The Shadow Project (11 page)

“T
here's something wrong,” Fran said quietly.

Sir Roland, who had been standing by his daughter, moved around to the control console. “What's the problem?”

Fran indicated the readout panel again. “The top figures are Opal's last known coordinates. These ones”—she pointed—“these are from Danny's projection. They should be the same.”

They clearly weren't. Sir Roland said, “Perhaps he hasn't gotten there yet.”

“It's instantaneous,” Carradine said.

Hanover joined them at the console. “Are we certain about Opal's readout?”

“It hasn't varied since we lost her,” Carradine told him.

“Perhaps that's the trouble,” Sir Roland suggested.

“Perhaps the tracker is giving a false reading for Opal.”

“Why would it do that?” Hanover asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Sir Roland snapped tersely. “Why can't we call her back? Why do we have to send out an untrained operative to find her?”

“Sorry,” Hanover said.

“That's another thing,” Fran murmured.

“What?” Carradine got the question in first.

“Danny's coordinates aren't stable. At least they don't seem to be. They keep flickering.”

Frowning, Carradine said, “They seem okay to me.”

“They've
been
flickering,” Fran told him patiently. “This readout has only been holding for the last few moments.”

“Can we call him back and resend him?” Sir Roland asked.

“I'll activate a recall.” Fran reached out to push a sliding control on the console.

“Good God,” Carradine said. “He's resisting!”

“I didn't know agents could do that.” Sir Roland sounded worried.

“They can't,” Carradine told him. “Not without advanced training.” To Fran he said, “Try it again.”

She neutralized the slider, then pushed it up again. She turned to the others with a look of bewilderment on her face. “Nothing,” she said. “No resistance, but he's not coming back.” She glanced toward the chair
for confirmation.

“Like Opal!” George Hanover exclaimed. He turned to Sir Roland. “This has to be the equipment. Has to be. You can't lose two operatives within a couple of hours—it's just not possible.”

“Never mind not possible,” Roland growled. “Just get him back.” He was less worried about losing Danny than the implications for Opal. He needed to know what had happened to her, needed even more to get her back. God alone knew how dangerous this situation was, but every minute that went past increased the pressure. He felt like strangling somebody.

“I don't believe in coincidence either,” Carradine said. He looked at Sir Roland. “We need to run that diagnostic.”

Fran said gently. “If we take the equipment off-line, we lose contact with Opal.”

“We've already done that,” Carradine said. “If this is equipment failure, it makes no difference. We're not really in contact with either of them anyway.”

“Sir Roland…,” Michael said quietly.

The others were all looking at Sir Roland. He licked his lips. “Are you sure this is equipment failure?”

Carradine said, “No.”

“If it
isn't
equipment failure, we may be giving up any chance we have of bringing Opal back—or
Danny for that matter?”

“Yes.”

“Sir Roland,” Michael said again.

Sir Roland took a deep breath and stared at the console. He raked his hands nervously through his hair.
What to do? What to do?
After a moment, he said, “Try one more recall, Fran. For both of them.”

“Sir Roland,” Michael said more firmly this time. “I think you should see this—”

Someone groaned behind him.

Sir Roland spun around. Opal was moving fitfully in her chair. She convulsed and vomited onto the floor. Then she looked up and caught his eye. “Hello, Daddy,” she said weakly.

O
pal opened her eyes. She was lying in a bed that wasn't her own in a room she didn't recognize. There was a television set mounted on the opposite wall and a remote control on the bedside table.

She remembered now. After the fuss and the vomiting in the operations room as she got her body back, they'd moved her to the Project clinic. She'd told them they didn't need to, but her father had insisted. And he'd been right. She'd slept around the clock, woken to the most enormous breakfast, then slept again. She remembered the most embarrassingly thorough medical checkup by a young doctor who absolutely refused to take her word for it that everything was all right, that she should be discharged right away.

A gentle knocking at the door had woken her. She pushed herself upright in the bed. “Come in,” Opal called.

To her surprise it was Michael, carrying a bunch of flowers—and she hadn't brushed her hair, or put on even the slightest smidge of makeup. She pulled herself together and smiled lightly. “Hello, Michael.”

