The Shadow Project (24 page)

I
t was pandemonium. The steel doors that had sealed off the tunnel lay twisted and shattered. Eight broken bodies lay in the tunnel entrance, their blood splattered on the walls, their chest cavities ripped open. Rifles were scattered across the floor, bent out of recognition by the beast. Some soldiers panicked and fled. Others formed ranks and, despite Sir Roland's shouted orders, stood their ground and opened fire. A hail of bullets struck the Devourer, but the creature kept coming.

George Hanover cursed and dropped back. Carradine stepped forward, assumed a shooting-range stance, and opened up with his semiautomatic. He seemed to be aiming at the creature's head, but if his bullets hit, they made no more difference than the body shots of the soldiers.

Roland drew his own gun, not because he thought he would do any better than Carradine, but as a symbol of authority. The situation was almost out of control, and
he had to do something before he lost it completely. He moved beside Carradine and said quietly into his ear, “Stop shooting, Gary.”

Carradine looked at him in surprise but did as he was told. Roland turned and gestured to George Hanover. “Get the men out,” he said firmly. “All of them. Use the service lifts. Firepower won't stop it, and if we keep trying, we'll only have a bloodbath.”

Hanover asked suspiciously, “Do you know what this thing is, Rollie?”

Their only hope was retreat into the complex—retreat or rout: it was no time for fine distinctions. The creature had smashed through bombproof steel doors, but even so, it could not possibly get inside the Project complex. Once they had the men safely down below, they could disable the elevators and heighten security. Nothing could reach them, provided they moved fast. Roland took a deep breath. “Get the men out,” he said again, “then go to Code Purple.”

Carradine stared at him, stunned. “
Nuclear
alert?”

Roland nodded grimly. A Code Purple nuclear alert would seal the entire complex against a tactical nuclear attack. The metal shielding was nearly four feet of special titanium alloy, coated with lead for the radiation. It was approximately thirty times stronger than the massive steel doors that had just shattered, designed to withstand
an atomic detonation. Not even Farrakhan's beast could break through that.

Hanover said, “You know we'll have to notify the prime minister?”

“Tell him it's a drill,” Roland ordered. “We need breathing space to figure out what to do.”

The thing reached the first rank of soldiers who'd stood their ground by the tunnel. It attacked the nearest man and began to rip into him. “My God!” Carradine exclaimed. He looked as if he might be sick.

“You want me to tell him about—?” George Hanover glanced toward the beast.

“Tell who?”

“The prime minister.”

“Oh, for God's sake, George!” Roland exploded. “Tell him what you like. Just get the men out of here. While it's distracted.”

Some of the soldiers in the squad by the tunnel had already broken ranks to start a disorderly retreat, but to Roland's horror, reinforcements were emerging from the bowels of the Project behind him. Carradine ran toward the squad commander, shouting orders. Hanover started to move back toward the elevators, then stopped. “What are
you
going to do, Roland?”

“Move it, George,” Roland snapped. “You're an older man than I am—I'll follow you in a minute.”

Hanover turned without a word and ran. He wasn't fast, but he was fast enough. Roland spun around and saw to his relief that the rest of the men near the entrance were now retreating, Carradine with them. Roland was terrified that Farrakhan's creature would launch another attack, but for the moment it was squatting on the bodies of the men it killed, ignoring the others while it feasted. “Quickly!” Roland shouted. He began to run toward the elevators himself. The last of the soldiers and Carradine disappeared through the elevator doors but held them open, waiting for him. He was only moments away when the beast attacked again.

He could not believe how quickly it could move. The thing was like a charging bull, an express train. Roland's heart froze. There was absolutely no way he could reach the lifts in time. “Go!” he shouted to Carradine and the rest, but the doors remained stubbornly open.

Roland stopped in his tracks. If the creature reached the service elevator before the doors closed, the Project was finished. It would make short work of Carradine and the soldiers—and while it might not be able to work the controls, once George Hanover initiated the lockdown, the elevator would be withdrawn automatically, carrying the beast into the bowels of the complex.

