The Marks Of Cain Part 34

Nairn's eyes brightened.

'So he is a Cagot as well? The terrorist! How is that? Tell me how. Tell me everything. The Urbock is cold and the desert evening is long. Tell me!'

Over half a dozen beers, and plates of cold kudu steak and okra, Amy and David relayed the story to Angus Nairn. They were getting used to telling this story. There seemed increasingly little point in concealing the story from a potential ally. Miguel was the enemy.

At length Angus sat back, the desert breeze riffling his red hair.

'This explains a lot. It explains the murders, the ones you mention!'

David said, 'But...why? It doesn't explain why Miguel...'

'Don't you see? He's involved in the killings where torture is involved. The first two victims, the poor old girls who turned out to be rich.'

The logic unfolded in David's mind. Dimly.

'I guess...He was just back from abroad. When he came in the bar Amy ?'

She nodded. 'And after Miguel was back in Spain, the killings changed. Right? The man in Windsor he was just killed. Not tortured. And Fazackerly, the scientist, he was also...just killed. Cruelly but...efficiently. I suppose. But then when Miguel got another another chance, in Gurs Eloise's mother. She chance, in Gurs Eloise's mother. She was was elaborately tortured...Miguel again. But why?' Her blue eyes gazed Angus's way, full of questions. 'Why would he kill elaborately tortured...Miguel again. But why?' Her blue eyes gazed Angus's way, full of questions. 'Why would he kill and torture and torture where others just kill?' where others just kill?'

Angus stuffed another morsel of bread and chewed, exuberantly. 'Think harder. One reason is obvious.'

'Is it?'

'Yes!' A broad smile. 'Why is he so murderously cruel to the Cagots? In particular?'

The truth unpetalled in David's mind.

'Because...he knows about himself?'

'Zakly. He's a f.u.c.king self-hater! Like that Basque witch burner.' He's a f.u.c.king self-hater! Like that Basque witch burner.'

'De Lancre?'

'Yep. That's it! He can't face his own reality, his own race, his terrible ident.i.ty. Can't deal with it. Sublimated self-hatred becomes externalized violence. That must be the answer. Like Freud said! And Miguel Garovillo is a Cagot! So he takes his violent feelings, and inflicts them on the hated Cagots who embody his self loathing, his misery. He uses the tortures once inflicted on the deformed people. The witches and outcasts. The pariahs of the forest who he cannot accept as kin.'

'But '

'And he probably heard about the Basque witch burnings when he was a kid, all the stories. And that's gotta gotta affect you. Tales of fire and torments! They f.u.c.k you up, your mum and dad, especially if they are terrorists. He probably has a psychos.e.xual neurosis about the witch tortures.' affect you. Tales of fire and torments! They f.u.c.k you up, your mum and dad, especially if they are terrorists. He probably has a psychos.e.xual neurosis about the witch tortures.'

There was a momentary silence. David turned Amy's way, and he flinched. Because he'd noticed. Amy had just that second briefly, subconsciously, surrept.i.tiously put her hand to her head.

As if she was hiding the scar. The marks of the witch. David considered that scar, the interlocking curves. Was the scar simply more evidence of Miguel's obsession, his s.e.xual hang-ups, of the killer's psychic need to revisit these witch tortures? But why did Amy let him The marks of the witch. David considered that scar, the interlocking curves. Was the scar simply more evidence of Miguel's obsession, his s.e.xual hang-ups, of the killer's psychic need to revisit these witch tortures? But why did Amy let him do do it? Cut her living skin? Why? it? Cut her living skin? Why?

He remembered her words in Arizkun.

We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are fourteen thousand strong.

Angus was talking again, his face shadowed yet animated in the long Damara twilight.

'And Miguel probably has his own strange urges, anyway. One or more of the nasty syndromes of the Cagots. The violent urges. Poor Cagot b.a.s.t.a.r.d. No doubt the church told its agents to despatch with swift efficiency. Yet when Miguel had a chance he snuck in a bit of medieval mutilation, couldn't help himself...'

A large moth flickered in the lamplight: lanterns had been strung from trees around the camp. David gawped: 'You knew it was...the church?'

'Well, I presumed. Am I right? I'm right, aren't I? Uh-huh?'

'Actually,' Any interjected, 'it was the Society of Pius X.'

'Aha. The Lovely Zealots.' He slapped a hand down on the table, gleefully. 'Chalk one up! I should have guessed. Bigtime zealots. With lots of money and powerful sympathizers. If not them then another church sect. Yep, the Catholic church was, as you know, one of the prime movers in the closing of Stanford; they hated us, too. Totally hated GenoMap. And of course, thinking about it, the Society would be the obvious people to do the dirty work for Il Papa. And I mean dirty work. Left footers versus web footers. Hah.' He gulped beer, and continued. 'Always fascinated me, the infinite human capacity for violence. Where does it come from? Frankly I blame the girls. The chicks. If it wasn't for them men would just sit around having a nice pint and a chat about the fitba.'

'Sorry? Girls? Girls?' said Amy, a defensive tinge in her voice.

