Omega (45 page)

'Right, then, Mr Underwood - what's your first name?'

'Gareth.'

'So you're a genuine messenger, from Big Chief Harley himself. And you heartily disapprove of the message you bring but you're a professional so you'll deliver it faithfully. . . . Water, soda or straight? No ice, I'm afraid.'

'Very little water, please.' He was genuinely astonished; shrewdness was one thing but this was outside his experience. He smiled back at her, deliberately. 'Messengers have no opinions - if, as you say, they are professionals.'

'Haven't they, Gareth? But leave that for the moment. What does Harley want from us?'

'Help from the Angels of Lucifer against the white witches.'

John said: 'Angels of Lucifer! That was a try-on, wasn't it?'

'The Angels have proved their effectiveness in a very dramatic way, over Ben Stoddart. If you weren't the Angels, Harley wouldn't be so interested in your cooperation. . . . Intelligence Section may not be clairvoyant but they're reasonably efficient in their own way.'

Karen laughed. 'All right, give you that one. We'r
e the Angels of Lucifer, and
if
we made a deal with Harley, he'd get his money's worth. But what
is
his "money"? Actual cash would be so much waste paper on Surface. What's he offering?'

'It's part of my mission to find out what you need. Food, equipment, medical supplies, horses, weapons -
you
know what would be useful to you and he's prepared to be generous.'

'I see. And in exchange, he wants us to fight the white witches. Does he mean magically? Surely he doesn't believe in magic?'

'Y
ou killed Ben Stoddart,' Gare
th pointed out. 'You took over this village without any need for violence, in the ordinary sense. You have fifty to a hundred square kilometres completely under your thumbs. So whether your methods are magical, or "normal" screened by clever propaganda, is almost academic. The point is that you
succeed.
And Harley appreciates successful allies.'

'Oh, I like this man, John, don't you? He'd make a lovely diplomat. . . . Has Harley got any specific targets in mind?'

'Yes. The New Dyfnant group.'

There was a moment's unexpected silence. Karen did not move but her eyes seemed to brighten. John paced across the room, expressionless, and stood looking out of the window with his back to Karen and Gareth.

'I will
not
harm Dan and Moira Mackenzie themselves, Karen,' he said. 'And that's flat.'

Gareth caught Karen's warning glance; while John's back was still turned she laid a finger briefly on her lips. So, Gareth thought; the Mackenzies are John Hassell's old friends and he still has a soft spot for them; but the Black Mamba would have their guts for garters without turning a hair. I have to play along with her but not alienate him. He felt inwardly sick but his brain worked fast.

'I know I'm talking in ignorance,' he said, carefully diffident. 'But isn't there a magical technique called "binding"? To neutralize your opponent's efforts, without doing him any personal harm?'

'There is indeed.' The approval in her voice was unmistakable. 'And John knows it as well as I do. There'd be no need to hurt your pals, darling. But they
do
have to be neutralized, you've said so yourself.... You know more about magic than you pretended, Gareth.'

Engaging frankness called for. 'A good agent does his homework."

Karen laughed and even John seemed to relax a little.

'Have another scotch,' she offered Gareth.

'Please. I haven't tasted Glenfiddich for months.'

'We found a dozen in the cellar. We keep it for special guests.
...
Do you think Big Chief Harley would like a bottle?'

'I'm sure he'd be delighted. But I doubt if I'd be strong-minded enough to take it to him unopened. There are limits even to
my
professionalism.'

This time, even John laughed.

'That wasn't what I had in mind,' Karen said. 'I think it would be a good idea if I took it to him myself.' John's laugh evaporated. 'For God's sake, Karen . . .' 'No, but seriously, darling. This proposal of Harley's is important. And although Gareth's a conscientious messenger - for all his private disapproval, and
he
knows I'm right about that - it's something that ought to be discussed face to face, with the Big Chief himself. . . . Are you offended, Gareth?'

‘N
ot in the least.' Gareth was torn between an acute wariness and the tempting prospect of being relieved of his abhorrent role as go-between.
'I could get you to him safely.’

'But why
you?
'
John cried. 'It's a bloody dangerous trip for a woman. Why not me?'

'Because, my darling male chauvinist, you're needed here, to keep control of things. I wouldn't trust anyone else in charge. As soon as you were gone, there'd be quite a few men hoping you'd never come back.' (Crafty bitch, Gareth thought; watch her undulate her body to drive the point home.) 'But I would came back. All Beehive couldn't stop me.'

'Immunity's one of the things I'm empowered to promise you,' Gareth said. *You certainly would come back. Because this is where Harley wants you.'

'But the journey itself,' John protested.

'How did you get here, Gare
th?' Karen asked.

'Bicycle.'

‘
Horses would be better. We could spare a couple.... Or three, if you like, John; one of the boys could come with a shotgun if it'd make you happier.'

'And I left a gun hidden outside the village,' Gareth said. 'We'd make it all right. . . . Only one thing,' he smiled, 'legend has it you ride about your domain sidesaddle, Karen. I'm sure that helps the tribal chieftainess image, and I'd love to see it
- but I think it would be a littl
e over-dramatic for travelling incognito. Would you object to a normal saddle, just this once?'

'For you, Gareth - even that.'

Gradually, between them, they lightened the atmosphere and watched John become less tense. Within half an hour, it was all agreed. Next morning, Gareth, Karen and a shotgun escort rode away to London.