“Close the doors!” Roland shouted. “That's an order!” He saw Carradine slap a button, but the doors
were shutting far too slowly. In his mind's eye, he could see the creature prying them apart again and savaging the men within.
Unless,
he thought suddenly,
it stopped to feed again…

Without a second's hesitation, Roland ran toward the beast. “Sir Roland—no!” someone shouted behind him. But he ignored it; and it was, in any case, too late. The Devourer loomed over him, reached for him—

Then, like the flicker of a candle flame, the creature disappeared.

T
he spear pulled free.

At once the cavern was filled with the acrid smell of ozone, as snakes of static electricity wriggled along its length. The huge bearlike creature dropped deadweight from its cross, narrowly missing the three to fall with a thud on the cavern floor. Danny found himself holding the spear as the others jumped back. The weapon crackled and glowed. He dropped it hastily.

The bear thing rolled, then climbed to its feet. It seemed to grow taller as it did so. Within seconds it was a colossus, almost filling the huge cavern. Then the cavern itself shattered, leaving them standing on an open plain. Beyond the remnants of the cavern, a massive pentagram of fire burned on the barren earth. Within it, as if waiting for them, stood the tall, imposing figure of a bearded man. Despite the distortions of the astral plane, Danny recognized the fanatical, glittering eyes at once.
“My God, it's Farrakhan,” he whispered.

It was like the scene Danny witnessed in the cellar, except a thousand times more terrifying. Beside Farrakhan crouched the living form of a grotesque stringed puppet, its twisted face instantly recognizable from a thousand newspaper photographs as that of the Skull.

Farrakhan raised his arms and began to chant as he had done in the cellar. His words reverberated like thunder across the open plain. Flames leaped high from the pentagram, and lightning arced from his open palms. It seemed that nothing could withstand him.

But the towering bear thing brushed aside the bolts of lightning as a man might swat a fly. It reached through the flames of the pentagram and seized Farrakhan in a taloned grip. He screamed, but the sound cut off abruptly as his chest ripped open. There was a flash of blinding light as the Devourer reached in for his heart, then stillness.

“It's disappeared,” Danny said. He looked in bewilderment across the empty plain. The creature was gone, as were Farrakhan and the Skull. Even the fiery pentagram had vanished from the barren earth. He looked at Opal. “What do we do now?”

Michael said, “I think we go home.”

I
t was a sunny morning for once, and Hector had organized a breakfast outdoors on his terrace. Sir Roland helped himself to orange juice and sat down with the
Times
to wait for the others. “See that?” he said when Hector finally appeared.

Hector took the folded paper. He frowned. “The thing about the politician and the actress?”

“Below it,” Roland said.

“Ah,” Hector said. “‘Skull Top Aide Killed.' That one?”

Roland looked out across the garden. He sometimes wondered how Hector had managed to survive the war. “That one,” he said.

Hector shook out the paper and began to read aloud. “‘CIA sources claim that Hazrat Farrakhan, a top aide of Sword of Wrath leader Venskab Faivre (aka “the Skull”), has died in his native Lusakistan.'”

“We leaked the wrong place,” Roland murmured. “No sense upsetting people by letting them know he managed to get into Britain.”

“‘Farrakhan's mutilated body was discovered in a mountainous region close to a suspected Sword of Wrath training camp. Indications are that he was savaged by a bear. No further details are available.'” Hector looked up and grinned slightly. “Pointless leaking further details since the ones you did leak are all wrong.”

“It's true enough about his death,” Roland said. “And the one detail we didn't leak was that his heart was missing.”

“I see,” Hector said. He walked over to the side table and poured himself a coffee. “Are you going to tell the kids when they come down?”

Roland nodded. “They deserve to know—it was all their doing.”

Hector sat down. “Will it make a difference?”

“I think it will make a
big
difference,” Roland said. “I think it may even mean the end of Sword of Wrath. Farrakhan was very much the power behind the throne, and now we're getting reports that the Skull is suffering from a mystery illness, which I suspect may have something to do with what happened on the astral plane. We've rounded up his sleeper cell—the ones who helped Farrakhan with the ritual—and we're questioning Uncle
Guy about his relationship with Avramides and Kanska. Opal's been great and young Danny really pulled through for us as well.”

