Kardinal (23 page)

“CHRISTINE,” said George when he saw who was holding the gun. “I think you’re outnumbered, darling.”

Her eyes stayed on him. Big, bright eyes full of fear, glinting with desperation.

The kind of desperation that makes someone pull a trigger.

He had to play it cool.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two Neb guards had their weapons trained on Murray. Liz Wilson had been shoved into a corner, where she was cowering.

“All I got to do,” he said, “is give them the word, and you’re smeared all over that corridor.”

“You’ll be smeared with me, Fuad,” said Christine Murray.

How the fuck has she got out?
he thought. Whoever fucked up would face judgment tonight with her, Wilson, and the rest of them.

Murray stood in the door. She was shaking. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her hair was matted. She was there for the taking. But she had a gun. And it was pointed directly at George’s face.

His bowels were icy with dread. But he tried not to show that he was scared.

“So what’ll it be, Christine?” he said.

“I can kill you right now,” she said.

She meant it. Or sounded like she did.

He wondered what the two bodyguards were doing behind him. If they had a clear shot, Murray should have been dead. Perhaps if he shuffled to the right or to the left, they’d be able to nail her. But if he did, she might just shoot him.

His fear diminished. Having a gun pointed at your face made you jittery. But when you pulled yourself together and realized you had the upper hand after all, the fright faded.

George played his trump card.

“Do you want to see your son again?”

Some good news, some bad
, he thought. The phone call he’d received before he’d spoken to his rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights advisor was a message from the frontline, where the Neb militia were bravely butchering and kidnapping the waste-of-space chavs and the fat-cat bankers.

“We’ve got t
hat kid, David Murray,” the Nebuchadnezzar officer had told him.

Very good news.

Added to the very good news of Lawton’s incarceration in Iraq. Added to the very good news of Kwan Mei’s arrest in Manchester. The bad news was the escape of Mei’s fellow prisoner. He’d legged it while they were being transferred from vehicle to vehicle. George wasn’t going to worry too much about it. The kid would go into hiding. No one would probably see him again. It was a glitch, that was all.

Everything was coming together.

Hearing about her son made Murray flinch. A little twitch. A sign of weakness. A bolthole into her brain. And once he was inside her head, George could wreak havoc.

He’d always been good at that. Finding a flaw in people. And once he’d done it, he was like cancer, eating away at their confidence, their hopes.

He’d done it with his own brother.

Alfred’s weakness was that he loved George so much. And that love had the potential to make him weak. But George enjoyed the adulation, so he allowed it. He let the weak spot grow.

“Well, do you?” said George now. “Do you want to see your kid? If you kill me, you never will.”

“You don’t know where David is,” she said, panic in her voice.

“Why shouldn’t I know where he is?”

“You don’t know.”

“Christine, my darling, I know everything. I am the man. The man in the know. The man in charge. I know.”

The doubts made her brittle.

“You know,” he said, “that we picked up your little Chinky friend in Manchester? She’s on her way down here.”

“You’re lying,” she said. Her hands shook, the gun getting heavy. Her heart like lead, he imagined. Thinking about her son. Missing him. Broken up about not seeing him. George knew a mother’s love could be strong, but it could also make a woman vulnerable.

He showed his hand and played his cards: “I have your son, Christine.”

She made a funny noise, like an animal in distress.

“You can see him soon, if you like,” he said. “Or not. Up to you. I’m sure he’s missing his mum, ain’t he. Young fellow. Not seen you in an age. Crying his heart out, no doubt.”

She had no cards left.

She burst out in tears.

Her gun hand sagged.

George lunged forward, followed by the two bodyguards.

He slapped Murray in the face and snatched the gun out of her hand.

The guards went for her, but he stopped them.

He watched her roll up into a ball on the corridor floor. She was shaking and crying and looking up at him.

“You bastard,” she was saying, “you fucking, monstrous bastard.”

“Thanks,” he said. His phone rang. “Oh, Avon calling.” He answered it and listened and said, “See you in a second.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “What’s that Paul Simon song? ‘Mother And Child Reunion’, that’s it.”

The door at the far end of the corridor flew open. Two Nebuchadnezzar militia men shoved a young boy into the passageway. He was dirty, his hair matted. His clothes torn. His shoes too big.

Murray screamed her son’s name and was up on her feet in a flash.

The boy yelled for his mum and stumbled down the corridor towards her.

They fell into each other’s arms and cried and howled, while George laughed at them and thought how nice it was of him to let a mum and her kid face his wrath together.

PART SEVEN. RESURRECTION.

Al-Askandariyah, Iraq – 5pm (GMT + 3hours), 20 May, 2011

HER eyes burned red, her fangs brushed Laxman’s throat, and he said, “OK, OK, I’ll fucking tell you, just get this fucking witch off me.”

