the bedroom wardrobes were divided up for them --- skirts and dresses in various sizes; suits and jeans, straight from the peg in large, medium, and small. She rummaged through the various drawers, providing herself with a couple of changes of underwear, socks, shirts, other accessories, and, with certain reservations, pajamas.

With some flamboyance, she locked the Walther PPK and her baton, together with spare ammunition, in a steel-lined box safe hidden, and bolted to the floor, at the rear of the fitted wardrobe.

"Best that way, boss lady." Goldman looked up from his reading. "Don't want to be nobbled by our own security people on the way out."

Tyreen agreed with him, safe in the knowledge that she at least had some hardware at her disposal. In the bathroom she had also taken an extra precaution. Among the items left in the case by R&D were several innocent-looking pens. She had taken one of them, which she immediately activated as a homing device. Its range was only twelve miles and she could turn it off when going through airport security, but it might give her an edge during the operation. With regret, knowing where she was going, she left her cigarettes behind.

They left the house together --- Goldman with a blue roll bag, Tyreen with R&D's specialty overnight-briefcase.

Upstairs, Tyreen had partially drawn one curtain in the main bedroom, leaving what she thought was a rather ugly china vase on the ledge. Later that morning it would be seen by someone who would eventually get word to Mrs. Fairfax, and she would know it was safe to go back in and file her own report by telephone.

In Kensington High Street, Tyreen searched for a taxi while Goldman used a public telephone booth --- one out of the available three that had happily remained unvandalized.

"We're all set," he said once they were settled in the back of the cab. "Heathrow," he said to the cabbie.

At Heathrow Airport, Goldman led them to the helicopter shuttle desk --- Heathrow-Gatwick. "We go on the noon flight to Charlotte, North Carolina." he smiled, a shade too self-satisfied for Tyreen Mackenzie. He had already produced their flight tickets for Piedmont Airlines PI161. "We have seats on the shuttle and we can check in here. Should make it on time." It was almost eleven o'clock. If he was anxious to dodge surveillance, he was going the right way about it, though she knew the team would quickly make their inquiries. Time would be tight, but a second unit might just catch them. After that, she would be off limits and only sanctioned Secret Intelligence Service personnel, combined with the CIA, would be able to take over.

They made Gatwick with time to spare, and, as they boarded PI161, Tyreen was not a little alarmed to see none other than Donald Wollenstein himself --- the Agency's London resident --- with another watcher, behind them in the line for boarding. If the Meek Ones knew what she thought they did, Wollenstein was completely unprotected. Unless --- the thought struck home like a poisoned dart --- Wollenstein was the Meek Ones' penetration agent, passing on everyone's moves to Scorpio or his lieutenants.

The more she thought about it, the less she liked the fact of Wollenstein on her back. The Agency's top man in Britain would have access to most moves --- from his own people, The Branch, MI5, and her own Service. She had not thought of the possibility before. Now that particular profile made a great deal of sense.

In the first-class cabin, after takeoff, she leaned over and warned Goldman, "We might just have a porpoise treading on our tails."

"Then we move bloody fast at Charlotte. There'll be no hanging around in any case. Give me his number when you can."

"I'm glad to say that he seems to be traveling steerage, but we'll see."

He gave a quick smile. "There are things you have to know. First, we can relax until we get to Charlotte." He went on to explain the rest of it. At Charlotte they would take the connecting flight to Hilton Head, and that was where the fun would begin. "Scorpio'll have someone watching every arrival through today. He'll mark us and call ahead to the island. Your freedom will end there. They'll meet us with a limo. I haven't been there, of course, but I gather he has quite a spread on the northwest side of the island. Used to be a plantation, and it's screened by trees on three sides, the Atlantic Ocean on the fourth. The whole island has security checkpoints, and the residents with spreads like Three Pines Plantation --- that's his --- have their own security: electronic and live. The checkpoints are manned twenty-four hours because of the many tourists who go down there. I'm told it's breathtaking, fabulous weather, hell's own expensive. But plenty of people live on the island, as well as those who go vacationing, for the golf tournaments, and conventions. Island paradise, they all say."

The limousine would take them directly to Three Pines, and their story would be that Tyreen had come along quietly once Goldman had told them they held Henry Harper captive.

"I suppose he is there?"

"It's what I've been told. My instructions were to tell you it was not just for your own good, but for his as well. No harm will come to him. They said you wouldn't resist it." He gave her a sidelong glance. "Would you have?"

"Depends." Had she detected a touch of jealousy in the SAS man's look? "I'm doing it for your daughter, Goldy. I'm also coming along because it seems to be the only way of getting close to the devil, and I always reckon if you can get close to the devil you stand a chance of beating him --- which is my job. I'm still interested to know why they chose me in particular."

"It's been you all along. Ever since you were flushed out of Hereford, anyway." He frowned as though trying to work out by pure logic why it should be her. A little later, after they had eaten, he said it was all too possible that she would be held prisoner. "You're not to worry, though. Once I've found out where Rachel is, I'll find a way of springing you --- and the Harper kid as well."

"I would appreciate that, Goldy. Don't fancy being incarcerated by Scorpio for any length of time. One could have a nasty accident as Scorpio's houseguest." Then, as though to herself, "I wonder if they've taken the Shepperton girl there as well."

"Shouldn't be surprised." Goldman settled back to watch the in-flight movie. Though she had already seen it, Tyreen sat through it again. The Untouchables. A favorite Scots actor of hers played a Chicago cop.

They landed at Charlotte a little after four-fifteen, local time. Goldman stayed very close to Tyreen, usually behind her, his left shoulder close to the right-hand side of her back. They only had time to check in for the flight to Hilton Head, and a short wait in the departure lounge, before they were taken out to the comfortable, and quiet Dash 7 STOL aircraft, which seemed to get them airborne almost before it started its takeoff run. Of Wollenstein there was no sign.

Hilton Head Island is the southernmost point of South Carolina, and the largest of the Sea Islands, which stretch along 250 miles of coastline from the Carolinas to Florida. Shaped like a sneaker, you can reach it by land, sea, and air. By land across the Byrnes Bridge, on Route 278, and by air from Savannah --- only forty miles west --- Atlanta, Georgia, or Charlotte, North Carolina.

The view from the aircraft reminded Tyreen of happy days in the Caribbean. Lush grassland, tropical trees, and beaches that dazzled, like long stretches of gold; sprawling luxury hotels, and private houses set in wonderful locations. On the way in they passed over three golf courses. The island has a total of fourteen.

In a cloudless sky the sun was slowly turning into a ball that would settle into dusk within the hour. Below, the airfield looked ordered and tidy with its neat rows of light private aircraft tethered and chocked, tucked away for the night.

Passengers waiting to board for the trip back to the mainland sat in garden chairs outside the little hut that served as the airport arrivals and departures lounge, and, as they descended the short steps from the aircraft, Tyreen easily picked out the reception committee. A uniformed driver stood by a stretch limo that looked as though it could easily house a football team. Nearer the aircraft were three young men in gray lightweight suits, white shirts, and identical ties. As they drew closer, she saw that the ties were of navy-blue silk, each bearing an identical logo pattern --- the two intertwined Greek letters Alpha and Omega --- that she had first seen on the Avante Carte credit cards.

"Hi, Joshua," one of the young men greeted Goldman. He was what Tyreen had heard a certain class of young, and not-so-young, American ladies refer to as a "hunk" --- good looks, good height, muscular, light of hair, and with teeth which seemed to have been polished especially for flashing semaphore or bending iron bars. The other two men were cast from similar molds.

"Bob," Goldman responded with a curt nod.

"Greetings from the beginning to the end," all three men chorused, and Goldman responded with the same words. This was obviously a standard salutation of the Meek Ones.