The escort, a taciturn man called Joe, took his duties seriously. Where he thought there was possibility of an ambush, he always rode ahead to satisfy himself there was no danger. This gave Karen her first opportunity to speak to Gareth alone and she took it immediately it arose.

'You backed me up very well, Gareth,' she said without preamble. 'I'm sure you get the picture; John could
not
be in on the real talking. Harley needn't worry - he'll get what he wants. I can handle John.'

'I'm sure you can handle most men.'

'Yes, Gareth, I can. But
you
needn't worry, either. Bitch I may be but I never bite the postman.'

And Harley? he was tempted to ask. But he held his tongue.

Gareth had been away for five days and Brenda was missing him. She had no one else with whom she could share her unease; the sharing with Gareth had been almost entirely unspoken but there had been a mutual awareness of it (she was sure she did not deceive herself about that) which had somehow made the unease more bearable. And in Gareth's absence, Reggie made it worse. There was an air of expectancy about him, an excited impatience which was also unspoken and which made Brenda feel more excluded than ever from his private thoughts, more than ever the sultan's odalisque whose sphere of usefulness was precisely defined and never to be exceeded. Reggie's habit of using her as a sounding-board, of thinking aloud to her in virtual monologue for the ordering of his own thoughts was now confined to routine trivialities. The matter that really absorbed his attention was never referred to and loomed all the larger in Brenda's anxiety because of its deliberate avoidance.

It's crazy, she thought. When Gareth avoids a subject, I nevertheless feel comforted. When Reggie avoids it, I feel disturbed.

Gareth's call came to her library desk on the morning of the sixth day, and the unexpected sound of his voice gave a lift to her spirits.

'Brenda? This is Gareth.'

'Yes, Gareth. Good morning to you.' There was the unmistakable quality of a radio link on the line and Brenda knew better than to ask where he was. Secret communication-points existed around the country from which agents could contact Beehive and he might be anywhere. 'What can I do for you?'

'Would you please tell our friend that I'm bringing the lady in to see him, at her own request?'

'I'll tell him -
Any idea how soon?'

'By this evening, if the going's easy. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.'

'Right.'

'Be seeing you, then. 'Bye, Brenda.' 'Good luck, Gareth.'

She went straight to Reggie, who was in conference with the Head of Personnel, but admitted her at once on his secretary's announcement - as she knew he would, for she never interrupted him trivially. She greeted the Head of Personnel with a polite apology and handed Reggie the message which she had already typed out. He read it and said, 'Ah
...
Would you be
good enough to arrange accom
modation, my dear? And please let me know as soon as they arrive?' 'Of course.'

They arrived in fact just before seven that evening, Gareth phoning her as soon as they were inside Beehive by the secret entrance. She directed him straight to the guest cubicle she had booked for 'the lady' and was at its door to meet them.

She had been prepared, of course, to dislike the Black Mamba. But she was astonished at the depth and intensity of her antipathy from the moment Gareth introduced Karen to her, and she had no doubt whatever that the antipathy was mutual. They purred at each other suitably, of course, and Brenda saw to the guest's needs with meticulous hospitality before they left her to 'freshen up'; she had ascertained Karen's size, and promised to be back in half an hour with an appropriately unobtrusive uniform.

Alone with Gareth in the corridor, Brenda let out an explosive 'My God!'

Gareth said, 'Yes.'

Forgetting discretion, Brenda went on: 'Gareth, that woman's poison. Highly efficient poison, in full control of herself. If I had any say in it, I wouldn't let her within a hundred kilometres of Beehive - let alone Reggie.'

Somebody else passed them and Gareth waited till he was out of earshot before he replied. Then it was to say, obliquely: 'I'm never quite sure of the boundary between woman's instinct and clairvoyance.'

'You don't have to be a woman to pick up
her
vibes.'

He smiled wrily. 'I can confirm that. . . . Oddly enough, I kind of liked the man, though. He's
become
evil but the thing that started him off would have made
me
bitter, too. But she was evil to start with, I'd say - and with her beside him, knowing exactly what she's doing, he'd never have a chance to draw back.
...
I'd like to tell you all about it, next time we're in the TSA room.'

'Should you, Gareth ?' Having released her feelings, she found discretion was seeping back.

'No, but I will.' Then with a change of tone: 'When's the Chief receiving us?'

'Eight-thirty. Dinner for four in his quarters. I'm to escort her there, and you're to arrive independently. He's being very rumour-conscious on this. Doesn't even want her identified with Intelligence Section. And
I’
m
to cook and serve dinner.'

'Go easy on the hemlock,' Gareth said.

There was no doubt about it, Brenda told herself with growing alarm as the dinner progressed: the rapport between Karen and Reggie was as immediate as the antipathy between Karen and herself. Reggie was at his most charming and he and Karen monopolized the conversation. Almost all of it was about the practical problems of survival on Surface which they discussed as cheerfully as though Karen had just returned from a camping holiday. The rest was about horses for which they shared an enthusiasm. Reggie was delighted to find that she had learned side-saddle from Janet Macdonald herself, which apparently put her among the elite.

How their talk finally tur
ned to serious business, Brenda
could never quite remember.
It must have been over coffee,
because she clearly recalled the
zabaglione
and Karen's
fulsome praise of it. After
that, everything became fright
eningly vague. One sentence stood out in her mind; Karen asking Reggie: 'Do you
really
want to know if it wo
rks?'
- and then Karen's b
ig eyes moving from her face to
Gareth's and back again