David stared at the Scotsman, who was chewing almost as fast as he was talking. Nairn was consuming an enormous meal; yet he was so skinny. Angular cheekbones, wild red hair, green eyes a-glitter in the gloaming of the semi desert.

'Yep,' he said, tearing off another fistful of flatbread. 'Women. The female of the species. They're the ones who guide human evolution. Via s.e.xual selection, no? And how do they steer our evolution? Towards nastiness by choosing nasty guys. True or not? OK, yes, they all pretend pretend they like metros.e.xual chardonnay sippers but they really go for the ruffians, don't they? The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, the bad boys, the Miguel Garovillos and so these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds reproduce and so the evolution of man tends towards ever greater cruelty, perhaps explaining the pageant of blood that is twentieth-century history.' He burped. 'Thank G.o.d I take the Tube not the bus.' they like metros.e.xual chardonnay sippers but they really go for the ruffians, don't they? The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, the bad boys, the Miguel Garovillos and so these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds reproduce and so the evolution of man tends towards ever greater cruelty, perhaps explaining the pageant of blood that is twentieth-century history.' He burped. 'Thank G.o.d I take the Tube not the bus.'

An animal barked in the gloomy depths beyond the camp. A jackal or a hyena. Angus was momentarily quiet, eating, drinking, smiling broadly and knowingly at Alphonse, his gracefully handsome helpmate. The rest of the camp dwellers seemed to have fled with the dying of the day. Disappeared unto their villages.

Amy was asking questions: 'So Eloise is safe but you're still camped out here. Why?'

'Coz I'm testing the last racial variants.' Angus shrugged, contented. 'Dotting some genetic i's and crossing some chromosomal t's. And we're nearly done. The Spanish f.u.c.king Inquisition are too late. I've got the Namibian blood tests in the car, ready to go.' He slugged some Tafel and burped robustly. 'We just have to pack up tomorrow, head down to the Sperrgebiet. Get to safety.' A pause. 'We've got all we need down there. Kellerman Namcorp have been preparing for this, for years, just in case they closed down GenoMap. We've been setting up parallel facilities, in the Sperrgebiet, so we could finish off, if it came to it.' He chortled. 'And so it goes. We need a few more days, do the last tests on Eloise, and...Canasta! The Fischer experiments are reiterated.'

He turned and looked solicitously at Alphonse. 'Alphonse, have a b.l.o.o.d.y beer. You work too hard.'

'Sure, Angus.'

'Alfie, I mean it. C'm'ere.' The Scotsman pulled the young ochre-skinned man towards him; Alphonse had glittering feline eyes, slender limbs. Angus kissed him on the lips.

Alphonse laughed, and pushed him away 'Mad Scotsman!' he said, and gestured at the diminishing food. 'Did you eat all the kudu...Again? You'll get fat!' You'll get fat!'

'Me? Get fat? As if.' The Scotsman lifted his T-shirt and slapped his white stomach. 'The six-pack of Apollo!' Then he glared at Alphonse as he sat down again. 'Don't make fun, my little bambusen, bambusen, or I shall be forced to wield the sjambok.' or I shall be forced to wield the sjambok.'

'No. No, sir. White ma.s.sa he very kind. He give me de good job picken de cotton.'

The two men guffawed, then kissed again. Angus turned and offered Amy some of the kudu steak from the big steel bowl. David stared at Alphonse.

Angus was turning: 'Jesus, jesusf.u.c.k. What's that?'

The Scotsman stared down the valley. Now the noise was discernible. David realized he'd been hearing it for a while but in the back of his mind he'd thought it a distant growling animal, or some effect of the wind in the thorn trees.

There were cars. Big dark cars were sweeping suddenly, up the dry river bed: heading for them. A roar of engines and lights. David stared. The fear was like a physical pain.

'The tents the guns are in the tents ' in the tents '

Angus was up and moving but then a rifle shot split the still and sultry air. It whipped the sand between the tables and the tents. A warning shot.

Angus sat down, very slowly.

David looked the opposite way. More dust clouds. More. Two more. Coming at them. From every direction, looming out of the murky shadows. The largest car, a black car with black windows, swept up to the camp and parked in a savage curve. Spraying sand over the food with a kind of bullying contempt.

A tall lean figure climbed out, his gait and his twitch and his pale scarred face quite distinctive, even in the darkness.

Miguel stared at them.

'Found you.'

35.

The last Vespers had been sung in the chapel. The last pilgrims had retreated to their cells.

Simon crossed the refectory, and climbed the sloping corridors. He shut the narrow door of his cell; and waited. Mind racing, mind racing. The pyramid. He'd got lucky. He'd got very lucky. He had maybe found in a day what Eduardo Martinez had failed to find in a week. The pyramid. The archives. Concealed in the prim and creepy pyramid, peeping from the centre of the building. Obvious yet discreet.

For a moment he admired the dark artistry of the design. It had a sinister genius.

Then he lay back on the bed.

The first snores and echoes of the night.w.a.tch rattled through the priory. Simon sighed, and fretted about Tim, as he stared at the absurdly low ceiling. It felt like the ceiling was actually Simon sighed, and fretted about Tim, as he stared at the absurdly low ceiling. It felt like the ceiling was actually descending descending upon him if he looked away, then looked back, he got the distinct impression the concrete ceiling was edging down, millimetre by millimetre. upon him if he looked away, then looked back, he got the distinct impression the concrete ceiling was edging down, millimetre by millimetre.