"And this..." --- the one called Bob looked hard at Tyreen --- "this must be the famous Ms. Mackenzie. I'm positive our leader, our Father, Valentine, will be delighted to see you." He turned back to Goldman. "She give you any bother?"

"Came like a lamb. Did just as our father, Valentine, prophesied."

"Well, he'll be waiting."

The three men closed around them and Tyreen felt the overnight-briefcase taken skillfully from her hand. Whichever one of them had done it knew a lot about the persuasive arts, for, though it caused no pain, she felt him use a particular control pressure on the back of her hand.

They were quickly inside the car. The engine purred into life, and very gently the limo glided forward.

Tyreen remained silent. Around her, outside the car, you could sense the exclusiveness of this place, with its controlled and ordered wide roads, the wonderful stretches of green that showed between palm, pine, and a host of other trees, Spanish moss dripping down toward the sides of the road at one moment, then a small mall of shops giving way to side roads with security barriers. Hotels peeped out at intervals, there were golfers, completing a day of play on some of the distant greens, and the feel of the island was one of rich reward. A place for the lotus eaters and the money-makers. As they progressed toward Three Pines, she realized there was another facet. The island was unreal. Once there, the resident or vacationer might lose all track of time, and all sense of the real world. An ideal place for Father Valentine to further corrupt his Meek Ones.

They turned left, went through something that resembled a very large storm drain, and came out of the other side, hemmed in by grassy, manicured banks that gave way to trees. For a second, though there was absolutely no similarity, it reminded Tyreen of those belts of nurtured forest which flank the roadside after you pass through the Helmstedt checkpoint to drive on the autobahn through East Germany to the divided, landlocked island that is Berlin. Within those belts of trees soldiers lurked, camouflaged, in hideouts or watchtowers. She felt now that there was a different breed of soldier within these thick strips of trees that obviously ringed Three Pines.

They broke from the trees, to drive through perfect lawns toward a massive, two-story structure that looked more like a hotel than a house. It appeared to be circular, built of stone, intermingled with great wooden beams, and topped by an octagonal tower. The whole place was bathed in light, for the day was on the edge of death and night was beginning to close in.

The limo pulled in front of a great porchway surrounding a pair of high, weathered doors, and the three-man reception party was out of the car and in position, covering it from every possible angle, almost before it stopped.

"Do the honors please, Joshua," Bob said.

Goldman quickly frisked Tyreen. He was professional about it, doing a thorough job without letting his hands linger. "She's clean."

Bob nodded. "I'm sorry about that, Ms. Mackenzie. We couldn't really do it in public at the airport, and you were safe enough in the car. Now we can go in."

The door opened onto a semicircular hall, high-roofed but with no sign of a staircase. A series of doors led from the hall, and two large chandeliers hung, one higher than the other, from wooden vaulted ceiling. To left and right of the chandeliers, big fans turned lazily to stir cool air. There were no pictures, just plain wood, with varnished and highly polished blocks underfoot.

Goldman closed in to his now familiar position, just behind Tyreen's shoulder. For a second they all just stood, as though waiting for some event. Static seemed to crackle between the trio of bodyguards.

Then, to their left, one of the doors opened and a small, slim, bronzed figure walked with two long strides that appeared to bring him into their midst. From the photographs, Tyreen had thought he was a tall man, but he barely touched five-six, forcing him to look up slightly at her. That did not give her any sort of advantage, however.

The eyes and the voice had a power of their own. The voice was pitched low, gentle, almost a whisper. "Ms. Mackenzie, how nice of you to make such a long trip." He flicked a look at Goldman. "Well done, Joshua. I was sure you wouldn't let me down." Then to Tyreen again, "Welcome to Three Pines, Ms. Mackenzie. The faithful call me their Father, Valentine. Welcome, and greetings from the beginning to the end."

As he said the last words, a terrible noise filled the hallway, coming from somewhere deep within this strange building --- the sound of a human being in great pain. Tyreen shuddered as the scream seemed to rise and fall in appalling intensity.

Valentine cocked his head. "Ah," he said, his voice still soft, almost caressing. "Ah, a little night music to welcome you."

Tyreen took one pace forward. The screaming had reached a new pitch, echoing sheer, brutal terror. She tried to take another step and, while nobody attempted to restrain her, she stopped, unable to move, as though paralyzed, rooted in place.

Turning, she saw Valentine, now leaning against the door, a slight smile on his lips. For a second, as she looked at his slim face, radiating good health, she saw it, again, overlapped by the photograph of Vladimir Scorpio, just as she had seen it in the dossier.

She looked at the ears --- Scorpio's ears; then the hair, thinning, yet immaculate --- Scorpio's hair; the jawline, once pudgy, now tight skin stretched over minimal flesh --- Scorpio's jawline; the cheekbones --- Scorpio's cheekbones; and last of all the eyes, black as night, old Robert Shepperton had said. Scorpio's eyes, black as night and holding Tyreen immobile.

The eyes glittered, as though fires lay deep within them, behind the irises a worm seemed to move in the fires. The pupils began to enlarge, as though swallowing her. She dragged her own eyes away, thrusting into her head a different image of Scorpio --- one she pulled from somewhere way down in the darkness of her own subconscious: Scorpio impaled on a dagger, with her own hand, Tyreen Mackenzie's hand, on the haft, which was fashioned like a serpent. She held the dagger, and, in the second before plunging it into his throat, she was able to look again, and step forward, close to the man.

"Ah." The smile remained on his face, but the eyes had lost their brightness, and it seemed that a twinge of fear showed --- there for a tiny moment, then gone. "Come, Ms. Tyreen Mackenzie." The voice remained steady, soft, soothing. "Let's go and see what that noise was really about. I think you might be quite impressed."

Tyreen found her voice. "I doubt it."

"Is that the way you repay my hospitality? Doubts? Ms. Mackenzie, I really think you have much to learn. Come." He lifted one hand, fingers splayed --- the gesture of a medieval prince? Possibly. Then the fingers gave a small beckoning movement. "Come. All of you come to the Prayer Hall."

So, she thought, this is the true evil. Undeniably Scorpio had a power, held by many great public figures, and often unrecognized by them. He had been cursed with a strong will combined with an overdeveloped hypnotic strength. This he wielded almost as a reflex by now. The power by itself would only be limited, but invaluable, say, for addressing those who wished to believe in him. With a man or woman of sufficient intelligence, he would be forced to fall back on other methods --- the use of hypnotic drugs and the like. But his will and mental strength combined to make him a dangerous adversary.

If Scorpio had operated solely on the unsubtle pressures of physical force, or a will to cause panic and fear in those near to him, he would be easy meat. Tyreen now recognized that the task was greater than she had imagined. She had to pit not only muscle, cunning, and skill against the man, but also mental power.

For a second, as they all stood, poised to follow the beckoning man, she saw complete evil, the ultimate enemy; one who could, by word, deed, and warped reason, convince other mortals that obscene and horrific deeds were, in every way, works of goodness, charity, and right. In his world all morality was turned topsy-turvy. Evil became good. Wrong became right. While that which was good and right became evil and wrong.

It was plain enough in the simple action of following the man to what he called the Prayer Hall. Tyreen's intuition told her the Prayer Hall was a place to which no right-minded person should go. Yet, in spite of this, she followed.

Through the door, where Scorpio had first appeared as Father Valentine, was a large room, lined with books. A simple desk stood under a window at the far end, but, in spite of the rows of leather-bound spines in the tall bookcases, the whole chamber had about it the feel of austerity. Again, there were no pictures, and no rugs or carpets on the floor.