“Hello, Opal,” Michael said awkwardly. He raised the flowers a fraction. “I brought you these.” He looked around, clearly wondering what to do with them.

“Put them on the table,” Opal said. “I'll ask the nurse to find a vase.” She pressed the bell as Michael disembarrassed himself of the flowers. “I'll ask her to bring you a chair as well.”

Michael perched cautiously on the edge of the bed. “How are you?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Opal told him, “I'm absolutely fine. They'll let me out soon.” Which was true, she thought. Even the young doctor had been encouraging. Then, because she knew that as an operative he had the necessary security clearance, she said excitedly, “Hey, I found the Skull!”

“Yes, I know—your father told me. That's brilliant, Opal—what a coup!”

It occurred to her that she didn't know what the outcome had been. She'd only managed a few words with her father before she collapsed, and no one in the clinic had any information at all. “Did they get him? Do you know?”

Michael shook his head. “Not yet.” He hesitated,
then added, “It's early days, of course.” Another hesitation, then, “Are you sure you're all right?”

It was nice. She'd never had a boy bring her flowers before. “Yes, I am. Really.”

“It's just…well, I know you got into trouble,” Michael said. “There's been a lot of talk about it.”

“No, I'm fine. It was…” She stopped, thinking about it. “It was difficult. But I'm all right.” In fact, what she'd been through had been absolutely terrifying. If it hadn't been for the wildest chance, nothing more dramatic than the appearance of a cleaning woman, she'd still be in the hands of Sword of Wrath. And who knew what that frightening old man was able to do. He'd trapped her and tortured her. She could still remember vividly how her energy body had writhed and jerked and even
crackled
as the waves of agony coursed through her. At one point she was convinced she was going to die.

She didn't want to look weak in front of Michael, so she pushed the memory fiercely out of her mind. “Did you come up from Eton today?” Operatives who were still at school were usually sent back as quickly as possible. But what she really wanted to ask was whether he'd come up from Eton today specially to see
her
. The actual question was a small failure of nerve.

“Last night,” Michael said. “I stayed over with my uncle.”

It came out as
oncle
. She loved his accent. There was a moment's silence, then Michael asked awkwardly, “Are you going home after they discharge you? Or will you come back to the Project?”

“Father wants me to stay home for a few days,” Opal said.

“Don't you want to?”

She shook her head. “Not really. He'll fuss.”

“Perhaps you need a little fussing,” Michael said lightly. “You've had a very difficult experience.”

Opal hid a smile. “I suppose so,” Opal said.
But I don't need fussing from my father.

Out of nowhere it occurred to her she was being totally self-centered. He'd been the anchor while she was trapped. With what she had experienced, the energy could have affected him as well. He might even have been hurt. And here she was, droning on without thinking to ask him how he was. “How…,” she began cautiously. “How did it go as my anchor?”

He gave a shy, embarrassed smile. “I got sick.”

“Honestly?”

He nodded. “Yes, I had to lie down.”

Opal laughed. “That must have been horrid.”

“Well, not in your league.”

They filled a moment looking at each other. Then Opal asked, “When are you going back?”

“Back where?”

“To Eton.”

“Not until Sunday evening. I might even leave it until Monday morning if I can catch an early enough train.”

“Oh, good,” Opal said. “So you'll still be here on Saturday?”

“Yes.”

Should she suggest they do something together this weekend? Maybe that would sound too pushy. And besides, he probably had other plans. Hopefully with his uncle. “Are there girls at Eton?” she heard herself ask suddenly.

Michael blinked. “It's a boys' school.”

“Of course. Yes, of course.” She hesitated, then said sheepishly, “I meant in the town.” She wanted to ask if he ever met girls in the town, but realized she was on the way to making a complete fool of herself. After a long moment, she licked her lips. “There's a hunt ball at Oakleigh a week from Saturday.”

“Really?” Nothing at all showed on his face. Not a hint of interest.

But too late to back off now. “Probably a bit of a bore,” Opal said casually, “but I thought I might go.”

“Yes.”

This was definitely not going well. All the same, she had to finish it. “I was wondering if you might like to
accompany me?” When his face remained blank, she added, “As my escort?”

