Siege of Stone (28 page)

T
here was little point in keeping it to himself, Joseph thought. Mackay was a sounding board. He could see how much of what they had deduced was true and what were illusions born of their own imaginations.

He told Mackay about the eleven poisoned bodies that had been found in the burned down hunting lodge in upstate New York, and about the evidence that indicated they might be of great age. Then he told about the man who called himself Kyle McAndrews, and how he had tried to kill the operatives in revenge. "He thought we had caused the deaths of his eleven 'brothers.'"

"And had you?" Mackay asked.

"No. We're not sure who did."

"You hesitated. You suspected."

"Yes. We thought—we
think
—it might have been a man named Daly. A CIA agent who . . . turned. So McAndrews wasn't far from the truth. Only it wasn't us."

"And what happened to this Daly?"

"He's dead. As for the man who called himself McAndrews, we tracked him down and started to question him, but he tried to kill us."

"So you killed him," Mackay said.

"We had no choice."

"Which of you shot him?"

"All of us. We all shot."

"And what happened to his body?"

Joseph took a deep breath. "We couldn't have it discovered. Because of the brand, you see." He eyed Mackay, but no emotions crossed the man's face. "The
Templar
brand. On his chest. Also the fingerprints, and his appearance. We suspected that he was a very old man, in spite of his physical appearance."

"So what did you do with him?"

"We destroyed the body. It's gone, like it never existed."

Mackay smiled bitterly. "The curse," he said softly.

"Masonic?" Joseph asked. "Or is the Templar curse similar? Something about being cut apart and having the pieces of your body scattered to the winds, isn't it?
If
you happen to reveal the secrets of the society. Like maybe telling someone about the purpose behind the Templars' existence. Or even sharing . . . other secrets."

"Did you find anything else on this McAndrews?" Mackay said, as if anxious to change the subject.

"Anything else? Like what?"

"Oh, personal possessions. Anything that would tie into this Templar idea."

"Very little. Some cash, clothing . . . an old knife, that was all." Joseph didn't mention the simple wooden cup in the elegant case that they had thought might be the Grail. Even now it was wrapped inside one of his suitcases at the cottage.

He went on to tell Mackay about their near misses at finding the Prisoner, of their return to Scotland to investigate the ghostly sightings, and finally about their deductions that the prison escapes were connected to the former prisoner. "You know the rest," Joseph concluded. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and your powerful friend saw some potential for aid in me, the same way that he did in you."

"So you've told me what you've seen and done," Mackay said. "Now what have you guessed?"

Joseph took a deep breath, considered what he was about to say, and then figured the hell with it, he couldn't very likely get in any more trouble than he was in already. "We've guessed that you, Colin Mackay, are the son of Sir Andrew Mackay, who was going under the name of Kyle McAndrews. That was probably only one of hundreds, maybe even thousands of aliases that he used over the years, because those years were many. Your father, and the other men whose job it was to counter the influences of the thing they thought was the Antichrist, were probably alive back in the 1300s. And I suspect that you're no spring chicken, either. Did your father ever share with you his secret for longevity?"

Mackay's head inclined in the most subtle of nods.

"So how old are
you
?" Joseph asked. "Sixty? Seventy?"

"I've lived nearly a century," Mackay said softly, his eyes faraway, "since I drank . . ." He stopped abruptly, as though he'd said too much, and glared at Joseph. "Go on."

Joseph licked his lips and gestured around him. "This castle, if not this exact room, needless to say, is where the twelve Templars met every decade, for ceremonial or practical reasons, I'm not really sure, but meet they did. Until they all died. Then Colin Mackay took possession, with his merry band of Jacobites, and they set out upon the rather unlikely task of terrorizing England enough so that it would grant Scotland freedom, and blah blah blah for six pages of demands."

"We're not Jacobites," said Mackay. "No kings, but the people."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, you made the mistake I did—you trusted Mulcifer, or, more to the point, you figured you could use him and then betray him, but it didn't turn out to be that easy, did it? Starting to get the feeling you're holding a tiger by the tail?"

"No." Colin Mackay shook his craggy head. "It's broken loose."

Joseph heard the sadness and the regret. "Jesus, what happened? What's he done? Something with the IRA men he busted out, wasn't it?"

Mackay told him then, and Joseph could scarcely believe it. He closed his eyes, but kept seeing pictures of the things Mackay had told him about, and opened them again.

"Haven't you lived long enough," he asked Mackay, "to know that killing people isn't the way to get your political party elected? Haven't you lived through the entire twentieth century, for Chrissake?" He waved a hand in frustration, and hung his head. "So what are you going to do about it?" he said softly. "You going to let him keep on with it?" He looked up at Mackay. "You know what he got from me, don't you?"

"No. What?"

"The location of the nerve gas the British government hid. You think he's going to just use that on military targets? If you do, I've got a castle on some nice swampland I'd like to sell you."

"All right," Mackay said angrily, "I don't want any more civilian casualties—I never did in the first place. I don't give a good shite about the treasures of Britain. London could fall into a black hole so long as the people didn't go with it. But this ends now. We're not using any nerve gas, and none of my men are going to help that bastard get it."

