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  Something snatched him from the introspection, though. And he didn't know what.

  A sound! A movement? Palusinski was puzzled. He was sensitive to intrusion. Months of living rough, sleeping in ditches, eating raw vegetables dug from the earth, always with his eyes darting left, right, afraid he would be seen, what would happen to him if they found him . . . all that, even though it had been many years since, had attuned his senses for the slightest shift in atmosphere.

  His grip tightened on the knife. Someone was in the room beyond.

  Monk? He would never disobey Felix's orders to watch the corridor one floor below until Palusinski took over. Unlikely, then, that Monk would desert his post. Youssef and Asil? No, they were not due to return that night, they had the country house to prepare for their precious lord and master's visit. Then who?

  Palusinski slipped off the stool and reached inside his jacket, which was draped over a chair back. His hand came out with a thick, round metal bar, its length matching the blade protruding from his other fist. He crept over to the light switch and extended finger and thumb to turn it counterclockwise. The light in the kitchen faded.

  From where he stood the Pole could see a broad section of lounge beyond and he cursed the shadows out there, the darkness of the furnishings, the blackness of the walls. He could wait; or he could venture out. He had the patience—skulking and hiding in the old country had instilled that in him—but he also had a duty. To Felix. He must never fail in that.

  He held his breath and, armed with the weapons, moved toward the open doorway.

  The danger—if there was someone out there—would probably be from either side of the doorway where a person could lurk safe from view. Which side? Always the dilemma.

  Which side would an assailant strike from? If there was someone there . . .

  He crouched low and ran through, counting on surprise, the knife held at hip level, tip pointing upward, ready to plunge or swipe. Palusinski turned as soon as he was clear, thrusting one leg back for balance and for leverage so that he could spring forward or withstand an assault.

  There was no need. Nobody hid outside the kitchen doorway, not on any side.

  But somebody was behind the long black couch nearby. Only Palusinski, sensitive to intrusion though he was, neither saw nor felt the shadow that rose up from it.

  He may have felt fingers tilt his head to one side so that certain nerves in his neck were exposed, but if so, he didn't remember later. He definitely did not feel the edge of the stiffened hand chop down, fast and silent to deaden those nerves. Nor would he have felt the shock traveling along their roots toward a certain terminal inside his brain. The journey was too swift for that.

  Kline was within himself.

  He swam in blood vessels amid cells that changed from red to scarlet around him, through narrow passages, breaking out into round cavems, swept on by a bubbling tide that never stilled, toward a source that was no more than a distant rhythmic echo somewhere ahead in the labyrinth of busy tunnels, the rush to the sound as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

  There were other things racing with him that were alien to these passages, black misshapen forms that were there only to disease and destroy; but these parasites themselves were steadily destroyed, attacked by globules that engulfed, swallowed, digested. And these defenders decided that he, too, was foreign, had no place alongside healthy corpuscles, that he was an interloper, a danger, up to no good. Even though it was his own body he journeyed through.

  He screamed at the giant lumps to get away, to leave him alone, he meant no harm. But they were programmed to fight to the death all that was not right in the system and had no minds of their own. Two attached themselves to him as he was flushed through into a wider tunnel, and he felt the burning of his own back, his arm, acid seeping into him.

  Yet he was so near, the rushing even faster, moving in contractions, the steady beat louder, louder still, becoming a thunder, the rapids leading to a fall, the fall to be mighty and devouring. And that was his desire, no other yearning possible to him now: he wanted to be consumed by the mountainous heart.

  Instead these blind, ignorant creatures, organisms that knew nothing of other things, were eating him. His body was decomposing under their chemical excretions.

  Nearly there, nearly there.

  He could hear the hysteria of his own laughter.

  Nearly there.

  The noise ahead—THUD-UP THUD-UP— deafened him, filled him with dread. Elated him.

  Nearly there.

  Nearly swallowed.

  It wasn't too late.

  He would make it.

  Be absorbed by the heart.

  THUD-UP THUD-UP

  There . . . !

  But not there.

  Drifting back, drawn away, consciousness the carrier. Floating upward, a soft retreat . . .

  An abrupt awakening.

  There was someone with him in the bedroom. Kline opened his mouth to call out, but something clamped hard over it. A hand. A strong, threatening hand. He felt the extra weight on the bed. Somebody, a shadow among shadows, kneeling over him.

  Another hand encircled his throat.

  "Someone else and you could be dead," Halloran whispered close to his ear.

  11

  A DANGEROUS ENCOUNTER

  Halloran glanced into the rearview mirror.

  The blue Peugeot was still there, keeping well back, at least four or five other cars between it and the custom-built Mercedes Halloran was driving. His own backup, in a Granada, was directly behind him.

  He reached for the radio transmitter mounted beneath the dashboard and set the transmit button.

  "Hector-One," he said quietly into the mouthpiece.

  "Hector-Two, we hear you," came the reply through the receiver. "And we see the tag."

  Kline leaned forward from the backseat, his face close to Halloran's shoulder. There was a bright expectancy in his eyes.