"Come,"Scorpio repeated, and they passed through the room via a door set between the bookcases to the right. Down an equally bare corridor to a pair of double doors which made Tyreen think of the interior entrances to stalls or circle in a theater or cinema.

She was not far wrong; the doors led into a vast amphitheater, a great crescent-shaped room where tier upon tier of seats rose up from a dais below. There were no windows, only dim lighting hidden in the ceiling, and, like a theater or cinema the rows of seating were divided by three aisles of steps that ran down to the dais --- a platform on which rested a plain wooden table.

There appeared to be about sixty or seventy men and women in the place. Their attention was riveted upon the dais, lit dramatically by two spotlights that accented the inherent bareness of the place. In front of the table was a large, high-backed wooden chair. The two young men, robed like acolytes --- their scarlet cassocks providing the only color to the scene --- flanked the chair, facing toward its occupant, who, as Scorpio and his party entered the chamber, let out another piercing series of screams.

The screams came from the United States Internal Revenue Service man, Henry Harper.

He was anchored to the chair by restraining straps of leather around his arms, legs, and waist, and, as he screamed, he struggled against the straps like someone undergoing terrible torture, trapped and unable to escape.

It was all Tyreen could do to not go running down to try to free him. She muttered an oath and Scorpio turned on her. "Have care, Ms. Mackenzie. You will see things now that even you might not believe possible. Mr. Harper is only going through what most neophytes face when they come here to join this holy society."

"Unholy society!" she spat back. "He did not come here of his own accord."

"No? And what of you, Tyreen Mackenzie? I suppose you did not make the journey to visit us of your own will?"

She avoided the man's eyes. "I came to see you, talk to you, and stop the terror you're hellbent on inflicting."

"Really? How interesting. We shall see why you've really come to the Meek Ones." He made another gesture, and one of the young men --- who were undoubtedly his bodyguard --- came forward, holding a long white cassock, similar to the soutane worn by the Pope himself. Once he had completed buttoning the garment, Scorpio pulled a wide silk sash into place around his waist, took a white skull-cap from one of the other bodyguards, and began to make his way down the center aisle of steps leading to the platform below.

A low murmur came from the assembly as he made his progress. They all knelt in front of their seats and the murmur assumed the proportions of a chant --- "Our Father, Valentine. Greetings from the beginning to the end. Our Father, Valentine. From the beginning to the end we praise our Father, Valentine, giver of paradise, power of good, creator of the new world without end," and so, and so, and so, until Scorpio reached the dais.

The two acolytes were now kneeling, their faces radiant with some inner ecstasy they appeared to share from the very presence of Scorpio. It sickened Tyreen even to watch this profane and horribly real manifestation of iniquity.

But Harper had ceased to scream, and she saw that Scorpio had placed his hands on Harper's head. He raised his own head and began to speak to the young man --- "You have looked into the dark pit, brother?"

"I have looked into the dark pit." Harper's voice was strong but unnatural. This, Tyreen thought, was no simple manifestation of hypnosis. Certainly Scorpio was responsible, but his own, extraordinary power alone had not rendered Harper into this speaking clock of a puppet he appeared to have become. A kind of revolting litany continued between the two.

"You looked into the dark pit which is the world as we now know it, brother. What did you see?"

"Horrors of corruption. Men, women, and children debased by their own folly and beliefs in material wealth."

"Was it terrifying to see these people destroying themselves, living in a false and disgusting world which they fondly imagine to be paradise?"

"I saw those I knew, laboring under these terrible beliefs. They cannot be forgiven. They frighten and terrify me."

"So much so that you screamed in anguish for them?"

"The screams are my prayers that they will see the truth."

"Will they see the truth and embrace it?"

"Not until a new order is brought by fire and death. Only then will they understand." The voice, thought that of a robot, became agitated, rising unnaturally.

"Peace, brother Henry. Be at peace. You have seen truth. You will see, and understand more. But now, be at peace." Scorpio turned to face the entire assembly. "I have news, my brothers and sisters. Our brother whose death-name is Peter has earned eternal peace and the reward of paradise. He has destroyed two important men who walked in the darkness of their own tainted beliefs. He has brought paradise closer to us. This act was done in England only an hour or so ago. Yet it has brought us many years nearer to our own paradise when all men will walk equal on this earth, when all the earth's bounty will be equally shared, when we shall all find peace of mind and breathe pure air without threat of darkness. Praise be to Peter, our brother and a Meek One who has already found this paradise. Greetings, Peter, from the beginning and the end."

Like a great rising moan the assembly joined in, chanting, Greetings, Peter, from the beginning and the end." And, as a hush fell over he chamber, there was the lone, drugged voice of Harper, rising and falling, out of control, crying out his greetings to this unknown Peter, from the beginning to the end.

Scorpio said something quietly to one of the acolytes and they moved to either side of the chair. Harper appeared to have slumped forward, collapsed against the straps, which the young men in red cassocks unbuckled, helping the young man to his feet and guiding him behind the table.

Scorpio turned to the assembly again, raising his right hand, the index and middle fingers extended in an obscene imitation of the Papal blessing. "I commend you all to whatever pleasures your bodies and souls have need of this night," he intoned. "Soon there will be news of other victories, and the final work will be started. We expect many new believers to come to this place and join our blessed society. There will be more weddings and many births to set free those of you who cannot yet go forth and give yourselves to paradise. Have patience, your hour will come. Go forth in peace."

From hidden loudspeakers came the distant sound of music, throbbing, ethereal, electronic music of the kind these young people would find most appealing, yet there was also a hypnotic quality about it.

As the music rose, a thin mist began to curl from vents in the platform. A dry ice machine, Tyreen thought. Friend Scorpio had some very good FX people working for him. As she thought it, Scorpio appeared to be enveloped by the mist. The illusion was that of a man transported, slowly melting before the eyes of all who watched.

The assembly began to file out. Most were in their early twenties, one or two older --- maybe thirty and more --- but they took little notice of the three bodyguards, Goldman, and Tyreen. She suddenly spotted a recognizable face in the crowd: the face in the photograph she had seen in the early hours of that morning, in England.

The face of Rachel Goldman.

Her eyes stared straight ahead, yet, as she approached the group, her pace slowed as though she had been sleepwalking and was at the moment of waking. Her eyes moved and she looked straight at her father.

She stood stock still, then her freckled face glowed into a delighted smile of recognition. "Daddy!" She ran toward Goldman, throwing her arms around his neck. "Oh, what a lovely surprise. Our Father, Valentine, told me only yesterday that he might have a wonderful gift for me before I went..." She stopped, glancing at the other faces, knowing she was on the verge of saying something forbidden. "Oh, but how lovely." She hugged her father again and again, until one of the bodyguards gently eased her away.

"It has been arranged that you will have time enough with your parent." The smooth young thug took her by the shoulders. "For now, sister, you must go to your quarters. You must meditate, tend to your child. Your hour of glory will come soon enough."

"What hour..." Goldman began, then changed his mind, glancing toward Tyreen, who saw in the man's eyes a plea for help.

As Rachel was led away, the bodyguard called Bob came up behind Tyreen. "Father Valentine hopes you will do him the honor of dining with him, in his private suite, this evening. What luggage you have has been taken to the guest suite. One of my men will show you the way. I shall call for you in, shall we say, half an hour. Give you a chance to freshen up and have a word with your fellow guest."

"Fellow guest?" she queried, but Bob had already signaled to one of the other young hunks, whom he referred to as Jack.

Jack placed a hand firmly on Tyreen's forearm. "This way, Ms. Mackenzie. I wouldn't like you to be late for dinner with Father Valentine. He started to guide his charge from the amphitheater.

Tyreen shook herself free. "Get your hands off me!"

"Gently, Ms. Mackenzie. We don't want to cause a scene in this holy place, do we?"

