Under Cover of Darkness (18 page)

Kayla waited, ear pressed to the door, until she heard the elevator open and close again. She exhaled a deep and ragged breath. Had she been holding it the whole time? She slid the door chain across and decided to have more dead bolts installed; she'd seen how little help chains could be.

She closed the blinds on her living room windows—the ones she'd made herself when she made Vincent's—and returned to work on her chronograph.

Did Strangway suspect? Had he taken apart Vincent's chronograph, seen how its gears and counterweights, its crystals and wires had been modified?

Vincent had explained the basics of his borrowed time during their hurried trip to the hospital. The chronograph was the key. Simple modifications turned it from a meter for time into a
conduit
to dispense it.

How many others, in the long history of the Guild, had happened upon this secret? How many of those had the Council also “disappeared?”

She'd heard the rumors, of course, the urban legends chronographer trainees told each other. Cross the Guild, they said, and you'll end up in the coma wards, your body kept alive as Guild agents steal away every moment of the rest of your life. . . . She'd never had reason to believe that, until now.

Was that where she'd find Vincent—a John Doe in some faraway coma ward? And would she find other chronographers who'd made the same modifications Vincent had? Did they share his vision? As she soldered wires and reweighted the mechanisms in her chronograph, Kayla vowed to find out.

Janet Deaver-Pack

 

 

S
WEAT STREAMED THROUGH his short mud-brown hair and down the back of Percival St. Croix's neck. Unrelenting sun hammered on his head, shoulders, and back. Climbing a pitted rock spire in the Arabian desert in the middle of the day wasn't his idea of intelligent action, but he needed to speak to the rebel leader on the summit.

Percival grinned, an expression bringing boyish enthusiasm to his oval sunburned face. “The things I do for my Order and people who need my help,” he grumbled aloud, enjoying himself despite the heat.

A twenty-nine-year-old man of forgettable features, mild mien, and average height, Percival's blandness hid remarkable talents. He was the only Advocate of the Rosicrucians, appointed by the eminent Council of Twelve and the Order's leader, a seldom-seen figure known as the Liberator. Percival's lifelong assignment was to seek out and annihilate Chaos.

And now, during the first third of 1917, one of the greatest threats to mankind's peace and security is gaining power in the Middle East,
Percival thought.
The war has little to do with the real menace: conflict between nations makes a convenient curtain for the growing power of Devlin Quint.

He stopped climbing, right hand digging into a crevice while his toes balanced on a protruding bulb of ancient lava. Percival wore smoke-colored lenses rimmed by silver wire to protect his eyes. Lifting them, he swiped a blurring tear from his left eyelid with a brown sleeve. That eye felt tired and grainy, the white likely still deep red from the ritual dust he'd employed yesterday to ferret out his path through the desert.

Settling the lenses back on his nose, he reached upward for the next handhold. Sudden peculiar fluttering, like cotton robes whipped by a dust devil, made him stop. A dark form crossed the sun. Percival looked up, seeing nothing.

“Things are not right here,” he whispered. “I must hurry.”

It took him a good fifteen minutes more to grasp the sand-scoured ledge of the volcanic plug. As Percival's eyes lifted above the shelf, he discovered a dozen rifles pointing at his face.

“The peace and blessings of Allah to you,” he said in calm Arabic to the Bedouin holding the rifles, knowing use of their language would confuse them.
I can tally on one hand all the British in this country who speak Arabic. Two of them are on this blasted rock
. “Please, may I see your leader Aurens?”

They shifted their feet and argued about what to do. Finally one lowered his gun, looked at the top of the ridge, and called, “Aurens. Aurens! Someone asks for you.”

A conspicuous figure in white and gold glanced at Percival, then back out into the desert. “Very well, but not for long.” He turned, skidding down from the summit, spitting Arabic. “You'd better have an extraordinary reason for interrupting us. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Spy, he's a Turkish spy!” suggested several nomads.

Careful of the rifles, Percival levered himself up enough to sit on the ledge. “I wondered where you were, Thomas.” His English wheezed and cracked from dust. “I came partially in response to your letter.”

Captain T. E. Lawrence slid to a stop near him. “Ahmad, get some rope. We'll have to tie him up until we're finished with the train . . . wait.” Lawrence squinted blue eyes beneath sun-bleached brows, barely shaded by his head cloth. “Is it—no, it can't be.” He switched to English. “Percival St. Croix from Jesus College at Oxford, is that you?”

“In the flesh.” He nodded, and couldn't keep mischief out of his tone. “Only you would endeavor to confuse the enemy by wearing Arabic wedding robes, Thomas.”

Malice faded from the nomads as Lawrence held out a hand. Percival stood and took it: dry and gritty, it felt like leather-wrapped bones with a minimum of wiry muscle, very much a part of this desiccating desert.

“What's this?” Lawrence fingered the six-inch Latin cross Percival had pressed to his palm while shaking hands.

“My calling card, the Rosae Crucis.”

Leaning to shade it from the sun, Lawrence studied the cypress cross with its delicate carved rose. He turned it over to scrutinize the mystical symbols on its back. A long moment passed as he considered what it meant. “The Rose Cross.” Turning to the tribesman beside him, he ordered, “Give him water.”

Percival felt as if he'd passed a test as a goatskin bag was thrust into his hands. He upended it, drinking the warm stream of mineral-tasting liquid. He returned it with thanks in Arabic.

Lawrence handed back the cross. “I've heard about the Rosae Crucis, of course, but I've never seen one.” He squinted as Percival's fingers made the cypress disappear, apparently behind a fold of his cloth belt. Indicating his own costume, Lawrence shrugged. “This is a necessary ploy. These were a gift from Prince Feisal, meant to bring me more credibility among the tribesmen I live among these days. And they're much more comfortable than British military kit while riding camels.”

