Omega (44 page)

'You know about the witch colony in Savernake Forest?'

'The so-called "black" group, sir? Yes, we know of them.'

'I want you, very discreetly, to go and speak with their leaders. Could you manage that?' 'I'm sure we could.'

'Not "we", Underwood - you personally. I'm borrowing you from the Section, and your chief knows this is a confidential mission, not to
be divulged to any of your collea
ges, even to him. You will be briefed by me and you will report to me. You may ask your chief and he will confirm it.'

'Very well, sir.'

'Right. Tell me what you know about the group - or will you have to refer to records first?'

'Only for details, sir. I know the outline. We're almost certain they are the Angels of Lucifer, who ...'

'I know of the Angels of Lucifer. Go on.'

‘
Well, sir, since they commandeered their village base, they're believed to have grown to about thirty or forty strong, possibly more, since a lot of their new recruits come in at night, and in country like that our agents can't watch the whole perimeter. Ou
r men say there's something pur
poseful about the way the new people come in, as though they're being
called
in on a mobilization plan. Only an impression, of course, but a strong one.'

'Interesting.'

'The leaders are a man and a woman. We don't know their names, but all the local people call her "the Black Mamba". A very attractive woman in her middle twenties with long dark hair and a rather oriental face. Type-cast, one might say. She's known as a hol
y terror. The man is perhaps a
year or two older, tall and quiet. The locals are very careful not to offend them, because various unpleasant things happen to those who
do
offend them and some of those things aren't easy to explain.'

'What kind of thing?'

'Two or three apparently causeless deaths. A few fires which have broken out in places that were well guarded. Illnesses which disappeared again as soon the victim toed the line. . . . The general feeling in the Section, sir, is that these incidents
are
natural but so ingeniously organized that they
look
like black magic - which most of the locals believe they
are
.'

'And what's your own feeling, Underwood?'

'Frankly, sir, I'm not sure. I'm keeping an open mind. But anyway, however they're working it, it's very effective. They have everyone within five or ten kilometres doing what they're told. Those who do are left in peace, so now everybody does.'

‘
H'mm
...
Is the group armed?'

'Not heavily, sir. Nobody's seen more than a couple of shotguns. They're brought along by escorts when the leaders deliver a warning in person. They've never been used, so far as we know, except for hunting rabbits and game.'

'How do the group survive? Feed themselves and so on?'

'The village is a vegetable-growing area, sir, with some cattle and pigs and poultry. More or less self-supporting. If they need anything extra, they demand tribute - but never exorbitantly. It looks as though they want the locals disciplined but not antagonized to the point where they move out.'

'They sound very intelligently organized.'

'They are, sir. All our agents agree on that.'

'And ruthlessly "black" in magical terms.'

'They certainly seem out to create that image of themselves,' Gareth said cautiously.

'You don't believe they are, in effective practice?'

'As I told you, sir -
I
keep an open mind.'

'Very professional of you. But whatever the truth of it, Underwood - in practical politics a very interesting polarization is taking place. We know of at least a dozen witch communities that have managed to establish themselves; three are openly "black" in their attitudes and behaviour, the rest "white". The two stances seem quite distinguished and deliberate, but the viability and success of the various groups differ considerably. Two "white" and one "black" have not survived; they were destroyed by local action, with or without undercover Beehive encouragement. The most important "white" centre is in North Wales, in an excellent defensive position and with local public support
...'

'New Dyfnaht. We know about it, sir.' 'Of course you do. The Section is perfectly well aware of all this - but has not, I think, realized the importance of the black/white polarization. . . . We could not, for example, destroy the New Dyfnant group - which, as you doubtless also know, is gro
wing in the same way as the Save
rnake Forest one - short of mounting an overt Army offensive, and the time is not yet ripe for such activity. All anti-witch action must appear to be spontaneous popular anger, for the time being at least. . . . But understand this, Underwood. Savernake and New Dyfnant are natural enemies. And it is to exploit that fact that I want
you
to go to consult with our f
riend the Black Mamba and her -e
r -.consort.'

'"Friend", sir?' Gareth ventured a faint smile.

'She may well prove to be - as long as it suits them and^ us. Are you beginning to understand me?'

'I think so, sir. You want a secret alliance between Beehive and the Savernake Forest group, against New Dyfnant and the other "white" groups.'

'Exactly. Though if I substitute "myself" for "Beehive" in your definition, I hope you won't think it for megalomania. It's merely to underline the extremely confidential nature of any such arrangement.'

'I get the message, sir.'

'Good. Now, you may offer the Black Mamba's group whatever material help they find attractive - food, equipment, weapons, medical supplies - use your discretion; I'll back you up. We'll find ways of getting it to them. As for non-material benefits, you'll have to play it by ear. For example, you can offer them immunity for themselves when Beehive emerges in due course to take charge but I doubt if they'd believe you for a moment. You and I wouldn't, in their place, because there's no way of guaranteeing that the promise would be kept, and they know it as well as we do. But immunity as long as the pact lasts - obviously yes. And there may be
something
they want. Information on the white groups' activities, for example. You'll soon find out, I'm sure.'