"Just keep your hands to yourself then."

Jack gave a little mocking bow and gestured for her to go ahead of them. "I'll tell you when to go left and right and up stairs. Carry on, Ms. Mackenzie." They began to make a long journey, up stairs and down corridors, with Tyreen trying to keep a check on the direction they were going. They did not pass through Scorpio's study again, nor go near the main hall, and it took just about eight minutes for them to reach an area which, she deduced, was on the ground level, toward the rear of the building.

They passed through a fire door, and suddenly the austere bareness, which seemed to be the hallmark of the interior décor, gave way to unusual magnificence --- a long and ornate corridor, lit with intricate, garishly colored that looked vaguely Mexican in origin. There was a heavy pile carpet underfoot, and, though the corridor must have stretched for a good forty yards, there were only four doors --- two in the left-hand wall and two to the right --- each decorated with false columns and a gilded carved cornice incorporating love knots and cherubs. It all seemed a little much, and quite out of place, then she realized that the décor was as vulgar and repulsive as the real Scorpio.

Jack stopped at the second door, tapped on it, and opened up. "The sitting room, m'lady. There are bedrooms to the left and right. Bathrooms and dressing rooms in the interconnecting passages. I think you'll find everything in order, but should we have forgotten anything, please use the telephone." He gave a little sneer. "It's only internal, I'm afraid. You will not be able to get an outside line. Bob will be here for you in twenty minutes or so. Enjoy yourself." With another of his mock bows, Jack withdrew and, as the door closed, Tyreen heard the ominous thump of security locks sliding into place. She had already noticed a small, numeric keypad recessed into the pillar outside. Never mind, she thought. If they haven't discovered the secrets of my luggage, an electronic lock shouldn't cause too much trouble.

She turned to look at the room, ornate and overdone, with reproduction Louis XV furnishings, modern pictures, and fabrics of loud --- almost hysterical --- colors. The curtains were not yet pulled for the night, revealing a huge window that ran the entire length of one wall. Exterior floodlighting highlighted a stretch of sand beyond which marshy land, replete with reeds, ran to another rich golden beach and the pounding sea.

She explored the passage running off to the left of this main room with a hideously modern bathroom in two shades of green on the left, and a dressing room which looked more like a big department store fitting room, to the right. The door ahead took her into a bedroom, of equal size and bad taste as the sitting room. The bed was huge --- a reproduction four-poster ---at the foot of which stood her briefcase. The right-hand wall, like the one in the sitting room, was another giant window.

It could be the bedroom of a hotel with more investment than taste, but she thought it might be used as a lever. It was quite possible that Scorpio, the old arms dealer, had developed this ornate and terrible style as he became the wealthy recluse. They had never managed to sneak any pictures of Vladem I --- the yacht. It was most probably very similar to this. Vladimir Scorpio, the flimflam holy man, the evil, designing spirit behind his rent-a-terrorist business, preying on the emotional gullibility of the young, had an Achilles heel --- vulgarity and pretensions. Well, Vladimir, Tyreen thought, I can exploit this in ways of which you will never have dreamed, because you probably believe all this --- your outward show of power.

She stepped toward the briefcase, hesitating for a moment before lifting it onto the bed. Take care, she thought, with a setup like this, Scorpio would almost certainly have his guestrooms wired for sound. She placed the briefcase on the bed. The locks had been tampered with, the combinations found --- it was easy enough even with a sophisticated system --- but she could tell by the weight, and feel of the case, that the secret compartment had remained untouched. Certainly no X-ray machine would show it; nor would measurements. R&D had used exceptionally clever methods in the installation.

She took out a clean dress and underwear, then closed and locked the case again, leaving it on the bed as though it was unimportant. Later there would be a way of getting to the weapons and other devices she might need.

Stripping off her clothes, she showered quickly, rubbed herself down with one of the big rough rowels that were piled neatly in a chrome container above the bath, then, naked, went through into the bedroom. She was just about to toss the towel back into the bathroom when there was a little amused cough from the bedroom door. She looked up.

Henry Harper stood there in a toweling robe, his face pale and stress marks showing around the eyes, but his mouth in an amused --- and somewhat hungry --- smile at finding Tyreen naked.

She quickly wrapped the towel around herself.

"They told me you had arrived, Teri. Thank God you've come." He came to her, wrapping his arms around her body, kissing her cheek, then putting his lips close to her ear and whispering, "They're wired for sound, but no pictures as far as I can see." Loudly again, "I really couldn't believe it when our Father, Valentine, told me about you." His lips close to her ear again, and another fast whisper. "It's been grim. He's using drugs and powerful hypnotism on me. Trying to make me believe, and become a Meek One. He's getting through, but I've been able to remember it all."

Gently, she put a hand on his chest and started to push him away.

He reluctantly loosened his embrace, though he still managed to keep one arm around her waist. "Is it tonight he's going to ask you?"

"Ask me what?"

"Oh, Teri." He pulled her close and kissed her, on the lips this time, as though he meant it.

Not an unpleasant experience. No, most certainly not unpleasant. She felt herself responding when he broke off the kiss.

Again his lips came closer to her ears for the whispering routine. "Prepare yourself, this is going to come as a shock."

"Ask me what?" she repeated.

"If you'll marry me." He was excited, but did not smile. "He says that if you'll marry me, and live here under the Meek Ones' discipline, he'll do us no harm. Please, Teri. Please say yes."

"To save our lives, of course. But I can't see the sinister Scorpio letting any of us off the leash that easily." She looked at Harper, and his eyes seemed already dead. Then came the soft tapping on the main sitting room door. It would be "Bodyguard Bob" to take Tyreen to Scorpio.

"So, you'll marry me, Teri?" Henry Harper pressed close to her.

Well, she thought, it would not be a fate worse than death, that was for sure. Though the threat of death could not be far away. A smile flicked across her mouth --- a gesture of comfort. "This is so sudden, Henry. I'll have to think about it. I'll give it some really serious thought."

They quickly disentangled themselves, and with great poise Harper walked to the door and asked Bob to wait. "Ms. Mackenzie will be with you shortly." Tyreen was dressed in minutes, and he whispered goodnight, kissing her lightly on the cheek, and telling her to "Watch out for the food. That's how they started on me."

She was taken along the corridors again, through to Scorpio's bare, austere study where Bob went straight to the fitted bookcase nearest the window and pulled out a book on the third shelf. There was a click, and that part of the bookcase swung open to reveal a door. She was quick to notice that the spice of the false book showed it to be a fat imitation copy of Tolstoy's War and Peace. Somewhere within Vladimir Scorpio there was a spark of humor.

She did not know what to expect, but the dining room into which she was shown was a disaster area of styles. Here, it became obvious that the master of this strange house had been thoroughly influenced by a number of restaurants, favorite eating places of his past life. She imagined that she detected some paneling copied from the Connaught in London, a zinc bar from Fouquet's in Paris, and at least two reproductions of original book jacket art she had seen in the vulgar décor of Langan's Brasserie.

The man appeared obsessed by reproduction. An odd attitude from one who could have had the originals twice over.

"How nice of you to join me for dinner, Ms. Mackenzie." Even Scorpio's voice seemed to take on sinister undertones --- a voice of honey and milk, mixed with strychnine. He was now dressed casually, yet managed to give the impression of being formal --- dark slacks and a white silk shirt, open at the neck. Under the shirt, she could see the outline of a medallion --- gold, naturally --- hanging from a heavy chain around his neck. On his left wrist there was the famed Scorpio Chronometer with its twelve diamonds for the normal display and tiny windows for the digital functions.