After the street fight with Laxman, and in the chaos that ensued, Lawton had handcuffed the mercenary and tossed him in the Toyota’s boot.

Ereshkigal, protected against the sun by the burkha, had terrified the crowd by killing Ashton.

The panic had given Lawton the chance to get the Land Cruiser started. Ereshkigal, encased head to toe in the black garment, leapt in next to him. She had said nothing. They had looked at each other for a second. Although her eyes were hidden behind the face-veil, Lawton felt her gaze on him.

Then, he’d sped off.

With the authorities at sixes and sevens, they’d fled the city and driven through Al-Mahmudiyah, the southern district known as “The Gateway to Baghdad”. That morning it was the gateway out of Baghdad.

Lawton’s plan was to hit Highway 8, south, and head for Hillah. But they would be hunted. And in daylight, so soon after the incident in Baghdad, they would be sitting ducks.

He left the main highway and made his way along dirt tracks. He even doubled back a few times. He was trying to out-think the authorities, trying to stay one, or even two, steps ahead of them.

At Al-Askandariyah, an ancient city named after Alexander the Great, they stopped. They had only driven twenty-five miles out of Baghdad but had spent most of the day doing it.

They needed a break, and he needed the truth.

Laxman had been in the boot for a while. They had made sure he had water, passing it through a compartment in the back seat. While they did so, Laxman swore at them and threatened them, before finally trying to bribe them with treasure “from this dig I’m protecting”.

Lawton, wearing Ashton’s jacket over his bloody kurta, had gone looking for food and fuel. He was confident he’d given the authorities the runaround. He knew how to make himself invisible.

When he got back to the Toyota, it was dark, and Ereshkigal took off her burkha. She was still in her white dress. Her hair looked blacker than ever, her skin paler. But her red eyes burned. Lawton was transfixed for a moment. But then he said, “I need you to scare the shit out of our friend in the boot.”

She had nodded.

“I’ll fucking tell you, I’ll fucking tell you,” said Laxman. “Just get this thing off me.”

Lawton sat in the driver’s seat, smoking a roll-up. Ereshkigal was terrorizing Laxman in the back seat.

Jake looked around. They were parked in an alleyway. It was quiet and dark.

“Go ahead, Laxman,” he said.

Laxman started. He’d been hired by Howard Vince, former Chief of the General Staff and now head of Armed Forces for the Nebuchadnezzars, apparently. “He’s just gone back to the UK,” said Laxman. “Or I’d hand him my resignation. He said nothing about fucking witches.”

Ereshkigal hissed at him, and he flinched.

He went on:

“White Light Ops was employed to handle security at an archaeological dig in Hillah. Run by this guy called Fuad. Arab name, but he’s English through and through. Typical Bulldog Brit.”

Lawton nodded. Alfred Fuad was in Iraq. He’d guessed that much.

“Fuck knows what they’re digging for,” Laxman said. “He’s been vague. But there are rumours. Artefacts connected to some god, some Nimrod, a mummy.”

Ereshkigal made a yearning noise.

Laxman cringed. “What the fuck?”

Ereshkigal lunged at the mercenary. “I will kill him.”

“No, wait,” said Lawton. “We need him.”

“Yeah, you fucking need me,” said Laxman.

“For what?” Ereshkigal said.

“To get to where you want to go,” Lawton told her.

Ereshkigal sat back down.

Lawton relaxed a little. His head hurt badly, the false eye now burning in his skull. The material encased in the glass had seeped out and merged itself with his nerves. He could do nothing about it. At least not now. Later perhaps. When all this was done. When he’d achieved his objectives. After everyone was safe, he’d finish this. He’d sort this pain. He’d never let anything alien or undead take over his body. If he was being re-born as something that wasn’t fully Jake Lawton, he’d abort it.

He touched his side, where Khoury had shot him.

The wound was healing. It throbbed but didn’t hurt. He should be dead or sick. But he felt more alive than ever. Was the vampire DNA he despised so much keeping him alive?

He thought about Khoury. He hoped the young police officer was OK. He’d seen him flee while Ereshkigal killed Laxman’s men.

He looked at her. She had crossed the country to come to him. Forced a young man to drive her to Baghdad and then killed him. She was cruel, and it appalled Lawton. But she was devoted, too. She had brought him the spear. Kept it safe and returned it. He just wasn’t sure about her motives, but for now she was a very useful ally.

He glanced at Laxman and said, “You’re going to take us to the dig.”

“You what?”

“Wasn’t that the plan?”

“The plan was, Lawton, you fuck, to make sure you didn’t leave Baghdad alive.”

“You screwed up. I am leaving Baghdad alive, and I’m leaving with you as my hostage.”

Laxman shrugged. “Gladly, pal. My men are there.”

“We’ll introduce them to Ereshkigal. She’ll like that.”

Lawton started the Toyota and drove south.

