The Shadow Project (16 page)

“B
usy day, miss,” Harry Byrne remarked as they climbed into the back of the car. He looked just the tiniest bit annoyed.

“We're taking Michael home,” Opal told him. She doubted he'd question the trip. Home in this instance was Blandings, Michael's uncle's place, a small manor house on about three hundred acres. It was a short drive.

Danny clambered into the car after them. “Nice wheels,” he said. “Let's go.” He glared at the back of Harry's head and repeated urgently, “Let's go.” He reached out, squeezed Opal's hand reassuringly, then let it go.

Opal glanced at him in surprise. He was an odd sort of boy and she was growing rather fond of him, but she wasn't sure what his gesture meant. Considering the circumstances, it probably didn't mean very much.
She pushed the thought aside. She desperately wanted to know more about what he'd seen, but there was no question of talking in front of Harry. Everything would have to wait until they reached Blandings.

They huddled together in the back of the car, Opal between the two boys, as Harry pulled away. Opal's mind was racing as she tried to take in what was happening. She wanted to talk a lot more about
sohanti
, about the little bat creatures, about Danny's astonishing story, about the thing that killed Fran, but, incredibly, what she actually heard herself asking was, “What's your first language?”

“Cockney,” Danny said, and grinned.

Despite everything, Opal cracked a smile. “No, yours, Michael.”

“French. Mali used to be a French colony, and French is still the lingua franca.”

They were almost at their destination before she realized what a clever pun he'd made.

It was growing dark by the time they reached Blandings. Opal noticed at once that the grounds were in better condition than the house, as if Michael's uncle liked gardening but couldn't care less if his home was falling down.

As they climbed from the car, Opal said, “You can go back to the Project now, Harry. We're staying
overnight.” Assuming Michael's uncle had no objection. It suddenly occurred to her that they were taking a lot for granted. Including the fact that Harry wouldn't start to ask awkward questions.

But all he said was, “Yes, miss,” and then he drove off at once, leaving them standing in the courtyard.

“I have a key to the side door,” Michael said, which suited her just fine, since it meant they could get in without disturbing his uncle. She could call her father, tell him what had happened, then plan what to do.

They walked together a little awkwardly, not saying anything, their steps crunching softly on the gravel. Since they'd left the Project, Danny had been very quiet—apart from his Cockney joke, he hadn't said a single word in the car, but she noticed that he was keeping close to her: very close. Michael hadn't said much either and the silence made her nervous, but somehow she did not have the courage to break it.

The side door was up a short flight of stone steps. They reached the top, and Opal waited with Danny in the shadow of the porch while Michael fished through his pockets for the key. He found it eventually, pushed it into the lock, then paused and looked at Opal. “I think perhaps I should tell you…,” he began uneasily, then stopped.

“Tell me what?” Opal asked.

He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Nothing,” and turned the key.

He led them through a cluttered back hall and down a short corridor, then pushed open a door to a living room lit only by the glow of a dying log fire. When he clicked the light switch beside the door, nothing happened. “Damn!” he muttered, “Sorry.” He slipped ahead of her into the room to fiddle with a standard lamp beside the fireplace. It threw a pool of light across the hearthrug, leaving the remainder of the room in gloom. “Sorry,” he said again. “Uncle Hector…” He shrugged helplessly. “Impossible.” As they followed him in, he added, “Can I get you tea? Or a Coca-Cola? Or something?” He sounded faintly desperate.

It was a pleasantly old-fashioned room with bookcases and Asiatic hunting trophies on the walls. There were oriental rugs on the floor, and one glass cabinet seemed to be full of African masks. “No thanks,” Opal said. She wondered what was making Michael so nervous. The way he was acting went far beyond concern for her safety.

“Not for me either, thanks,” Danny echoed. By contrast with Michael, he seemed far more relaxed now that they'd left the Project. He was openly curious about the house, wandering around and examining ornaments before he settled himself in front of a bookcase in a
gloomy corner. He pulled down a book and began to flick through it.

Michael said, “Opal, actually, both of you…” He was sounding even more uneasy than he had at the side door. “There's something—”

“Oh, sorry,” a voice interrupted. “Didn't realize we were entertaining.”