"Did I have any alternative but to dine with you?" As she looked him in the eye, Tyreen consciously summoned a vivid picture into her head --- this time Scorpio was at her mercy, strapped to a table. She held a huge branding iron just above the flesh of his chest. If she brought images such as this to file in and out of her mind, she had little to fear from this man. It was when you allowed your eyes to meet his that you became vulnerable.

She sensed him wince inwardly. "You are a very clever woman, Ms. Mackenzie." It was as near as he would allow himself to reveal weakness. "I was warned of that, but I imagined you were merely a capable woman, used to violence, and an able fighting opponent. I had no idea you had willpower as well. Nor that you were so intelligent. Someone once called you a blunt instrument. I find you are more than a bludgeon."

The branding iron changed, first into a shillelagh --- a wicked Irish cudgel; then into something not so blunt, a claymore --- that great two-edged sword of the Scottish highlands.

"I've planned only a simple meal for us." He smiled, and she thought she could detect the leer of one of the Borgias. "Very simple. Especially for you, Ms. Mackenzie. Airline food is not substantial, but I always find myself unable to eat a great deal for the first twenty-four hours after flying the Atlantic."

She held up a hand. "Just one thing, er,... Father Valentine..."

"Yes, my daughter?"

Off guard for a second, Tyreen looked up, into the full power of the man's eyes. From a long way off she heard Scorpio repeat, "Yes, my daughter?" Then she tore her own eyes away, concentrating on a Scorpio whose body was being riddled with bullets.

"When you sup with the devil, they say you should use a long spoon. I'm sorry if I seem to abuse what you call your hospitality, but I shall require you to taste every course set in front of me."

He laughed. "I can do better than that. My wife will taste it for you. I shall see to it. You have no need to fear me, Ms. Mackenzie."

"I don't fear you."

"Funny, I had the impression you did. Why else would you have need of a food taster at my table?"

"Because you are an expert in the use of certain kinds of drug: an expert in manipulating people, so that they believe the religious hodgepodge you throw at them. You are --- let's cut the formalities --- you are expert in sending young and impressionable people to their deaths, along with innocent victims; and you do it for money, right, Vladimir Scorpio?"

There was silence for a second, no more. "So." Scorpio did not sound in any way shaken. His voice did not waver. "So. I did not believe it. I was told, but thought it an exaggeration. I should have known my informant wouldn't feed me with dreams. I should have realized that someone would identify me sooner or later in spite of the careful precautions." He took a deep breath. "Who else knows, Ms. Mackenzie? Who knows, apart from you, your Chief of Service, MI5, and the Special Branch? Do they know, here, in America?"

"By now." She looked him full in the eyes this time, and as she spoke kept a supremely vivid fantasy in the front of her mind. "By now, a very large number of people know. I would guess the American Service is familiar with your dossier as well --- unless you have some control over that."

"Maybe I have. We shall see. Well, it is good that I shall be able to retire quite happily when this job is done."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that. The people I'm speaking about know exactly what you are doing and how you're doing it."

He spread his hands. "Yet they cannot stop it. There is no way --- except by draconian security, the banning of all public meetings, the closing of cinemas, opera houses, concert halls, theaters, and restaurants. Where my dear Meek Ones go, there can never be complete safety."

"Your Meek Ones will soon be brought to book."

"How? Tell me how. There is no way, Ms. Mackenzie. They are above law and order; they can walk anywhere undetected. And they can operate without me. That is the beauty. Only married couples who have produced at least one child can undertake the death-tasks. In turn, when the child is old enough, he or she will marry, and the process regenerates itself. I can go, disappear forever --- once the present operation is complete. The faithful will mourn, but the work will go on." He stopped for a short breath. "You see, Ms. Mackenzie, these young people, The Society of the Meek Ones, cannot give up, even if I die or disappear tomorrow. The current campaign will be over in a very few days, and I cannot stop it now. Once it's running, those chosen for the death tasks will perform them. I have no more contact with them. They are like well-programmed robots. They have the plastique. They have their orders. They will die and take the leaders of Britain, together with the potential leaders of Britain, and the leader of..." He smiled. "No, I'll let you find out for yourself. But they will do it, and, if the game's up for me, I have plenty on which to fall back. A fortune from this job alone and a myriad hiding places. The Meek Ones will go on, simply because they believe. They really do believe. Nobody will have to pay for their services anymore because they'll do it for their faith. Ha!" He finished with a short laugh. "To think that a brilliant idea like that will never be used again to feather a nest." His voice dropped to almost a whisper, which was totally commanding.

"You can be as cold-blooded as that?" Tyreen could hardly credit that one human being was capable of such depravity. Not even an Arion. "A true holy war, I can understand. But a holy war based on lies and disbelief..."

"Please don't be a hypocrite, Ms. Mackenzie. All holy wars have been fought for the motive of profit. That's how I came up with my own idea. For years I had been getting rich on holy wars. Then I thought, why do I not get richer? Why don't I provide the manpower as well as the weapons? Where's the wrong in that? In a way I am saving lives, by sacrificing young, emotional, ingenuous people who wish to die for an ideal."

She was so repulsed by this last outburst that she stepped back toward the door.

"Don't leave, Ms. Mackenzie. "Don't even think of it. Because I can furnish you with the means to stop the Meek Ones if I so desire."

She shook her head. "You wouldn't, though, Scorpio. You wouldn't give up. I thought until now that I had already met the most evil people alive in the world today. And I imagined I knew of all those before this, but you leave me in no doubt that I was wrong. You are evil personified. A death-bringer, a dreamer of nightmares. The worst since..."

"Hitler? Stalin? Oh, I think not. If, once this business is concluded, I gave you a full list of the faithful, together with their locations, what would you say? I might do that, you know. Or don't you believe me?"

"I believe you'd do it for a price, and I haven't enough to pay you."

"You might have. No man knows what he has to give. My friend, I have walked the wicked paths of this earth for many more years than you. I might give you details for the future, if you do something in return." His eyes were clear of menace now. It was as though he really had an offer to make.

Still, she was in doubt that the man's words were cheap, worthless, and any promises made would be counterfeit.

"Why do you think I had Joshua Goldman bring you here?" Scorpio asked, in almost a whisper. The low, controlled voice became even more sinister once you were in his company for any length of time.

"I don't know. Why me in the first place? Why was I involved? Why me?"

"There is a simple answer. Why not? It is the answer that fate gives to all who ask that question, when disaster, death, tragedy, hardship overtake them. 'Why me? Why me? Why me?' " He beat his breast with a clenched fist at each question. "And Fate answers those fools --- 'Why not?' In your case, Ms. Mackenzie, it was because you were there. You happened to be in the right place at the right time. I had an informer who could be put close to you. You were not the only one I could have used, but, as I'm sure you've already deduced, you were set up just so that my particular informer could give me better intelligence. If that person was near to you, I would be able to stay one jump ahead of you. And I did, even though I didn't believe your people had discovered my identity. So, Ms. Mackenzie, you are in the right place, at the right time, now."

"How so?"

"I ask only a very small favor. In return I'll give you every name, every known address of every Meek One --- including those left here."

"But only after the terrible damage is done." Pretend: act as though you really believe him, she told herself. Yes, there probably was a small favor, but one that would suit Scorpio and nobody else.

"Naturally, after this particular campaign is over, yes."

"So what's the favor?" As she asked, she knew that it could only be some form of death warrant for herself.

"In a moment. Let me provide some collateral." He moved toward the longest wall in the room. The zinc bar stood in front of it, while two fairly awful reproduction pictures, mounted together in a large frame, hung above it. He felt under the bar and, a second later, the pictures slid upward and a large-scale map of England seemed to float down to replace them. He pulled out a drawer under the bar and flicked a switch. A winking light came on.

Tyreen could see it was at the true position of Glastonbury.