  "Turning off soon," said Halloran. "Stay close till then. Out." He replaced the instrument.

  "We're being followed?" Kline asked, nervousness now mingled with expectancy.

  Cora, next to him in the backseat, stiffened, and Monk, who occupied the front passenger seat—riding shotgun, as he liked to think of it—shifted his bulk to look first at his employer, then out the tinted rear window. His fingers automatically went to the revolver at his waist.

  "No need for that," Halloran warned. "And use the side mirror if you want to spot them."

  "Nobody can see in," Monk protested petulantly, already aggrieved with Halloran for having made him look so useless twice the day before.

  "They can see shadows through the glass. Face the road and take your hand off that weapon."

  "Do it," snapped Kline. Then to Halloran: "Which one is it?"

  "The light blue. A Peugeot, a few cars back. It's been on our tail since we left London. My guess is it took over from another car that picked us up in the city, probably close to the Magma building." In fact, Halloran had felt uneasy long before he'd arrived at Magma early that morning to take Kline down to his Surrey home for the weekend. Yet he'd been unable to spot the "tag" until they were into the outskirts.

  "Are you sure?" asked Cora, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at the traffic. "This road is a main highway south—most of these cars have probably been with us for miles."

  "Cora," said Kline, "if he says we're being followed, that's it—I believe him." Halloran's easy penetration of Magma's security system the night before had impressed him. By wearing clothes that had merely resembled the security guards' uniforms, Halloran had strolled into the basement parking lot, hidden until most of the day staff were leaving that evening, then found his way to the upper floors using the outgoing rush as cover. Nothing more than a stroll against the tide. Then a vacated room, a broom closet, or a toilet—Halloran hadn't given him details—until nighttime, then through to the chairman's suite, locked doors only slowing him down, not barring him. Observation
cameras? No problem. Only certain corridors and halls were monitored that late at night and, at an agreed time, Shield had created a minor diversion. No more than a motorbike messenger thumping on the glass main door to attract the attention of the two security guards on the monitoring desk. The messenger had waved a package in his hand, and one of the guards had gone to the door while his colleague watched from the desk, poised to press an alarm button that would alert the other two security guards patrolling the building as well as the local police station should anything untoward occur. So his eyes had been on his partner and the messenger outside (the latter insisting that delivery forms had to be filled in and signed before he released the package) and not on the screens behind him. The ruse had allowed Halloran to negotiate the more exposed locations without being seen. Naturally a risk was involved, but human reaction being what it is, the risk was slight. The rest of the journey had been simple (simple, that is, for someone like Halloran): the private elevator, the "pacification" of Monk and Palusinski, the entry into his, Kline's, bedroom. No big deal (and heads were already rolling in the corporation's office that morning as specialists from Achilles' Shield revised Magma's security arrangements).

  Someone else and you could be dead. Kline remembered Halloran's words. Not quite that simple, Halloran, he thought. No, not quite that easy.

  He smiled, and Cora was puzzled by the sudden burning intensity in his eyes.

  The Mercedes was slowing, the left indicator blinking. Halloran turned the car off the main road, then picked up speed again, their surroundings soon vignetting into green fields and hedgerows, with few houses between.

  Cora noticed Halloran occasionally glancing into the rear-view mirror, but his reflected eyes betrayed nothing. He had warned Monk not to look back, and she herself followed the instruction. Their car maintained a steady speed, and still Cora could not detect from Halloran's manner whether or not they were being followed.

  Several minutes passed before he reached again for the radio transmitter.

  "Hector-One."

  "Hector-Two. Over."

  "Tag's still with us, keeping well back."

  "Yeah. We made out three occupants. Want us to block them?"

  "No. No offensive until we're sure. There's a village ahead. Pull in somewhere and let 'em by. Follow at a distance and come up fast if they make a move. Out."

  "Will do. Out."

  Houses quickly loomed up, then they were into the village, a hamlet really, only a few houses on either side of the road. Halloran saw the small filling station and knew where his backup would pull into. He checked the mirror as the Granada slowed into the driveway. The blue Peugeot soon came into view, and he put his foot down a little to give them cause to hurry.

  He had taken a more circuitous route than necessary to Kline's country house, but now they couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes away. If these people were hostile, he wanted them to make their play soon, before they were too close to home. He preferred to keep trouble off the doorstep.

  He eased up on the accelerator, inviting in the possible pursuer. The Peugeot increased speed, coming up fast, beginning to fill the rearview mirror.

  Halloran had faith in the "hardened" vehicle he was driving. The door panels, trunk, roof, and engine compartment were armored with Kevlar, aluminum oxide ballistic ceramic tiles, which was lighter than the old-style heavy steel plate that tended to render a vehicle clumsy and so impede its performance. The windows were of layered bullet- and blast-resistant glass, and the tires were compartmentalized and self-sealing so that speed need not be reduced should they be punctured by bullets. Even the gas tanks, main and reserve, consisted of separate cells that would limit the outbreak of fire should they be pierced.

  The French car was directly behind now, only feet away from the Mercedes' reinforced bumper.