Opal turned. A tweedy man with the most astonishing ginger muttonchop whiskers bustled in. “By God, a young woman as well!” he exclaimed. “About time you bagged one.”

Michael's unease looked as if it might turn to panic. “This is my uncle,” he said. “Colonel Hector Hamilton-Oakes. Retired. Uncle, this is Opal Harrington.”

A large, warm hand reached out to shake her own. “Not Roland's daughter? Last time I saw you, you were yea high—” He held his free hand the height of a retriever from the floor. “Sitting on a horse. Bossy little thing as well. Told me to hold the reins as if I was a bloody groom. She still bossy, Michael? Well, you've changed a bit since then, that's for sure. Got a lot prettier. No wonder Michael fancies you.”

“Uncle!” Michael interjected helplessly.

Uncle Hector smiled at her. “My renegade nephew offered you anything to drink? Should be old enough for gin now, I expect. Or do you prefer whiskey? Got
quite a decent Scotch the other day if I haven't finished it.” He moved away toward a drinks table with several bottles and a cut-glass tantalus.

“No thank you, sir,” said Opal quickly.

Michael began, “Uncle, Opal and I were—”

“Mind if I do?” Uncle Hector was already reaching for an empty glass. “'Fraid I'm a martyr to gin. Habit I picked up in Africa. Tonic helps with the malaria.” He poured himself an enormous gin and added a tiny splash of malaria medication. “Sure you won't? Neither of you?” He raised his glass in salute and spotted Danny in the shadows. “Good God, who are you?”

Michael said quickly, “This is Danny Lipman, Uncle.”

The glass froze in midair. “Lipman? The young—?”

“Danny Lipman,” Michael repeated firmly. He seemed to be making an effort to hold his uncle's eye.

“Well, cheers,” Hector said after a moment. He finished a third of the glass in a single swallow and said to Opal, “It's Hector, by the way. Can't have pretty women calling me
sir.
Makes me feel like a Chelsea pensioner.”

“Uncle Hector,” Michael tried again, “Opal and Danny and I were—”

“Yes, I want to hear all about that. And your father, Opal—talk to him by phone often enough, but haven't seen him face-to-face in years. Sit down. Chair to the
left of the fireplace is fairly comfortable. Don't touch the other one: it's got a loose spring that goes up your backside. Michael can sit there—he's used to it, and besides, it might loosen him up a bit. Danny, pull something over and sit in the light, where I can keep an eye on you; make sure you don't steal the family silver.” He turned back to Opal. “You and I can have a cozy little chat. Father well, is he?”

It was hard not to like Uncle Hector, although she'd no memory at all of meeting him as a child, and her father had never spoken of him either. He was not at all what she'd expected as Michael's uncle. For one thing, he was white. “My father is very well indeed, thank you,” Opal said politely, although she still couldn't quite bring herself to call him Hector.

“Delighted to hear it. Knew your mother too, before she died. She and I were a bit of an item at one time—bet you never knew that. Before she met Roland, of course. Before I married poor Djeneba, come to that.”

“My mother's sister,” Michael murmured, which explained things.

“Actually—” Opal said.

“Actually,” Michael echoed, much more firmly this time, “Opal and Danny and I have things to discuss, Uncle.”

“Don't let me stop you,” Uncle Hector said as he
pulled up a chair for himself, maneuvering it close to Danny's. “Why's it so gloomy in here, by the way? Why have you only put one light on?”

“Because the others won't work,” Michael said a little sourly. “I told you to get new bulbs last week. And the rest of us have things to discuss
in private
.”

Something very strange happened. Sitting there on the edge of the pool of lamplight, Uncle Hector seemed to change. It was as if he was suddenly serious and more imposing. “No you don't,” he said firmly.

Opal looked from Uncle Hector to Michael and back again. She felt vaguely as if she should help Michael out here, although she didn't quite know how. She was still considering what to say when her cell phone rang. Almost immediately, Michael's rang as well. They flipped them open together.

“It's the Project,” Michael murmured.

“So's mine,” Opal said. The momentary relief had been replaced by sudden tension. She still hadn't rung her father, and with her luck, this would be him now.

“Mr. Hanover?” Michael was saying into his phone. Then after a moment, “Yes. Yes, she is.”