'If they'
re willing to talk at all,' Gare
th said, 'they'll tell me what they want. But what help do
you
want out of
them,
Sir Reginald? Guerilla-military? Informational? Or
...
well, magical?'

'Your mind is still open, I see,' Reggie said drily.

‘I
just want to know what I'm expected to ask for.'

'Quite so. You will ask for their
help
against the white groups in general and the New Dyfnant group in particular. Throw "informational" into the ring as a starter. Try to learn, diplomatically, what
they
believe they can do and encourage it. The objective at this stage is to establish the alliance, not to demand specific commitments from their side.'

'But I may make specific commitments from
our
side.'

'You may indeed. There are times when apparent generosity is a good investment and I think this will be one of them.'

'When do you want me to go, sir? Immediately?' 'As soon as possible. But how well versed are you in their particular field of activity - and its language?' 'Black magic, you mean, sir?'

'Black
and
white - though they have a common terminology.'

'No more than the next man, I suppose.'

'Then before you go, spend a couple of days in Miss Pavitt's library - in one of the private rooms, I don't want anyone to see what subject you're studying - and read up on magic and witchcraft. You can advise him about suitable books, can't you, my dear?'

Brenda- said: 'Of course. And he can use the TSA room - his rating allows it.'

'Excellent, excellent. I shall expect you to be leaving in four days at the most, Underwood. And if you think of any more questions you want to ask me before you go, arrange an appointment through Miss Pavitt, not through the usual channels. But let her know when you're ready to leave, in case
I
want to see
you
again.'

For the next three days, Gareth was closeted in the TSA room for as many hours as either Brenda or her deputy (the only other librarian entitled to use the TSA room key) were on duty - which amounted to about sixteen hours a day with a couple of breaks for meals. He was a glutton for work, almost as rapid a reader as Brenda herself and apparently gifted with a remarkable memory. By the second day she found herself wondering if his concentration was purely professional, or if he, too, was becoming infected by the same kind of fascinated absorption with the subject that she had noticed in Reggie. His few comments as she brought him more and more books (he soon outstripped her own recommendations and was asking for material she'd never even heard of) suggested that he was thinking about it deeply, though at no time did he imply any judgement on the brief Reggie had given him. He avoided this so studiously, even when she lunched with him and they had time to talk, that her intuition began to tell her that he was not happy about it. She remembered his one revealing remark of a week or two back, 'I hope
I'm
never sent on that kind of job. Only for God's sake don't tell anyone I said so.' He seemed almost by his very silence on the matter to be begging her to forget his brief indiscretion.

My God, Brenda thought - am I
becoming psychic? All I know is that I'm not happy about this 'alliance' either. Not happy at all.

When Gareth finally left on his mission, and thanked her for her help in the privacy of the TSA room, she wished him luck and a safe return - and on impulse, kissed him. It was a very sisterly kiss. At least, she hoped it was.

Forty-eight hours later, Gareth found himself face to face with the Black Mamba, and he admitted to himself that the reports had been right - she
did
look almost too typecast for the role of Black Priestess. Her large eyes, slightly tilted at the outer corners, were warm yet unnerving, and her long black mane, which she wore falling free, might have been designed by a wigmaker for a pantomime witch, though Gareth's sharp eyes could see it was all hers. That she was aware of her own powerful sexuality was evident from the way she moved and from the way she dressed, with a hint of the barbaric chieftainess that could only be deliberately calculated. Gareth appreciated it from a safe distance; for himself, he thought, he would as soon go to bed with a real black mamba.

Her man was very different, withdrawn and watchful, speaking one word to her ten. Gareth, though he kept the fact to himself, recognized hi
m; for John Hassell’
s photograph was in the Section's file of prominent witches, having been added to it after the Bell Beacon disaster. He was the husband, Gareth remembered, of the Sabbat Queen who had been impaled with a ritual spear. Enough to turn anyone black, he thought with a twinge of compassion - especially with a bitch like this one working on him. Gareth did not miss much.

He had had to do a lot of talking on the edge of the village to get himself brought in to see Karen (as he learned her name was) and John; and even then he had been strip-searched, not too gently, before he actually did see them. That did not worry him at all; all that concerned him, as a professional, was that he was now where he had aimed to be. Karen and John received him in what had been the lounge of the village pub, with a shotgun sentry outside the door, and spent the first ten minutes grilling him with questions to satisfy themselves of his bona fides.

He had an uncanny feeling that not all of the grilling was by way of the spoken questions, though he treated this feeling with suspicion. He had learned a good deal, during his studies in the TSA room, about the theory of telepathy, of clairvoyance, of the 'reading' of auras; and he guessed from the steadiness of John and Karen's eyes on him and from a sensation almost of static electricity in the room that these methods were being tried. Suggestibility, he insisted to himself. Obviously their tactic would be to create that impression. But the feeling remained and Gareth did not like it.

His awareness of it at least mitigated his surprise when the atmosphere suddenly changed, as though Karen (it was she who determined it all the time) had flicked a switch to earth the static. She smiled for the first time and walked relaxedly behind the bar to produce a bottle (Glenfiddich, for God's sake) and three glasses from under the counter.