"You see?" Scorpio appeared to have quite abandoned the power he could wield from his personality and those devastating eyes. "I can afford to let you see this. You will be here until it is all complete, make no mistake about that. There is no escape from Three Pines Plantation. Only death waits for you outside these walls --- quite unpleasant some of the deaths that squirm or scurry out there. So this I can afford. First, the nice little town of Glastonbury --- but you know what happened there. And Chichester." Another light winked from the map. "You know that also. I wonder if you know what occurred only a few hours ago near Newcastle-upon-Tyne?" The pin of light began to pulse as he carefully named the Trade Union leader and the Labour Party candidate. "Where else? What else will happen? What else is there that I cannot stop happening? Let us see." His hand touched something else on the panel jutting from the zinc bar. Manchester lit up, and he named a former Cabinet Minister from the government, which was now holding a General Election. "That is tomorrow." He sounded like someone who planned a holiday, not a man passing sentence of death upon several innocent people in order to dispose of one. Another button --- Birmingham, a Member of Parliament who had a reputation as a firebrand; Oxford --- two candidates, Labour and Conservative. "Two in a day, should hit the headlines." It went on and on. The campaign seemed without pattern, candidates from all parties, former Ministers, two ex-Chief Whips; the Lord Chancellor. London; Ealing; Edinburgh; Glasgow; London again --- Kensington, not far from where Tyreen had hidden the previous night; Cambridge; Canterbury; Leeds; York. Practically every major town in England, Scotland, and Wales, plus Belfast. The dates were there, positive. The targets had been selected.

Next to each winking light, Tyreen could see the names of the victims, etched in scarlet, and below them, another name --- too small to read from this distance, but almost certainly the human death-bringer. "What if they change days and times?" she asked, her stomach turning with horror at the carnage.

"They have." Scorpio smiled directly at Tyreen. The eyes began to dig into her mind again, She had dropped her guard, so she pulled her head to one side and replaced her thoughts with those of Scorpio as a victim of one of his own terrible human bombs. "They have changed times and venues. I am in possession of the whole new list."

"How d'you know it is correct --- your list?" The answer did not really matter. The man was simply putting on a terrible display of power. He was like a child showing off --- a mad, bad, death-master child.

"I know it is correct." He gave a smile that was more wicked and evil for its seeming openness. "Because I trust the one who's informing me."

She shrugged her shoulders. "You didn't trust the intelligence about yourself."

"No! And obviously I'm very foolish. It's one of the first rules, isn't it? You as an operative with many years' experience should know. One of the first rules is do not rule out intelligence that does not fit what you want to believe. Do not only believe that which you want to believe. True?"

"True." She nodded. "I notice, though, that one obvious victim is missing."

"Oh? Who could that be?"

"The Prime Minister. Unless you have some reason for keeping the PM alive."

He laughed, a low, deep chuckle. "Oh, no, Tyreen Mackenzie. The Prime Minister is not forgotten. Certainly not. But I have a very special fate for the Prime Minister that does not show on this map."

Tyreen's mind was working hard, probing, taking in every target, every place, noting them in her memory, holding them there in the hope that she might get out and give some kind of warning. "You said you could not stop the running of the operation."

He gave the barest of nods. "Correct."

"Yet you are able to let those who have death-tasks know that dates and times have been changed. How?"

"That is relatively easy. I know where they are. I can contact them. I can change time and location. The one thing I cannot alter is their individual targets." He explained how the men and women were drawn into the net of the Meek Ones. How they were chosen and manipulated so that there was no fear of death, for in their deaths they would attain paradise. "All that is relatively easy." He sounded like some dusty university don lecturing on a piece of dull history. "However, the final motivation, the method used for defining the target, must be exact. It must also be buried so deeply into the subconscious of my human missiles that they consciously forget it. If, by chance, a weak link is arrested, hours of interrogation will not reveal the target. Interrogators might well be able to guess in some cases, but not with certainty."

"And you cannot, or will not, put an end to this... this.. battlefield?"

"Cannot, and will not. No, I cannot do it except by handing over all those times, places, and names to you, or someone like you, and then adding the names of those who will do the final job."

"And if the target does not show himself --- or herself --- what then?"

"The missile I have sent will search out that target. No other. Every specific target is already dead, because there is one person out there and running with one mission in life --- to dispose of a target. A specific target. Leave it a week, a month, a year even. Eventually, without my help, the one with the death-task will find the target, and --- boom!" He quietly snapped his fingers, making the very idea even more horrific.

In her head, Tyreen gathered together the whole collection of information so far. Her memory would hold it --- times, places, and most especially targets. Her concentration was such that for a second she did not realize Scorpio was still speaking.

"There!" He pointed to the twelfth target on the map --- the whole of which now winked like a Christmas tree. "When we get there, I think something quite different will blow up. Another fly in the ointment."

"What sort of fly?"

"Oh, a little financial problem."

"If you mean Avante Carte and the supposed slush fund built up in Lord Shepperton's account..." Tyreen stopped in mid-sentence, for the door had opened and a third person came gently into the room.

"Shepperton? Ah-ha! There is something much better than that in store. Lord Shepperton was a neat little --- what do those women detective writers call it? A little red herring. Avante Carte, of which you have seen two, has a much more subtle financial bomb built into it. I'm sure we can forget about dear old Robert Shepperton, can't we, my darling?" He was looking past Tyreen to the door. "You have, I think, met my wife, Ms. Mackenzie. If not, meet Mrs. Scorpio now."

"Yes, we have met, under most amusing circumstances. And Vladi is right, we can forget about poor old Daddy," said Trilby Shepperton, looking in perfect health, a broad smile across her pretty face. "Now, shall we have dinner? I think Vladi has a proposition to put to you."

"So it was all play-acting in London --- the coma, the riddles, 'the blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons,' all that stuff, and the demonic voice?" Tyreen looked, first at Vladimir Scorpio, and then at the Honourable Trilby Shepperton, revealed now as his self-styled wife.

"Not exactly." Trilby stretched out a hand and squeezed Scorpio's arm. "I'm not that good at acting."

Tyreen noticed Trilby's hand shook slightly as she touched her husband. If indeed he was her husband.

Trilby Shepperton, as she had guessed when seeing her unconscious at her home --- and again at the Puttenham clinic with Sir James Muirfield --- was a tall, slender girl of proportions that would do credit to any model featured in the pages of glossy magazines. She wore a dramatic dress in equally dramatic red silk. Her long hair had been cut recently, and restyled, but there was one off-key note. She had been too liberal and heavy-handed with the makeup.

Somehow it was all wrong. Trilby's face --- with its high cheekbones, well-proportioned mouth, and deep hazel eyes --- was not in need of what appeared to be almost a full stage makeup. Also, it would take an insensitive dolt not to notice that she was strung out with tension. Every time she spoke, Trilby either touched or looked at Scorpio, as though seeking reassurance.

"It really wasn't play-acting, was it, dear heart?" Trilby's fingers bit into Scorpio's arm, so that he tore it away from her, brushing her hand off him as though it was an irritating insect.

"She was a volunteer." His voice maintained the cold, calm, frighteningly low pitch, but he rendered the line very quickly before continuing. "We needed some kind of backup to poor little Emily Dupré --- she was not supposed to die, you know. That was a terrible shock to all of us."

"Oh, yes, I'll bet it was. You're most sensitive where death is concerned, aren't you?"

Scorpio ignored Tyreen's bitter tone. "Yes, we are all sensitive. You should believe that, Ms. Mackenzie. Emily really thought we'd allowed her to escape. She had some scruples about what we were doing, I admit. But I thought I might turn this to our advantage --- that I could use her in various ways. You see, I made certain that, when she left, Emily carried certain clues --- in particular your telephone number. When I first heard through our contact that she had been drowned, I became alarmed. It was possible the clues she had been given had gone with her."