He hesitated. “You mean…like a…date?”

Opal gave a small shrug. Then lost the last of her confidence: “I suppose so. Technically.”

To her relief, Michael began to smile slowly. It lit up his whole face. But suddenly the smile disappeared, replaced by a peculiar look.

“I'm sorry,” he said abruptly. “I have to go.”

Then, to her horror, he stood up and walked out of the room.

“T
his isn't a secure line,” Sir Roland warned.

“I'll be discreet,” Hector promised. “Was it Farrakhan?”

“Definitely,” Roland said. “Fits the description, and Opal claims he told her that was his name. Haven't showed her pictures yet, but who else could have done that to her?”

“Is she bearing up?”

“Opal? Yes. The medics say there's no physical harm at all. Emotionally she seems fine too, unless she's hiding it. But she was tortured, obviously a very difficult experience—I should never have sent her out, but I'd no idea he could do something like that. Frankly, I didn't expect her to come within a thousand miles of him. I'm afraid I assumed the tip-off would lead to another Elvis goose chase. But fortunately she seems fine. More worried about her hunt ball than
Épée de la Colère
.”

“Do you know what happened yet?”

“Not entirely. We have the broad picture, of course, but I postponed a full debriefing to give her time to recover. Not according to the book and probably a disciplining offense, but she
is
my daughter.”

“She is your daughter,” Hector agreed. “I'd have done the same. Any news of the spear?”

“That's why I rang. It's definitely been moved.”

“Out of the
Ringstrasse
?”

“Afraid so.” Roland hesitated. “Actually, right out of Austria. The museum authorities decided to feature it in a traveling exhibition of religious art and artifacts. It's currently on display in Egypt.”

“Egypt!” Hector exploded. “Oh my God.”

“It may not mean anything,” Roland said.

“Of course it means something. It means the original has been moved as well. Which suggests somebody's been tinkering with it. My money is on Farrakhan. We've known for some time that he's the real moving force behind Sword of Wrath. This is exactly the sort of thing he would do.”

Roland sighed lightly. “Don't suppose the Priory would help?”

“You know the Priory, Roland—you've been involved with us for long enough. Broader picture and all that. We don't get involved. Not even sure I should be telling
you half the things I do.”

“That works both ways,” Roland said a little sourly.

“I know, I know,” Hector said. “Tell you what, I'll have a word with the powers that be.”

“Are you serious?”

“Think I am, actually,” Hector said. “All very well to stand aside and claim the moral high ground, but you and I are soldiers, Roland. Things look different at the sharp end. That little creep who's running the Skull is getting help from some very nasty quarters; and with this spear thing, God knows what he might be planning. Could be time for the good guys to wade in and get their hands dirty.”

“Do you think they will?”

“Probably not. Free will, destiny, collective karma of humanity—you know how they go on. But they might nudge things in the right direction. Or let me help a little if it turns out that I can. It depends what happens. And how bad it gets, I suppose.”

“How bad do you think it will get?” Roland asked. His mind was on Opal.

“Bad enough,” Hector said. “You've only to look at the connections.”

“The Skull and Farrakhan?”

“Well, that, obviously, but I was thinking more on our own side. There's obviously a mystic link with Michael,
and there may be one with Opal as well, but I'm particularly intrigued by this new boy and his association to our mediator. That's really peculiar, even in our line of work. Take it all together and you get the feeling of strange forces gathering just beyond the horizon.”

“Yes,” Roland muttered. It was exactly the feeling he'd been getting during the last few days. But who could you talk to? Nobody believed in Cosmic Battles anymore. Even the old concept of evil had been distorted for political ends. But what Farrakhan was up to was objectively evil. Not because he was teamed up with
Épée de la Colère
, not even because of what he had done to Opal, but because he was an occultist who deliberately tapped into dark currents, calling on evil entities. The only way to deal with that was to align yourself with the powers of good. Except, as Hector said, those powers were very hesitant to interfere. “What do you think will happen next?” he asked Hector.

“Couldn't say,” said Hector promptly, “but I'd be prepared to bet you half my pension that it will involve your new boy Danny Lipman. He's in this deeper than he knows.”