Brian Lumley - Necroscope - Invaders

'This man Castellano is of particular interest to us,' he finished up. 'He's a dark horse indeed. My people in the Branch haven't so far been able to pin him down, and Interpol has next to nothing on him. I mean, it's not unusual for a drugs boss to keep a low profile, but this one's near-invisible. And frankly, I want his backside in a sling.'

Turchin looked doubtful. 'But doesn't this smack of common or garden police work? How does it fit into the big picture?'

'I'm trying to help someone who may soon be in a very good position to help me — or us,' Trask answered. 'If I scratch his back, with a bit of luck he'll scratch ours.'

And Turchin nodded. Til see what I can do. Is there anything else?'

'You can try to find out just exactly what we'll be going up against if or when we do try to take Perchorsk,' Trask said.

The Russian Premier looked at him; indeed, his dark, glinting eyes bored into him as he inquired, 'With a British force, do you mean? In which case you might require a route of access. Not to mention one of egress, an escape route.'

'Good idea,' said Trask. 'You can look into that, too, by all means. And you can think how to give us cover in the event of political flak, that is if we were seen to be involved. But at the moment I don't see it as a problem. It's like you said: Perchorsk is remote, isolated.'

'Oh? And you can come and go into foreign lands and alien places at will, can you?' And now Turchin's gaze was even more intense.

But Trask only said, 'We've talked enough, and our time's up.' Then he switched on the intercom and said: 'Mr Smith, the hotel, if you please.'

In a little while, Turchin said. 'Well, it seems our business is done for now. But if that's all you want, and if things eventually work out, it would appear I get the best of the bargain.'

Trask looked at him and shook his head. 'I understand what you're saying, Gustav, but I think it's a very narrow viewpoint. The way I see it, the whole world gets the best of the bargain. Which is to say, we all come out of it alive… and as men.'

Turchin shrugged and answered, 'Yes, yes, of course you're right. Still, on a moment-to-moment basis, one's own skin is oddly precious.'

But Trask only said, 'How about one's soul?'

And a little later, while Turchin thought about that — if he thought about it — the limo arrived at his hotel…

… And Trask was long gone before the second limo drew up where Turchin stamped 'angrily' to and fro, waiting for his minders.

Tfw^He grunted as they got out of the car. 'Couldn't at least one of you have made an effort to stay with me?'

'But Premier—' the senior man began to protest.

'No buts.'' Turchin snapped. 'I shall report your inefficiency back in Moscow. And I'll also be making a strong complaint here.'

'A complaint?' The other's jaw dropped.

'Of course, fool! No, no, not about you, but my driver and this bloody conference official, this Mr, er—'

'Smith?'

'Indeed, yes!'

'Both the driver and the official were Smiths?' 'Eh? Yes, I know that, you idiot! Please try not to inform me of what I already know. But, damn! You'd think that at least one of them would know the way to the hotel, wouldn't you…?'

By the time the precog lan Goodly picked up the locator David Chung from Brisbane's international airport, Trask was in bed asleep. But he had left a message not to be disturbed, with a note that said:

David, welcome—

But I'm afraid you will have to start 'swarming' in the morning. Right now we're all badly in need of a few hours' sleep. I imagine it must be pretty much the same for you, what with jetlag and all.

lan: make sure the D.O. knows to wake me if anything important comes in during the night. Other than that, give me a shake when the sun's up and there's a pot of coffee on the go. Thanks…

Jake Cutter had had his fill of sleep en route; so he thought. He sat up downstairs and played a quiet game of poker with the Warrant Officer commanders of the military contingent from the second jetcopter. By three in the morning, however, they were all yawning; then, deciding to call it a night (or a new day), each of them went off to his cramped sleeping quarters.

Jake didn't know it, but on the other side of his bunk's thin plasterboard panelling Liz Merrick had taken the cubicle next to his. Acting on Trask's instructions, she was intent on getting into his mind and following his progress through whatever esoteric activities might take place in his — and whoever else's — head or heads. Still not keen on what she was doing, Liz had nevertheless come to realize its importance.

Frustrated when Jake stayed up, she had tried to wait him out and failed. But as finally he went to his bunk, and tossed and turned a while before settling down, she was disturbed and came awake. Following which it became a matter of establishing telepathic rapport. As Jake grew still and his breathing deepened, so Liz concentrated on strengthening her now instinctive connection with his subconscious mind, inviting his 'detached' thoughts to mingle with her own.

Then for a while there was nothing, just a vague uneasiness of psyche as Jake's shields relaxed and his thoughts automatically sought to rearrange themselves into typical dream patterns, or perhaps into something else. And before too long Liz found herself nodding again…

… Until she came starting awake to an unnatural psychic stillness or pent awareness which had its origin in Jake. Next door, he was motionless and physically asleep; but psychically his mind was something else. It, too, was still — breathlessly still — like a cat watching a mouse emerge nervously from its hole; or more probably (Liz decided), like someone in an empty house, suddenly aware of an unusual sound in the night.

He was listening to something — but so intently! — and for a moment Liz thought he had detected her presence. But no, while Jake's attention was definitely rapt upon a subconscious something, it wasn't focussed on Liz at all. On what, then?

And so for an hour Liz 'listened' to Jake as attentively as he was listening to some sensed but unheard other or others, but with little or no result. On occasion he would come alive and ask, 'Who are you?' Or he would say: 'I know you are there — I hear you whispering — so why not talk to me instead of about me?'

But even though Liz was given to understand something of this, she sensed rather than 'heard' what he said, because (a) Jake wasn't speaking to her directly, and (b) his recently discovered shields, while they weren't fully engaged, were neverthless shrouding his thoughts.

Until unable to bear the not-knowing any longer, she tried to break in on him and ask, 'Who is it, Jake? Do you know them?

What are they talking about?' At which the doors of Jake's mind at once slammed shut and she found herself locked out entirely. For a while, at least.

But lying there on her bed, Liz believed she knew who he had been trying to talk to. And that was knowledge that sent a shudder down her spine, so that even in the oppressive heat of this El Nifio night, still she felt cold. And she also knew how he had detected her and shut her out. It was the difference.

For the precog lan Goodly had had it right when he'd said: 'When you heard Jake speaking, or thinking, that was your telepathy working. You heard him because he's alive. But the others… they were in a different category, using a different mode.'

Deadspeak, yes. The difference between a live conversation and a dead one…

They were talking — arguing among themselves — about him, Jake Cutter. And Jake knew it. More than that, he knew or suspected who or what they were, which was something he had yet to remember and admit in his waking hours, perhaps because no sane man would ever want to admit such a thing. Well, with the possible exception of a handful of dubious psychic mediums.