  "Sit back," he told Kline, whose face was still close to Halloran's shoulder. "And keep low, legs against the back of the front seat, as though you're resting. Cora, they'll be coming up on your side, so brace yourself. You'll be okay— they'd need a bazooka to dent this tub."

  "Speed up," Kline urged. "Don't let them get alongside us!"

  "Stay low," Halloran calmly repeated. "They may be no threat at all."

  "Why take the chance? I don't like this, Halloran."

  "Trust me."

  Cora wasn't sure if Halloran's tone was mocking.

  Monk had drawn his revolver by now. Halloran didn't even look his way but said, "Keep that bloody thing tucked into your lap and don't even think of using it unless I tell you."

  They were rounding a bend, and the Peugeot was straddling the middle of the road ready to pass.

  Halloran continued to instruct the bodyguard. "Put your elbow on the sill and keep your left hand in sight. You know how to act nonchalant?"

  The American grunted something.

  "Okay," said Halloran. "Here they come. See that church steeple in the distance? I want you all to keep your eyes on that. No watching our friends here."

  The road had straightened, and a clear stretch lay ahead for at least half a mile. The Peugeot drew level with the Mercedes' rear wheel, and Halloran deliberately glanced over his shoulder and touched his brakes, a gentlemanly gesture to allow the other vehicle to pass by. His hand tightened on the steering wheel, holding it steady, as the Peugeot inched its way alongside. He could feel the occupants' eyes on him, and his senses sharpened to such a degree that he could smell new-cut grass under the gasoline fumes, even though all windows were closed, could hear the Mercedes' tires rumble over the road's hard surface, could feel the pounding of machinery beneath the hood of the car. The acuteness of danger overlaid all those sensings.

  Halloran smiled at the other driver, nodding at the deserted road ahead, an indication that he was leaving the way clear.

  The Peugeot suddenly accelerated even more, then was by them, tail rapidly receding into the distance.

  "Hogshit," grumbled Monk.

  "You scared us for nothing, Halloran," Kline complained. "Bastard, you scared us for—"

  "Keep down," Halloran warned.

  There was yet another bend ahead, and the blue car had disappeared around it.

  Kline's mouth dropped. He snapped back into his seat and said, "You're right. They're there."

  The Peugeot was parked across the road, blocking it completely. A fence lined one side of the road, trees the other. The occupants of the car were outside, crouched low behind the bodywork.

  Halloran slammed on the Mercedes' brakes and the car screeched to a halt, rubber burning off into the concrete in straight black lines. He immediately shifted into reverse and stabbed down hard on the accelerator pedal, throwing his passengers forward, then back into their seats.

  Monk's revolver had slid onto the floor and he doubled over, restrained by his seat belt, pudgy hands scrabbling at the floor to reach the weapon. Cora lurched forward again, propelled by the reverse motion of the car. Kline had already scrambled down into the well between backseat and front.

  Halloran increased speed, looking over his shoulder through the back window, both hands still on the steering wheel. The bend in the road loomed up fast. He began the turn, hardly slowing down at all, the passengers hurled to one side, traveling around the curve and out of sight of their attackers. He straightened the car, increased speed.

  Suddenly Halloran stamped on the footbrake, rapidly turning the steering wheel as far as it would go. The Mercedes responded beautifully, making a 180-degree turn so that it faced the direction in which it had been reversing.

  Hard on the accelerator again, and they were away, scorching road, using its full width.

  The backup Granada was hurtling toward them and Halloran swerved over to the left-hand side of the road, both cars screeching to a halt beside one another. He was already snapping orders before the electric window was fully down.

  "Hostiles just around the bend. Stop them following."

  "You want us to engage?" the other driver sho
uted back.

  "Not if you can help it—I saw guns in their hands. I'll use another route to Home."

  The cars took off at the same time, the exchange taking no more than seconds.

  "Am I safe?" came Kline's querulous voice from the back.

  "Not yet," Halloran replied, looking into the rearview mirror in time to see the Granada disappear around the curve. He returned his attention to the way ahead, on the alert for possible support for the "hostiles." A van was approaching, two more cars behind that. He pressed the button to raise his window and made ready to accelerate or slam on the brakes yet again, whichever course of action might prove necessary. The line of vehicles passed without incident and he checked the mirror once more. Still nothing coming up from behind, the van and cars continuing to travel away from the Mercedes. He felt some of the tension ease from him.

  Kline was back by his shoulder. "Why didn't you tell your guys to shoot the bastards?" he demanded angrily.

  "This is Surrey," Halloran told him, "not the Middle East. Gun wars are frowned upon here. Besides, they're not armed at present, a condition that'll have to be changed, I think."

  "Listen to me, Halloran . . ." Kline began to say when the radio transmitter interrupted.

  "Hector-Two."

  Halloran reached for the handset. "Hector-One. Give me the news."

  "They were gone before we rounded the bend. We drove on, but there was a junction not far ahead—they could've gone off in any direction. Our guess is that they'd spotted us earlier, so didn't hang around or try to follow when you got away."

  "You made out the license?"