“Opal?” It
was
her father. Sounding serious. “Where in the name of heaven have you taken yourself off to?”

“It's all right—I'm with Michael. At his uncle's. His uncle is with us,” she added hurriedly, in case he got the
wrong idea. “I was just about to ring you, Father.”

“How did you get there?” Not “Why?” or “What are you doing?” Somehow “How did you get there?” was typical of her father. She'd never really understood how his mind worked.

Opal said a little sheepishly, “Harry drove us.” Strictly speaking, they weren't supposed to commandeer cars without permission, although Opal often did it.

But all he said was, “Is Harry still there?”

“No, I sent him back.”

“And how long are you proposing to stay with Michael's uncle?”

This was the tricky bit. “Overnight…,” began Opal hesitantly. Her father might so easily misunderstand, but she didn't want to start talking in front of Uncle Hector, partly because of security, partly because she didn't know exactly what was going on, but mainly because no one had asked Uncle Hector if they
could
stay the night. It was so ill-mannered to take things for granted.

Michael closed his phone. He looked oddly distracted for a moment, then glanced at his uncle. Hector stood up and stepped to Opal's side. “Let me speak to him.”

Opal looked at the outstretched hand for a moment, then handed him the phone without a word. Hector
said, “Roland? It's Hector. They're all fine. Yes, young Lipman's here as well.” He paused for what seemed an age, his face impassive, then said, “My responsibility.” He closed the phone and handed it back, then turned to glare at Michael.

“It's started, hasn't it?” said Uncle Hector.

“W
hat's started?” Danny asked suspiciously. There was something in Hector's tone that made him nervous.

Michael turned to his uncle, “Yes, I think so.”

“What's started?” Danny asked again.

“What are you two talking about?” Opal asked.

But oddly enough, it was Danny to whom Uncle Hector turned. “Has Michael told you you're a special boy?”

“What?” Danny asked blankly.

Opal said to Michael, “I didn't realize you'd discussed Danny with your uncle.”

“Uncle Hector knows all about the Project,” Michael said quietly. “And Fran's death.”

You could see the conflict on Opal's face. Danny was pretty sure she was sweet on Michael—lot of signs pointing in that direction, no signs pointing in his own—but
now she was mad at him as well, which might be good news. Besides, Michael deserved her anger; no way he should have been chatting about the Project to anyone outside.

Hector said, “I've spoken with your father.” He shook his head, frowning. “The trouble is that it's out of his control.”

“Somebody going to tell me what we're talking about?” Danny asked, his voice rising.

“Yes, I think that might be quite a good idea.” Opal's tone was tense. She looked from Hector to Michael and back again.

Hector glanced at Michael too, then took a deep breath. “I'm afraid the majority of your Project members have no idea what they're really dealing with.” He looked directly at Opal. “Your father's one of us, but there's only a limited amount he can do.”

“One of who?” Danny asked.

“The thing is,” Hector said, ignoring him, “some people won't believe in the supernatural even when it bites them in the backside. Try to tell them and you're labeled a nut. Doesn't matter who you are—even somebody as well connected as your father, Opal.”

“I think you'd better explain properly,” Opal told him coolly. Danny liked that. She couldn't be much older than he was, but she could hold her own with anybody.

Hector said, “Roland may be nominal head of the operation, but that's just because it's on British soil. It's actually a CIA project, so the real power is Carradine, however much he keeps a low profile. Since he's CIA, he follows the current party line: Sword of Wrath's the big enemy, War on Terror, all that rot. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Sword of Wrath's not the enemy.”

“Could have fooled me,” Danny said.

Hector smiled slightly. “Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't want to meet the Skull's men in the dark. But Sword of Wrath's a symptom, not the cause.”

They were going to get a lecture on foreign policy. Danny could smell it coming. Opal probably thought so too, because she still sounded cool when she asked, “What's the cause then, Colonel Hamilton-Oakes?”

“War in heaven,” Uncle Hector told them.

There was a long, embarrassed pause during which Danny did his level best to suppress a grin.

Opal didn't seem impressed either. “War in heaven?” she echoed as if she couldn't quite believe she'd heard correctly.

“My grandfather was cavalry in the First World War,” Hector said soberly. “My father was a captain in the Second. Why do you imagine those wars were fought?”