"My telephone number?"

"That, and what you call the riddle, about the blood of the fathers falling upon the sons. I had implanted that in poor Emily's subconscious. At that time, Ms. Mackenzie, it was my desire to put the British authorities on alert. Once the first death-task was done, I hoped they would realize that they were up against an unbeatable force. It was meant to cause panic, possibly even more --- a huge security clampdown that would render the General Election hopeless, for instance. In any case, it is bound to do that eventually." He raised a hand, the same princely gesture Tyreen had noticed after first arriving --- the hand lifted imperiously, index finger jutting upward, while the other fingers remained curled, the whole hand moving at a flick of the wrist.

Tyreen could not buy the story. For the first time she detected a note of uncertainty, a concocted tale, embedded in Scorpio's explanations. It would be folly to challenge the man at this stage. He had already shown he had great power at his fingertips; he had proved it in the diabolical human bomb outrages and the outline of his future plans. Pretend, she told herself again. Make him think you are lapping it all up without a second thought.

"At the time, I was lining up further contracts so that the Meek Ones would spread their word, and terror, throughout the world." Scorpio seemed to be talking to the air, with a note of great regret.

Tyreen could not let that pass. "Contracts that would wreak more havoc and cause the deaths of many innocent people. Contracts that would line your pockets."

"Unhappily, that is now unrealistic." His eyes had gone dead, and he spoke very slowly.

"I would have said, happily it is unrealistic." Keep shaking him, she thought. Even with such a devious and cruel mind, he might just be thrown off balance.

"What's unrealistic, darling?" There was an almost frightened look about Trilby, a terror behind the over madeup face and the outward elegance.

"Nothing for you to worry about, my dear." He patted her hand, which still shook slightly.

"I only worry for you, angel." She looked at him, then away, sharply.

Not only did Tyreen feel nauseated by the endearments that passed between Scorpio and the girl, but she was also alarmed by the surface quality of the conversation. It reeked of manipulation and a Never-Never land of unreality. "So you allowed Trilby to act as..."

"He told you, I volunteered," Trilby answered, a shade too brightly. "You must understand, Ms. Mackenzie, that I owe my life to Vladi. He brought me into the light; got me right off heroin, when I was a bad case. When I first told him that I loved him he was concerned; he thought it was a case of what the psychiatrists call transference. A patient falling in love with her doctor, as a substitute for the illness. In my case the addiction." It was the longest speech Scorpio had allowed her to make, and she reeled it off as thought the main points had been learned by heart.

"Yes, I do know what it means. You've had remarkable success with drug addiction, Scorpio. How d'you account for that?"

"In the same way many clinics manage it. There's nothing magical about getting people off drugs if they truly want to live." He began to become pompous, as though getting onto a hobby horse. "Vitamin injections, discipline, abstinence, syndrome suppressants --- methadone in the case of heroin --- and very deep hypnosis to help the most unpleasant side effects." He paused, as though expecting Tyreen to applaud. The silence lasted for twenty seconds or so before he spoke again. "I think that's where I score --- if you'll excuse the expression. Through my own particular use of deep hypnosis. In the clinics, people do go through hell coming off. With me, it's easier. But there are cases even I cannot help --- those who have reached the stage of not caring whether they live or die. The death-wish addict. Sometimes they can recover for a time. A large number of my death-task people are like that. But enough, let us eat."

The map had been electronically returned to its hiding place, and the big framed prints now occupied the space over the zinc bar. Tyreen had been careful to note exactly where the operating switches were hidden. She was determined to return alone and make a list of the death-task names. Just as she was determined to get out of Three Pines Plantation alive, and as soon as possible.

Now, Scorpio pressed a bell at the corner of the bar.

The gray-suited bodyguards acted as waiters. There were six of them in all, and even the stylish cut of their clothes could not hide the tiny bulges that indicated the whole half-dozen were armed.

The only items of genuine taste in the room consisted of a beautiful Caroline dining table, kept in exquisite condition, and with the original chairs. There was space enough to sit twelve people. Tonight they set it for three only, and the place settings looked like real Georgian silverware. Waterford crystal glasses completed the table, and "Bodyguard Bob" announced that dinner was served, leaving a large silver bowl in the center of the table. From this, Trilby served the best of summer soups --- Gazpacho, ice-cold and with the correct side dishes of croutons, chopped onion, tomato, and peppers.

"I hope you like this, Ms. Mackenzie? Or may I call you Tyreen?"

"By all means, Trilby. Why not? Soon you'll be in need of first-name friends."

Trilby looked up at Tyreen, alarmed, almost spilling a ladle of soup. "What do you mean?" The panic was clear in her eyes, and the voice rose onto a higher register. Suddenly she became clumsy in ladling out the thick Gazpacho.

"Nothing, my dear," Scorpio soothed. "She does not approve of me or the Meek Ones. So she does not approve of you either. It is of no matter. You cannot be loved by everyone, you know."

The spicy cold soup was placed before Tyreen, but she turned to Scorpio. "Will you be my taster?"

"You need a taster for something that comes from the same tureen as our portions?"

She reminded him of supping with the devil. He gave a small shrug, dipped his spoon into her bowl and drank. "That satisfy you?"

"Just."

"I don't think that's very nice," said Trilby. It was meant to sound cross, but came out too glibly. "You're Vladi's guest. It's no way for a guest to behave." Her voice remained close to the edge of hysteria.

"My dear Trilby, if Vladi would stop this bloody terrorist campaign now, and hand over all the Meek Ones, then possibly I would find better manners --- particularly if I came to visit you both in jail."

"Jail is somewhere neither of us will see," Scorpio said very quickly, his eyes turning toward Trilby. At the end of the rapid sentence he laughed, and, somehow, Tyreen believed him. The man was so warped in his attitude to death and terror --- a psychotic who would possibly take his own life, and Trilby's also, rather than be caught: but only as a final resort.

They made small talk until the main dish arrived, succulent and lean lamb chops, cooked with rosemary and other herbs, served on a huge salver, surrounded with small roast potatoes and beans.

"There." Scorpio smiled. "You could well be in a fine English gentlemen's clubs. But then you wouldn't know about those, would you, Ms. Mackenzie? I asked for the main course to be very English tonight, especially for you. Help yourself. We shall also eat from this same dish, and I shall taste the wine for you in case that is laced with some deadly poison." He gave another laufg, more unpleasant this time, and went to the zinc bar where two bottles of Chablis Grand Cru had been left to breathe. They were from Les Preuses, one of the best of those seven small vineyards that dot the southern-facing slopes from Chablis itself. He tasted from both bottles, making it an extravagant production number.

In the end, Tyreen had to admit that it was many years since she had tasted lamb as tender and sweet as this, or drunk such an excellent classic Chablis.

As they ate and drank she continued to press Scorpio regarding Trilby's return to her home. "When I saw her, she appeared to be in a particularly vulnerable and collapsed state."

"It was a small risk," he replied. "One we were both willing to take. The point was that she knew the meaning of the words I placed in her mind. Trilby has always been a true follower of the Meek Ones. She is bound to the faith, just as she is dedicated to our aims. I traveled to London with her --- from Pangbourne --- and gave her the final dose of LSD in the car as we approached her father's house. She had seven, seven, mind you, days of intensive hypnosis." He smiled, and there was a wickedness in the smile that would have pleased the Marquis de Sade. Tyreen could almost feel the shade of the Marquis in the room with them.

Scorpio still smiled as he said, with a certain relish, "It was good to pay back her father for some of the indignity he put me through. It would have suited our purpose better if his bank, the truly terrible Gomme-Keogh, had backed the Avante Carte venture."

