The man on the stairway felt uneasy with the strange smile that had appeared on Halloran's face.
Shay spoke to cover his own inexplicable fear. 'There'll be three Provos, good an' true, smiling in Heaven this night,' he said, raising the .38 so that it was aimed directly at Halloran.
'There's no such place for killers,' the man below said, and his voice was mild, the lilt of Irish there as if he'd not been gone too long from the ould country.
'That you'd be knowing yourself,' Shay replied. 'God only knows what Divil's worship you're involved in here. Ask His forgiveness, if you've a mind to, an' do it now.' Thunder rumbled as his finger curled against the revolver's trigger.
'Liam!' Cora screamed, and just for an instant the gunman was distracted.
That was all the time that Halloran needed to make a grab for the collapsed Arab.
The gun roared deafeningly in the confines of the underground room, but Halloran had already hoisted up the Arab to use as a shield. Daoud shuddered as the bullet struck his forehead and lodged inside. The operative fought to control the twitching body, his hands beneath the dead man's shoulders, holding him upright. The second bullet entered Daoud's stomach, and the third went through his side. Halloran felt this last one nick his hip as it emerged and, although most of its force was spent, the shock was enough to make him drop his cover.
More screams filled the air, but these were from Khayed who had witnessed the slaying of his lover. He ran towards the stairs, the long blade raised high, a continuous screech now rising from deep inside his throat.
Shay was obliged to turn to meet the attack, and he was hardly aware of the person who had led him to this ungodly place brushing past. Palusinski was too afraid for his own life to tackle the gunman; he made for the safety of the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Khayed was almost on the bottom step when Shay fired the gun at him. A hole appeared in the Arab's chest, its edges immediately spreading blood. He staggered backwards, his arms waving as if for balance, then came forward once more, his face not contorted with pain but with outrage. He reached the second step and seemed to sense he would never get close to the one who had killed his beloved Youssef.
The huge knife was already leaving his hand as the next bullet tore away his throat.
Shay fell back against the stairs, the blade imbedded at an angle in his stomach, the heavy anorak he wore no protection at all. His vision was already beginning to dim as he turned his head towards the man below, his target, the Irishman turned traitor whom he and his group had been sent to assassinate as an example to others of how the Organisation always avenged themselves. His hand wavered as he raised the Webley .38, for the weapon was suddenly very heavy, almost too heavy to lift.
Once again he aimed the gun at Halloran.
49 RETURN TO THE DEATH HUT
'We can't waste any more time with this one,' Mather remarked. 'Find another point of entry?' his operative suggested, looking up from his kneeling position against the porch wall.
'No need,' Mather replied, raising a hand to the other two Shield men running towards them. He went to meet them, keeping out of sight of the main doors inside the porch from where the gunman held them at bay. He tightened his coat collar around his neck against the drenching rain.
'In the mood for target practice, Georgie?' he asked when the two men reached him.
'Always, sir,' came the answer, as all three moved in close to be heard over the storm. 'What's the problem?'
'We're being refused admittance. You see the Mercedes parked in line with the porch? You'll have a clear view of the house doorway from the rear passenger seat, or at least you can see some of it in the darkness—our friend appears to have switched off some lights. The vehicle's ours, so use your spare key if it's locked.'
'How much damage?'
'Just hit the bugger.' Mather limped away, followed by the second operative who crouched low and used the Mercedes as a screen to reach the opposite side of the porch. The man named Georgie doubled over also, going to the car and trying the doorhandle. Halloran must have left it in one hell of a rush, he thought, when he discovered the doors were unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. Georgie switched on the system, then crawled over to the backseat and pressed the button to lower the passenger window.
lie raised the Browning, keeping it clear of the rain that spattered in, and waited.
He watched as the operative with Mather crawled on his belly into the tunnel, keeping to the shadow of one wall. The Planner reached inside with his cane to tap the floor, hoping to attract the attention of their quarry.
It worked. Georgie squeezed the Browning's trigger as flame flashed from the doorway ahead. All he heard was the bark of his own weapon, but he assumed Phil, inside the porch, had fired at the same time, aiming slightly left of the gunflash. They waited a few seconds then, as lightning seared and thunder shook the sky, he saw Mather rush inside, Phil rising to accompany him to the doorway. He bundled out of the car, taking up position on the opposite side of the porch to his other colleague, their weapons pointing inwards at the entrance.
Mather pushed the door back further and flicked the Armalite away from the motionless gunman with his cane. Soft light from an open door across the spacious hall and from the landing above lit the area and Mather breathed a sigh of relief when he ascertained that no one else guarded the main doors. Rushing forward like that so soon after the enemy was hit had been a calculated risk, but it had saved some time.
Mather pointed at the slumped figure with his cane. 'Check him, then send one of the others after me while you search upstairs.' He was already limping across the hall making for the lit doorway as he gave the orders.
He entered a corridor at the end of which was a door swaying with the draught that blew in from outside, rain puddling the floor beneath it. He hurried forward glancing into other open doorways as he passed.
From ahead, Mather thought he heard a scuffling.
Palusinski came out into the courtyard, the pounding rain welcome on his face and head, even though huge droplets spattered his glasses and distorted his vision. Lightning pearled everything before him, dazzling him through the water-spots on his lenses so that he blinked rapidly. Whipping off the spectacles, the movement accompanied by a peal of thunder, he hurried across the flagstones. The Pole had no desire to find his way through Kline's private rooms in order to reach the main doors of the house: this way was more direct and the sooner he was away from the madness inside Neatly the better he would like it. His own acute sense of survival told him some kind of reckoning was at hand for Kline moj Pan, oh Lord and Master!—and he, Janusz Palusinski, did not want to be around for the consequences.
But as he passed the centre fountain, a burning liquid sprayed his face.
When he stopped to brush at the stinging with his hand, he felt a stickiness on his cheek. He could feel it eating into his skin. He peered short-sightedly at the fountain and there seemed to be shapes contorting from the stonework, rising from the brimming basin, writhing among the ornamentation.
Palusinski uttered a startled cry and began to back away. Gowno! This couldn't be! The fountain was a dead thing, defunct, slimed and blocked, an extinct spring! Yet he could discern a bubbling outflow catching reflections from window lights around the yard. And liquid dribbled sluggishly from the carved spouts which, in their decay, resembled gargoyles. And these monsters themselves were moving, twisting as if to tear themselves free from the stonework, hatching from wombs of masonry, spitting their bile of burning substance, the whole structure gushing unnatural life.