Opal clearly started to lose patience because she said, “Actually we have a problem at the Project—”

Surprisingly, it was Michael who cut her short. “It's all right, Opal; Uncle Hector knows exactly what's happening at the Project. If you listen to what he has to say, it may prove helpful.”

Hector took a very small sip of his gin. “They'll tell you it was politics, but politics didn't come into the First World War. Read your history books. Nobody wanted it, but that didn't stop it from happening. It's a bit easier to find superficial reasons for the Second World War—Munich Agreement, appeasement, invasion of Poland—but they don't really stack up either. Neither does the Holocaust. The German people were the most civilized in Europe and by no means the most anti-Semitic. How on earth did the Nazis persuade them to behave the way they did?” He shifted in his seat. “Neither of these wars was about what it seemed to be about. They were both about Good versus Evil, Light versus Darkness. They were about the movements of cosmic currents. Hitler was an occultist. So was the Kaiser. They both allowed themselves to become channels for some particularly dark powers. In effect there weren't two world wars in the twentieth century. There was one great spiritual conflict that manifested on Earth in 1914 and again in 1939. But it didn't stop in 1945. It manifested again in the Korean War and the Vietnam War and the Pol Pot regime in Cambodia and ethnic
cleansing in the Balkans and two Gulf Wars and God knows how many civil wars in Africa.” His eyes flickered back and forth between Opal and Danny as if willing them to believe him. “It's still going on today.”

“Good versus Evil?” Danny said. “Right.” He glanced over at Opal. “One way of looking at it.”

Hector gave a thin smile. “This isn't about viewpoint, Danny. Sometimes the hidden powers manifest of their own accord. It's as if they take over people and involve them without their even knowing it. But sometimes particularly evil people tap into the powers quite deliberately to further their own ends. It may have happened with the Kaiser. It certainly happened with Hitler.” He glanced from face to face, then went on soberly, “It's happening again now with the Skull—or at least with his chief adviser, Farrakhan.”

The name brought Danny up short. “You know about Farrakhan, then?”

Hector said, “The Skull's political, pragmatic, but Farrakhan's no politician, not by a long shot. Before they teamed up, Farrakhan was a marabout, a sort of hermit, living in the mountains. He claims to have spent time studying
ilmu al-hikmah
—Middle Eastern occultism. We believe he specializes in
ilmu khodam,
the art of summoning spirit servants.”

Out of the corner of his eye Danny saw Opal lean
forward suddenly in her chair. There was an image in his head of the thing that had killed Fran, another of the towering shape he'd seen in the cellar. Was that what Hector meant by a spirit servant?

But Hector was still talking. “Farrakhan's a natural psychic as well as an occultist. He knows about things like astral projection—they probably call it by some trendy initials in the Project, do they, Michael?”

Michael nodded. “RV for remote viewing. Or OOBE.”

“Out-of-body experience,” Hector sniffed. “But whatever you like to call it, Farrakhan's one of those rare individuals who can see your second body while they're still in the physical. He found out that the Americans were using astral projection in their intelligence work—probably spotted an agent in his second body. We believe he brought that knowledge to the Skull, managed to convince him it was more than mystic flimflam, and used it to get his current position of power in
Épée de la Colère
. I'm fairly sure Opal was the first agent they actually captured. They must have been furious when she escaped.”

“These spirit servants,” Danny said. “Do they have teeth and claws?”

Hector stared at him. “Some of them.”

Opal said, “How do you know all this?”

“The problem,” Uncle Hector said, “is that the CIA
and even our own intelligence services have begun to take an interest in areas that don't properly concern them. Astral projection is a very ancient spiritual practice—it can be used to access different levels of reality. But the CIA never looked beyond using it for spying. They don't believe there
is
anything beyond that. They operate with a very dangerous mix of ignorance and arrogance. They think because they've developed some electrical technologies, they know all there is to know. They're not aware of the hidden realities.”

Michael said, apparently in answer to Opal's question, “Uncle Hector is a member of the Priory of Mons.”

“What's the Priory of Mons?” Danny asked.

“An organization that has studied spiritual technologies since the early Middle Ages,” Hector told him.

“He means a secret order of magicians,” Michael said. “Like you, Danny, Uncle Hector is
sohanti.”