"So your people were trying to get Trilby out of our clinic when they were surprised. We all imagined they were bent on killing her."

"Indeed, yes, of course they were rescuing her. Why would my people attempt to kill her? That whole business was bad luck. Goldman was there, but the foolish Harper started the trouble. Which brings me, Ms. Mackenzie, to my previous offer."

"Which was?" Tyreen asked, as though she had forgotten about Scorpio's vague promise --- that in return for a small favor, he would hand over what was left of the Meek Ones once the current campaign was over. She had no reason to think he would ever honor a promise, or indeed demand a small favor. His was a world of exceptionally large favors, littered with broken promises and devious intentions.

He repeated the words he had used earlier. "I ask only a very small favor. In return I'll give you every name, every known address of every Meek One --- including those left here... after this particular campaign is completed."

Tyreen smiled, her eyes on the now empty plate in front of her. "Oh, let's not discuss business over such a pleasant meal. I can wait to hear of the favor you ask. Let it rest, Scorpio."

"As you wish. The pudding has been left on the bar. again, we all eat from the same dish."

"A peach cobbler," Trilby said. "I trust you like peach cobbler?" Her speech was still brittle, nervous, too fast.

"Simple, delightful fare." In fact the dish --- peaches skinned and simmered for five minutes in a syrup of sugar and water, sometimes with a bag of rose petals --- was an old favorite. As a general rule, Tyreen eschewed puddings, but this, or a really good Meringue Chantilly, seldom failed to tempt her. "Tell me," she said, making it sound as though she was starting to adjust to the infernal company. "You said I could never escape from this place."

"Ms. Mackenzie, you must not even think of it."

"Why?"

"Even if I told you it would not matter. There is no way out of Three Pines Plantation except with permission from myself."

"The glass windows of the guestrooms look out onto beaches and the sea. There are sliding doors with no locking devices. Why couldn't I simply walk down to the sea and swim away? Have you armed guards on watch, twenty-four hours a day?"

"The armed guards are for the front of the property." Scorpio sounded as though he was trying to humor Tyreen. "There is a great half-circle of trees that swarm, and I use the word advisedly, with guards and dogs. The way to the sea needs no dogs or armed sharpshooters. The way to the sea has very unpleasant natural hazards --- to which I have added a few embellishments of my own."

"Such as?"

"The alligators do not come into this area. They don't really like the sea. But there is a small stretch of reedy, soggy marshland between the rear of the house and the main beach that leads to the sea. We have large warnings posted at the extremities to keep tourists at bay. Even so, I admit there have been unfortunate accidents. Nobody --- and I mean nobody --- has ever walked from the plantation to the sea and lived to tell the story. You've heard of the water moccasin?"

Tyreen nodded. "Usually known as the cottonmouth. Yes."

"Then you would agree they are dangerous snakes?"

"Very, unless you get treatment pretty fast."

"Quite so. The water moccasin's venom is used in medicine for the treatment of hemorrhagic conditions and the like. It destroys red blood cells; coagulates the blood. One bite is exceptionally serious if not treated quickly. Several bites are certain death."

"Several?"

Scorpio nodded. "The marshes near our beaches --- those that back upon Ten Pines --- are sealed off with ten-foot metal plates at the extremities. You see, we have a colony of water moccasins in the marsh. They have been there for years, and the locals know all about them."

"Don't they get out to sea?"

"No. They're generally nocturnal creatures and don't thrive in the sea. But in the marshes it's a different story. When you consider that the female produces around fifteen young every two years, you will understand why we have no need for armed guards."

Trilby shuddered and Scorpio put out a hand to soothe her. "My young wife is especially nervous of them. We had an incident on her first visit here. The man, who did not matter to us, was bitten forty times. So you understand, Ms. Mackenzie. Water moccasins bear a government health warning --- that is not to mention the rattlers, black widows, scorpions, and similar dangerous life that abounds here." He gave a smile that could only be described as terrible. "The pelicans, cormorants, and sandpipers are nice to watch, and the average tourist rarely comes within spitting distance of the dangerous creatures. The hotels here take many precautions, though golfers sometimes meet alligators. Never run straight away from those things --- but you know that."

"I know they can run fast if they're roused, but only in straight lines. If you zigzag you should be safe."

"You've enjoyed the meal?" Trilby asked, as though she wanted to change the subject.

Tyreen said, yes, very much. She turned down the coffee and liqueurs.

"So I've warned you," Scorpio continued. "And, lest you think you're immortal, you know that I have also added some refinements between the house and the sea. So put any thoughts of beach parties out of your head. It's not worth it."

No, Tyreen thought. But perhaps because of its dangers there was a way to the sea and safety. Possibly she had it back in the guestroom, in the handy emergency pack, secreted within the overnight-briefcase.

"The meal is over," Scorpio said pointedly.

"So?"

"So, shouldn't we discuss my offer?"

"I don't really know." In the back of her mind, Tyreen had gone through the moral implications of doing any kind of deal with this mad and dreadful, warped impersonation of a man --- true man she could never call him. Scorpio was a representative of all the double-standards, double, even triple-thought, bigotry, hatred, self-serving and plain evil which lies within the worst part of man. To her, he was the devil's emissary on earth, the bringer of corruption, dispenser of death. He would have made an admirable member of the Spanish Inquisition; a leader of the unthinkable Children's Crusade; a commissar of Stalin's death camps; a deceiver and pervert in the mold of Lavrenti Beria, that most monstrous leader of the Soviet secret police; or, perhaps best of all, the SS Commandant of a Nazi Camp, reveling in the gassing and cremation of millions of Jews. To her, he was all that had ever been cruel, uncaring, revolting, and unjust through history, from Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun to Heinrich Himmler and Klaus Barbie.

"Come. The favor has its compensations. With my true identity revealed, I realize the Meek Ones must go. Let me perform one act that might seem worthy to you by delivering their future into your hands. Why not? At least hear me out?"

It just did not ring true. This was the dark angle, Tyreen thought, the fallen angel, Satan himself speaking, pouring honey into her ear --- honey laced with poison. The temptation was too great. Maybe she could stop the horror before it went any further. But if that proved impossible perhaps this walking demon might just keep the one promise. No, she told herself, that is what Scorpio would have her believe. Do it again --- pretend. Act. It was the only way.

"All right. Tell me. What is this favor?"

"I won't bore you with a long, tortuous story, but this concerns the Harper lad, Henry."

Tyreen had not believed Harper when he had held her and said that if she agreed to marry him Scorpio would allow them to live in peace within The Society of the Meek Ones. Now she thought that she knew what was to come.

"It goes back a long way," Scorpio continued, his voice like rough sandpaper, low, harsh, and strangely uncertain. "Enough to say that I was once indebted to Henry Harper's father. Coincidence is an impossible thing." He sounded as though his thoughts were far away. "It might be difficult for you to believe, but believe it you must. The Harper lad is my godchild. I owe his father my freedom and my life. Once, when Henry was a tiny child, his father asked me to make sure he was well cared for and looked after. Coincidence placed us in an odd juxtaposition. How could I ever know that he would grow to be an IRS agent? That the IRS is out to get me is no secret. But they can never win, and I have Henry, my godchild, here as my prisoner. What am I to do with him? Well I have you here, also, Ms. Mackenzie. My senses say I should have you shot, out of hand, for you are a very dangerous opponent. However, I can keep you confined her for as long as I like. When I leave, which will have to be soon, I would like to leave with one tiny corner of my conscience clear. In return for the information I shall give you --- once the present series of tasks are completed --- I ask you, Tyreen Mackenzie, to marry Henry Harper."

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