Herzog was still talking. Always talking. Supremely confident; boastful. ‘Indeed, I sometimes wonder how many wizards and holy men through history have simply been the unwitting victims, or lucky hosts, of the Bastet Parasite? We know of at least one example: an Englishman, Aleister Crowley, a Satanist who experimented with cat magic.’
They were heading into the laboratory, which was almost deserted. Chemicals in sturdy metal barrels with lurid haz-chem signs sat on large steel shelves. Glassware and machines lined the long walls, endless gleaming machines. Ryan lifted his head, and squeezed Helen’s hand.
Helen was insistent. ‘So why are you moving?’
‘Bastet. Bastet is, indirectly, the reason we are moving. We had a worker here, brilliant kid, Luke Rothley, one of the best neurobiologists. I recruited him in Tel Aviv: he came asking for a job. I told him we were setting up a new lab, because things were getting uncomfortable in Israel. He agreed to work here in Britain — but it was an error, my error. He couldn’t resist trying the Bastet Parasite, taking a snoot of the Crowley cocaine. The poor guy went psycho, wanted to kill me. He hated the fact we were going to kill off God, and then he stole much of our data, most of our more promising samples, all the mind-bending parasites about to be weaponized, and he is still out there, doing his absurd spells with his real science. The police will catch him, but it’s a warning. A siren.’ Herzog opened the door. ‘This is the main lab complex. OK, OK. Enough talking: these are my lab guys, my technicians. We need to get started. Hello?’
Ryan looked up at Helen; she was staring around, frowning. Something was wrong: something was even more wrong.
‘Samuel.’
What? Who was this?
‘Samuel Herzog. Hello.’
Ryan lifted himself on an elbow and squinted. A man had come from behind the door. He was in black clothes, tall, fair, athletic, holding a gun in one hand and a syringe in the other.
And next to him was a blonde girl, maybe eight years old, dressed entirely in white. Like a Victorian ghost.
The needle had already gone straight into Herzog’s neck.
Someone cried, ‘Rothley?’
Ryan’s sight was almost gone now: but he could see Rothley. Pulling out the steel needle. The girl just stood there. Barefoot in her white clothes, staring mutely into space.
The effect of the sudden injection on Herzog was quite extraordinary. His eyes were glazing over: the whites were occluding the pupils; he was hunchbacked. He lifted his dull eyes and gazed at Rothley.
The young man spoke. ‘Ampulex compressa. Ten millilitres. You of all people, Herzog, know what that means. Let’s go to the safe room. Come with us, Zara.’
Rothley led the shuffling older man down some shallow steps; the girl followed like a loyal spaniel. Herzog seemed to have partly lost control of his limbs. Rothley was like a stern but caring parent, leading his children. The three of them turned a corner and disappeared through a mighty steel door.
It was all done so smoothly, so shimmeringly, so magically, that for a moment everyone was silent.
Then one of the white-coated lab guys spoke up. ‘It’s on CCTV.’
Another assistant was weeping. ‘Ampulex compressa? Really? I can’t watch.’
Helen grabbed this assistant by the shoulder. ‘You have to help. My friend—’
The woman shook her head. She was still crying.
‘You mean he’s infected? Herzog has the parasiticide. He keeps it locked away.’
Ryan lay back. So he was going to die.
And he didn’t care.
But Helen did. ‘You have to get Herzog out of that safe room. Get the cure!’
‘We can’t!’ The second technician gestured, helplessly. ‘It’s lockable only from the inside: we can’t get him out. Look for yourself. Rothley has him trapped.’
The big lab-entrance door swung open behind them. Police with guns came running in, hurling questions. Police? Ryan wondered if he was hallucinating. If he was, it was fine.
Because he was going to die. Rhiannon was waiting. Everything was as it should be.
Helen slapped him. Hard. ‘Wake up! Ryan!’
The slap stung. Ryan felt a final, feeble surge of life force. He needed to fight. For a second the darkness cleared a little: he gazed around. The police were yelling questions, shouting about the girl, this girl, Zara, but it seemed they were as helpless as everyone else. The two men and the girl were locked in the steel cell down the stairs.
And so everyone turned: and watched the TV monitor. On the screen, Samuel Herzog was sitting on a metal bench behind Rothley, staring inanely into space. The girl stood at the back of the room, quite dumb. A mute little angel in white.
Rothley spoke to the CCTV camera, flourishing his syringe. ‘In this syringe is a weaponized version of the neurotoxin of Ampulex compressa, the emerald jewel wasp. Also known, colloquially, as the zombie cockroach wasp. As early as the 1940s it was reported that female wasps of this species are in the habit of stinging cockroaches, usually of the species Periplaneta americana, or Nauphoeta rhombipholia. The wasps do this as part of a truly remarkable reproductive cycle. Later studies have revealed the precise procedure adopted by the wasp. As we now know, don’t we, Samuel, the wasp stings the roach twice. Firstly, it stings the cockroach in the vicinity of the thoracic ganglia, so as to mildly paralyse the victim …’ Rothley was frowning, distantly, as he spoke. ‘This loss of mobility in the cockroach facilitates a second venomous sting, at a precise spot in the victim’s brain, which removes what is left of the victim’s escape reflex.’ He squirted a little of the fluid from the syringe. Even with his diminished sight Ryan could see the silvery sparkle of the venom. The girl’s eyes followed Rothley’s actions, quite bewitched. Or hypnotized.
Rothley continued, his voice flat and laconic. ‘In layman’s terms, the magic of the emerald jewel wasp is that by injecting its mind-altering venom directly into the little brain of the cockroach it induces the much larger, more powerful roach to become a slave. And now, Sam, the second sting.’
Turning to his left Rothley slid the needle into Herzog’s neck. The shining needle sank deep. The young man withdrew the syringe, then tapped it with a fingernail, scrutinizing it carefully.
‘With the neuromodulator injected in the roach’s tiny brain, the wasp has total control over the cockroach. So what does it do? The wasp then proceeds to chew off a segment of the roach’s antennae. Researchers believe that the wasp chews off the antennae to replenish its own fluids, or possibly to regulate the amount of venom in the victim.’
Rothley turned to Herzog. ‘I’m going to cut your hand off.’
Herzog meekly lifted a wrist. As if he was a bride waiting for the groom to kiss her hand. But Rothley was brandishing a knife; and it was large and serrated.
‘Oh Jesus.’ The lab assistant turned away from the screen.
The police crowded around the TV monitor. One of them, a young woman, snapped angrily at the nearest assistant, ‘Can we talk to him, to Rothley, in the safe room? Is there a speaker?’
The whitecoat nodded. ‘This is the button. Press and talk.’
The policewoman pressed. And talked. Her voice carried electronically to the safe room. ‘Rothley, I’m Karen Trevithick, I’m a detective, Scotland Yard—’