"Are you so sure of that? In case you haven't noticed, Mulcifer
does
have a wee bit of influence over most of your crew." Joseph's mouth suddenly tasted sour. "And me, too, I'm afraid. In spades. He tells me what to do, and I do it. Doesn't matter whether I want to or not. There was no way I could keep from getting him the information he wanted. Any idea how he does that?"

"It's the blood," Mackay said. "Before he was captured, he bred with women—rape mostly, I believe. I cannot think he'd ever be capable of any tenderness. Over the centuries, his descendants have spread, marrying, carrying on the bloodline, until his progeny are numerous. But those in the highlands kept to themselves, married among themselves, unlike the lowlanders. The bloodlines stayed pure. That is why the twelve were all highland men, their ancestry firmly established—so that there would be no trace of his blood in their veins, that he might have no influence over their minds or souls. The greater his influence, the greater the blood tie, although some people are far more suggestible than others."

"Well, if that's the case," said Joseph, "I feel both highly suggestible and as though I come from an unbroken line from Mulcifer himself."

"It's very possible, but according to . . ." He hesitated, and then shrugged. "According to my father, there's no shame to be felt in succumbing to his commands. However, that didn't stop my father and the others from killing the thing's servants when they could. They may have been helpless, but still, they committed the crimes."

"And if," Joseph said, "I had been ordered by . . . the thing to kill, I would have had no choice? Somehow I can't believe that."

"Believe it."

"Someone can't be driven by sheer mental suggestion to commit a crime they wouldn't commit themselves under certain circumstances."

"He forced you to reveal the location of the gas, and you knew it was possible—
probable
—that he would use it, if he could get it, to kill people."

"But that was something I might do anyway, just finding information in data banks. There's a difference between that and pulling a trigger or setting off a bomb."

"You think so, do you, Stein? Well, I hope you're right. And I hope you never have to find out."

"So do I. Don't let him get the gas, all right? He wouldn't be able to do it alone—he'd need your men."

"He won't get the gas," Colin Mackay said. "Count on it." He climbed quickly up the ladder, and Joseph watched as he pulled it up after him. The trapdoor made a loud clunk as it was fitted back into place, and Joseph was alone again.

There might, he thought, be an ally in Mackay, in spite of his alignment with Mulcifer. Joseph knew his chances of leaving the castle alive were small, but if he could do something, anything, to keep Mulcifer from accomplishing more slaughter, he'd count his life well spent. His mind spun with various schemes that Mackay might use to control the creature once again, but at last he had to remind himself that he was not Mackay. He was an ineffectual agent in a dungeon made of stone, and unless he could somehow gain Mackay's ear and trust, he could do nothing.

Then he thought of what Mackay had said about the bloodline connecting him to Mulcifer, and grimaced at the irony of it. This whole thing had begun with the three of them theorizing about the Merovingian bloodline, that hoary conspiracy theory linking Jesus to some latter-day descendant through a supposed marriage to Mary Magdalene.

Now here was a bloodline rearing its ugly head again, but this time it was a bloodline linking Joseph to whatever devil went by the name of Mulcifer.

T
ony and Laika had dug in. There was little else to do. If Joseph had escaped from the prison, he would get in touch with them when he could. Tony had seen the van return to the castle, but there had been no sign of Joseph among the passengers. And then the shit had hit the fan.

The six terrorist acts struck them like a strong slap across the face, and the follow-up news made it clear that they were the results of the same Scottish nationalist group responsible for the escapes, the group that was very possibly located in Castle Dirk.

"Laika," Tony said, as they walked behind the cottage, trying to work off some of their excess energy, "we need to do something. If they've got the Prisoner in there, and if he's behind this, my God, we don't know what might happen next."

"What do we do, Tony?" she asked impatiently. "Go to the police? Tell Molly Fraser what we suspect? Get MI5 to send in a SWAT team? If our mystery man is in there, that'll do a shitload of good. You know what happened in Utah—he'll just turn them against each other, it'll be a slaughter, and he'll escape again."

"We can tell them about his . . . powers. Maybe they could find some other way—"

"They'd never believe us. You know damn well they wouldn't. Besides, we still don't have Joseph back, and I'm not going to take a chance on his getting killed in the crossfire if he's in there. Maybe we'll go in after him, you and But I don't think it's urgent, not yet."

"How can you say that, especially after what's happened in London?"

"It's especially
because
of that. Look, six terrorists were freed, and six terrorist strikes occurred. We've got every reason to think there's a connection between the two events, and if there is, then they've shot their wad for the time being. If we're wrong, if the castle crew isn't involved, then it doesn't matter at all."

"I just feel . . . I don't know,
responsible
for what happened. If we'd shared our suspicions—"

"Stop it," Laika said sharply. "The blood of all those people isn't on our hands. Maybe if we were dealing with anyone else, with someone
human
, it would be different, but this ex-prisoner of ours is beyond humanity. There's no way we can ever guess what we can expect from the sonofabitch, other than blood and more blood. But if it's going to be anything like the last time, he's going to have to set it up first. And before we see any signs of that, Joseph might get back."

As if on cue, they heard the sound of a car coming down the stone road to the cottage. Although it didn't sound like the Peugeot, it was unlikely that Joseph would have gotten the car back anyway. It was nearly dark, and just starting to rain again as they rounded the side of the cottage and saw the vehicle, a large sedan that might have been dark blue, but looked black in the dying light.