Percival looked deep into the shrewd eyes that had a startling ability to assess both minutiae and men. Suddenly he remembered Lawrence's sensitivity about his short stature. There were four inches of difference between the two. Percival discovered a wide hole in the rock with his toe and eased his sandals into it, putting his and Lawrence's faces on the same level.

“You look well despite this heat,” Percival grated in English, his throat somewhat relieved by the water.

“As well as can be expected.” One side of Lawrence's mouth quirked upward in a wry smile, and he shook his head. “None of us are getting much rest charging around the desert at all hours, chasing trains and befuddling the Turks.”

“By the way, I bring greetings from Prince Feisal. He hopes your mission is going well.”

Lawrence waved a hand at the desert beyond the top of the rock. “So you stopped at the prince's camp. I'm sure he told you that we're awaiting a train along the Hejaz Railway. We're going to blow it off the tracks and pillage what's left. Damned Turks aren't always punctual, but they often send wagons fat with horses, mules, and staples for stations up the line. The only ones we let pass have cars of women and children whom the Turks have decided to uproot and send away.”

He squinted suddenly at Percival. Tension gathered about him like electricity, carrying an unmistakable question.

“Yes,” Percival replied. “I'm here to investigate the odd deaths of Turkish soldiers you mentioned in your letter. And hopefully glean more from the train.”

“I really didn't expect your appearance in the middle of a war zone in Arabia, or your ability to climb rocks,” Lawrence stated in a soft voice. “I thought perhaps you'd reply by letter. Figured that was more your style: you were always quiet at school, chasing from one place to another with an intent look on your face.”

“I had other duties. They more than filled any spare time.”

“I must say, your arrival is a pleasant surprise. Frankly, I'm impressed that you'd come all the way from Feisal's camp to find me.” His expression hardened, looking much like the rock he stood on. “Few of the military higher-ups bother to respond to anything I tell them. I've been talking myself silly to no effect in almost every meeting I've had. Most think this is a mere side-show to the important side of the war.” His voice gained passion. “If they only realized how pivotal this area is!”

“Indeed. I agree with you completely, old chum.”
It's even more important than you think, Thomas.
“What goes on here will set up much of what happens in politics and policy for generations to come. And it will generate problems, too. That's another part of the reason I'm here.”

Lawrence leaned forward. “I had to take a chance and write you. You have some experience with . . . odd goings on, I think. Heaven knows, some strange events happened during our years at school. Excuse me, I need to keep watch on that train.” He turned, climbing crabwise to the top of the rock to check the still-distant Turkish transport. Percival waited as Lawrence gauged the time of the train's arrival, conferred with the lookout, and slithered back down.

Lawrence's intent eyes bored into Percival's ice-blues behind the gray lenses. “You
must
have received my letter.”

“No. Serious consequences necessitated my hasty departure from England. I gained your information through other channels.”

Lawrence's eyebrow lifted. Percival kept his silence.

“I wasn't sure the information would get all the way home, least of all to you.” Lawrence scratched a stub-bled cheek. He hadn't taken time to shave. “It had to go from me, to Feisal, to his father Grand Sharif Hussein by special courier, then into a diplomatic pouch for the trip overseas, then through God knows how many hands in the army. I wouldn't be surprised if it had disappeared. Let's face it, the details within are peculiar.”

Percival nodded.
It almost didn't get to me,
he thought.
Extraordinary means were employed by a Rosicrucian who appropriated the letter as soon as the messenger set foot on English soil. He sent the information on to me by metaphysical means. Otherwise, it would have been buried as nonsense in someone's trash bin at the Home Office, or sent for decryption.

Aloud, he replied, “I found your descriptions quite disturbing, Thomas.”

The rebel leader sighed. “You are the only one I know who might understand what's going on. I hope you can explain it to me.” He peered at Percival, his expression pleading. “You do really have some connection with occult forces, don't you?”

Percival allowed the corners of his mouth to turn slightly upward. “You remember that day at Oxford when you fought invisible flies for twenty-four hours?”

“Yes.” Lawrence's long nose wrinkled. “Nasty, that. Most of the house thought I'd gone barmy, slapping and scratching at nothing.”

“You sprang a trap meant for me. I assure you, the creatures involved were much worse than invisible flies. Thank God they couldn't do much to you except irritate. For me, they would have been poisonous.”

“Knowing I was beset, you could have at least conjured something to help alleviate my misery,” Lawrence said with a touch of sarcasm. “I scratched till I bled.”

Percival lifted his left lens and wiped away moisture from his irritated eye. He kept his voice level. “I helped you as much as I could. I was, however, preoccupied with some nasty things myself for a few days.”

“Is that why you disappeared for a while? The rest of us wondered. Just who are you, really?”

“I'm a dealer in antiquities and a scholar in ancient texts, Thomas. This allows me to roam the world buying artifacts for clients, authenticating antiques, and lecturing. I also sometimes apply expertise in occult subjects to . . . shall we say, certain situations.”

Lawrence's voice gained an eager edge. “Do you have any clue what made those odd marks on the Turks?”

“I won't know for certain until I've had a close look at them. I need to get on that train to find out. Time is of the essence. There's something very wrong here.”

Lawrence looked far into the brassy desert at a dust devil, then turned back to Percival. “I've been pressed into service again on this front,” he said in a quiet, frustrated voice. “I tried to get out, but my superiors sent me back. They said Prince Feisal and the Arab Revolt needed me. That the war needed me.” He shook his head. “This killing and killing; it's too much. I can't bear it.”