“FUAD told me they were looking for buried artefacts, Babylonian gold,” Laxman said.

They were back on Highway 8. Lawton wanted to make it to Hillah before dawn. Before Ereshkigal had to go into hiding.

It was about 8.15pm. The road was busy, traffic filtering in and out of Baghdad. He kept glancing in the rear-view mirror for army or police vehicles. But Lawton’s tactics of doubling back, taking a longer route, and generally doing the opposite of what someone running away would do, had given the authorities the slip.

He wasn’t resting on his laurels, though. He knew the search for him would intensify. He had to be on alert.

Taking the decision he did to delay his progress to Hillah in order to avoid the authorities had already put Aaliyah at further risk. It was likely that she was in the area already. But if he had raced down to Hillah, using Highway 8 all the way in broad daylight, he would have been caught. And what use would he be to her then?

“So what
is
he digging up over there?” said Laxman.

“Hell,” said Lawton.

Ereshkigal growled.

Her started to think what would happen when they got to Hillah. He and Ereshkigal had some kind of pact. But would that last? He wasn’t stupid enough to think it would. The knots that bound their allegiance were already fraying.

Their objectives were at odds with each other. He wanted to kill Nimrod. She wanted to be reunited with him. A clash was inevitable.

Lawton kept an eye on Laxman. The mercenary stared out of the window at passing traffic. His brow was furrowed. He was thinking. Thinking about how Fuad and Vince had misled him, hopefully.

Lawton decided to stir.

“He’s lied to you.”

“And cost me good men.”

“Fuad wants to release Nimrod on the world.”

“That’s his call.”

“You’ve been keeping well away from the vampire plague, Laxman.”

“I sure have, mate.” He glanced at Ereshkigal. “Bit too close to one, now, I can tell you.”

“When Nimrod comes, there’ll be nowhere to hide. If Fuad and his brother have their way, the world will be infected.”

“Then I’ll have to fight.”

“You think you can fight them? This woman overpowered you. Imagine what an army of them would do.”

Laxman fell silent for a few seconds.

After a while he said, “So if this vampire here – ”

“I have a name,” said Ereshkigal.

“All right,” he said. “If… this one is Nimrod’s wife, as she says, how come she’s not killing you if you’re planning to kill her husband?”

“We have an allegiance,” said Ereshkigal.

“She needs me, and I find her quite useful,” said Lawton.

“Needs you?”

“To get back to Hillah,” said Lawton.

“And what happens when she does get back?” Laxman asked. “One of you will have to kill the other.”

I know all that
, thought Lawton.
I don’t need reminding of it
. But he said nothing.

But Ereshkigal spoke. “Maybe we will kill you instead,” she said.

“Vampires,” said the mercenary. “Who’d have believed in them ten years ago? And here we are: the bloody world’s crawling with them – and I’m sharing a ride with one of the bastard things.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Lawton said, “Did you notice Fuad and Vince and some of the others wearing red rags, scraps of material?”

“So what?”

“Alfred’s got a ponytail, and it’s tied with a red rag, isn’t it?
” said Lawton.

“Your point?”

Lawton stopped the Toyota on the side of the Highway and turned to look at Laxman in the back seat. He showed him his eye.

“See this? Made of the same stuff.”

Laxman wrinkled his nose.

“You know what it is?” said Lawton. “This stuff in my eye?”

Laxman shook his head.

Lawton told him what it was.

Laxman curled his lip.

Lawton noticed a pair of aviator sunglasses poking out of Laxman’s breast pocket. He leaned over and took them out. He
slid them into the breast pocket of his kurta.
Useful to hide the damaged eye
, he thought. He said, “Believe it or not, it keeps vampires at bay – it protects people from them.”

Lawton caught Ereshkigal looking at him. She was going to say,
It doesn’t protect you from me
. But she stayed quiet. And he silently thanked her for it.

“You haven’t got one, Laxman. Fuad didn’t worry about keeping you safe, then. You and your men are expendable.”

Laxman still looked perplexed.

Lawton started up the Land Cruiser again and accelerated into traffic. He said, “My guess, he was going to let you die if it came to it. Your money’d be no good then, Laxman. Your Swiss bank account.”

Lawton allowed Laxman to digest the information.

In the distance, the lights of Hillah flickered. It was home to nearly 400,000 people. A modern conurbation so close to an ancient metropolis.

“Anyone else we need to know about at Fuad’s compound?” said Lawton.

Laxman’s eyes flashed as if he’d remembered something: “We had a couple of prisoners come in, trespassers.”

Lawton’s stomach lurched. His eye suddenly ached, and he slowed the vehicle down.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“Some foreign geezer with a walking stick, and some bird. A real fox. Dark skinned. Black hair. Tall. Fucking Amazon. Looked a bit like that Beyoncé bird.”

Lawton gripped the steering wheel tight, his knuckles going white.