ahead of him, and quite recently, too.
Gripping his handgun more tightly, he continued down the hallway with his spine pressed up against one wall, squinting into the gloom. Here and there, sunlight fluttered and twittered like birds in a tree, where the ceiling or wall was cracked or even, in some places, broken open, as if by the hammering fist of a murderous giant.
The sound of the flies had become a hum, as of some great, nebulous creature that waxed and waned as it fed and drowsed. He paused, listening and, in his own unscientific way, counting their number. Something big had died in that room ahead of him, possibly more than one big thing. A human being?
He pulled the trigger of his handgun, the brief light-flare, the report, transforming the entire area. He was like a beast marking its territory, warning other predators of its presence, wanting to instill fear. If the targets were in that room, they were trapped. He knew that room-just as he knew every room in this and the other forts in the area. There was only one entrance and he was five steps away from it.
Then a figure shot out from the open doorway, and he squeezed off four accurate shots in rapid succession that made it dance and jerk.
It was Soraya who followed the dead American Chalthoum had heaved out of the doorway. Swinging her makeshift sling amid the hail of bullets, she let fly its load of quicklime into the face of the shooter. The instant the caustic calcium oxide struck his body fluids-the sweat on his cheeks and the tears in his eyes-a chemical reaction caused the blooming of a terrible heat.
The shooter screamed, dropped his gun, and instinctively clapped his hands to his burning face, trying to scrub off the substance. This only made matters worse for him. Soraya scooped up his gun and shot him in the head, putting him out of his misery, as she would a crippled horse.
Her low whistle brought Chalthoum and Yusef out of the burial chamber.
— One down, she said. -Three to go.
Are you all right? Moira stepped out of the bathtub and helped Humphry Bamber to stand.
— I think I ought to be asking you that question, he said, glancing with a shudder at the shattered head of the intruder. Then he turned and vomited into the toilet.
Moira turned on the cold water in the sink, drenched a hand towel, and placed it on the back of his neck. He took it and held it against the bridge of her nose as they left the bathroom.
She put her arm around his wide shoulders. -Let‘s get you back to somewhere safe.
He nodded like a lost little boy as they picked their way through the office. They were almost at the door when she glanced at the wall of computers.
— What did you find out? What‘s inside Noah‘s version of Bardem?
Bamber broke away, went to the laptop hooked up to all the other equipment, and disconnected it. Closing it, he tucked it under his arm.
— If you don‘t see it for yourself, you won‘t believe it, he said as they hurried out of the office.
I‘m not interested in Treadstone or what Alex Conklin was up to, Peter Marks said.
Willard appeared unfazed. -But you are, I assume, interested in saving CI from the Philistines. It was almost as if he‘d anticipated Marks‘s response.
— Of course I am. Marks turned his empty glass over when Willard tried to fill it with the bottle‘s last round of whisky. -Do you have something in mind-something, I assume, to do with Black River‘s complicity in domestic murder, especially, goddammit, the DCI‘s death?
— The DCI is M. Errol Danziger.
— Don‘t remind me, Marks said sourly.
— I have to. He‘s the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in CI‘s shop, and believe me when I tell you he‘s going to beat all you fine young gentlemen into banana paste if nothing‘s done to stop him.
— What about you?
— I am Treadstone.
Marks stared bleakly at the older man. Whether it was all the singlemalt he‘d consumed or having his face pushed into reality, he felt sick to his stomach. -Go on.
— No, Willard said emphatically. -Either you‘re in or you‘re out, Peter. And before you answer, please understand that there‘s no backing out, no room for second thoughts. Once you‘re in, that‘s it, no matter the cost or the consequences.
Marks shook his head. -What choice do I have?
— There‘s always a choice. Willard poured himself the last of the liquor and took a deep sip. -What there isn‘t-and this goes for me as well as for you-is an opportunity to look back. From this moment on, there is no past. We move forward, only forward, into the dark.
— Jesus. Marks felt a shiver run down his spine. -This sounds like I‘m making a deal with the devil.
— That‘s very funny. Willard smiled and, as if on cue, produced a threepage document, which he spread on the table facing the younger man.
— What the hell is this?
— Also funny. Willard placed a pen on the table. -It‘s a contract with Treadstone. It‘s non-negotiable and, as you can see in clause thirteen, nonrevokable.
Marks peered at the contract. -How is that enforceable? Will you threaten to take my soul? He laughed, but it was too brittle to hold any humor. Then he squinted, reading one paragraph after another.
— Jesus, he said when he was finished. He looked at the pen, then at Willard. -Tell me you have a plan to get rid of M. Errol-fucking-Danziger or I‘m out of here right now.