Eventually it would crush him. Like a witch killed by the laying of stones. Squa.s.sation. He could feel the pressure of the stones on his chest. More and heavier stones. Till the ribcage collapsed. Like Tomasky lying on top of him, pressing down the knifepoint.

Enough!

He had to do his task. Just do it. Have one attempt. Then go home and protect his son and wife and save his brother.

He rose and stepped outside. The corridor was midnight dark. The monastery was creaking and whispering, like an Elizabethan galleon riding the oceans. Creaks and groans and weird distant noises. From this vantage, he could hear a hundred people breathing in their sleep. Like the entire building was respirating. Like it was a huge concrete lung. With a malignancy at its heart. A black ma.s.s on the scan.

The walk to the reception room took him two minutes. And yes, the key was hanging there, from its hook, it was actually marked Pyramide. Pyramide.

But the gla.s.s keycase was locked. Of course.

Simon looked left and right and, absurdly, up and down, and he unclasped a Swiss Army knife. He prised at the latch of the door. He heard a noise. He turned. Sweating. The rooms and corridors were empty. Clammy with tension, he returned to his task: he jemmied the knife-blade viciously.

The gla.s.s door swung open. Half panicked, he grabbed at the key on its hook, then scuttled out into the dark empty corridor.

He was ready. Running very stealthily he made his way down the darkened steps, down some more empty steps, down towards the longest sloping corridor.

A sharp voice stopped him. It froze through him, made him shrink against a wall. He stared, panicked, into the gloom. But then Simon realized: this stupid building this stupid building. The voice was probably three floors up. Maybe just the drunken archivist, yelling in his faithless sleep. Cursing the G.o.d of nightmares.

The concrete ramp led to the huge bronze door of the bas.e.m.e.nt chapel. It was unlocked; it didn't even seem to possess a lock. Indeed it swung open to the touch, with surprising grace and ease: beautifully balanced. As it turned on an axis, in the middle of the door s.p.a.ce, it became a vertical bronze line.

Behind the door was a horizontal window, filtering silver moonlight. The two lines formed a cross.

An electrifying sensation.

Simon gazed about him; he couldn't help it this was the first time he'd had a serious serious look at the chapel, when it was quiet, and solemn, and unused and now he realized: it was purely beautiful. The lofty concrete s.p.a.ce was set with serene wooden pews, and an archaic altar; on the far side, the slots of stained gla.s.s windows tinted the external starlight speckling the imperious chamber with exquisite parallels of colour. look at the chapel, when it was quiet, and solemn, and unused and now he realized: it was purely beautiful. The lofty concrete s.p.a.ce was set with serene wooden pews, and an archaic altar; on the far side, the slots of stained gla.s.s windows tinted the external starlight speckling the imperious chamber with exquisite parallels of colour.

He felt a strange desire to pause. Here. Forever.

But his conscience stabbed at his heart.

The Pyramid.

The chapel ran the length of the building, and there had to be an entrance somewhere in the rear, which would direct him to the mysterious inner sanctum of the building.

He searched for two minutes, and found it quite easily: a small metal door, in the dry shadows of a corner. Simon reached in his pocket, and slotted the key. He could hear another noise. From somewhere. An edgy sc.r.a.ping noise. Echoing down the concrete corridors.

Come on, come on, come on.

The lock yielded. He stepped down the narrow, almost totally blackened pa.s.sageway. Advancing into this s.p.a.ce was like squeezing into a tube. Simon wondered if this was what it was like: being in his brother's mind. The walls closing in, the darkness pressing on all sides, every day and forever.

The walls tapered so severely he had to turn edgeways to shuffle through, then at last the pa.s.sage concluded at another rusty steel door, barely visible in the gloom; Simon pushed it.

He fell into a bright pyramidal whiteness.

Simon protected his dazzled eyes with a hand.

Sitting on a chair in the middle of the room was the archivist monk. Brother McMahon. His teeth were red from wine.

'There are two keys to the pyramid, Mister Quinn.'

36.

In the gloom of the Damara twilight, Miguel looked older, more savage, even feral. The jentilak jentilak. He had a gun levelled at David's head. Boots clattered on the sand as four, six, and now eight men got out of the black-windowed cars. One of them spoke, with an American accent. Enoka lurked at the back.

'So that's Angus Nairn,' the American said. 'And David Martinez and Amy Myerson?'

Miguel nodded. 'Yes. But the Cagot girl, Eloise? Where is she?'

The accomplice shrugged.

'Can't see her anywhere.'

Miguel spat the words: 'Check! Check the cars and the camp. Alan! Jean Paul! Enoka!'

The men did as they were ordered; they moved swiftly between the Land Rover and the pink nylon tents, pitched along the dry river bed. The search took them barely half a minute, to confirm that it was just Alphonse and David, and Amy and Angus.

The tallest accomplice, Alan, spoke up. 'Sorry, Mig. No sign. Must've moved her.'