“You keeping him on as an agent?”

“We're sending him to Cambridge. When he comes down, we'll make him an offer he can't refuse.”

“Poor fellow,” Hector chuckled. There were sounds of movement inside the house. He pushed himself to his feet. “Sounds as if your daughter has gotten up. I just want a quick word with her before she talks to my nephew.”

“I
s it true?” Opal asked.

Michael frowned. “Is what true?”

“That you're engaged to be married.”

They were drinking coffee in the Blue Room. Opal was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but Michael was still in his pajamas. Her father and Uncle Hector were on the terrace, lingering over the remains of breakfast.

Michael stared at her, stunned. “How did you know?”

“Your uncle Hector told me. Just now, actually. So it is true?”

Michael's mouth opened and closed like that of a fish. He put his coffee cup down on a side table, picked it up, then put it down again. “Yes, it is true. But he had no right to tell you—it was none of his business.”

“Perhaps he thought it might be some of mine.” Opal was experiencing a surge of dread. Even though an
engagement would explain his odd behavior, she wasn't really sure she wanted all the details. But Hector had insisted she discuss it with Michael “for your own good,” he'd said. And curiosity drove her now. She looked directly at Michael. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

Michael glanced through the French windows at the portly figure of his uncle on the terrace and looked, for a moment, as if he might cheerfully murder him. Then he looked back at Opal. “Did you know I was a direct descendant of the old kings of Mali?”

Opal nodded. “Hector mentioned it.”

“Yes. I thought he might: he likes the idea that I'm a prince, for some reason.” He drew a ragged breath. “The engagement,” he said, “was something I entered into at the age of five.”

Opal's mouth dropped open. “
Five?
You got engaged at the age of
five
?”

Michael looked flustered. “Well, obviously
I
didn't enter into it. Not personally, I mean. It was something the elders arranged. To keep the bloodline pure—the royal line.”

Opal felt a small surge of relief. “Who…who did they engage you to?”

“A Dogon girl,” Michael said. “Someone from a suitable family. She had no say in it, of course. Nor did I, for that matter. When she's eighteen and I'm twenty, we're
supposed to get married.”

It was incredible. “Why?” Opal asked.

“Why are we supposed to get married?” Michael glanced away. “The usual reason—to have children: an heir to the throne.” He caught Opal's expression and added hurriedly, “Not that it makes any difference to anybody now. Mali's a republic. There is no question of reviving the old monarchy.”

“But you still plan to marry this little girl?” Opal asked, appalled.

“She is not a little girl any more,” Michael said. “She is just two years younger than I am.” He looked uncomfortable. “She writes to me.”

“She writes you letters?”

“Yes.”

“What does she say?”

“That she doesn't want to do it,” Michael said.

Opal was experiencing a mixture of emotions: shock, bewilderment, anger. But creeping through them was just the thinnest thread of hope. She took a deep breath. “And do you?” she asked. “Do you want to do it?”

“No.” Michael shook his head vigorously.

“Then what's the problem?”

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It's not as simple as that. This is a question of Mali tradition.”

The thin thread snapped. “So you
do
intend to marry
her? You'll force her because it's Mali tradition?”

“No, of course not.”

“Of course you won't force her, or of course you don't intend to marry her?”

“Of course I don't intend to marry her. Opal, I—”

“And does she intend to marry you?”

Michael shook his head again. “No. She's actually taken a fancy to some boy in Kalana. But until we undergo a release ceremony, we're still officially engaged. And we can't go through the release ceremony until I return to Mali. So at the moment the engagement still stands.”

“So what has this to do with”—Opal hesitated—“me?”

Michael said miserably, “I didn't think it would be…correct to become involved with anyone while I was still engaged to another girl. Even if it was only a formality.”

Danny walked in and headed for the coffeepot on the sideboard. “Sleep well, did you?” he asked cheerfully. “You two in good form after the adventure?”

“Oh, yes.” Opal turned to him and grinned. “Feeling very fine indeed.”