need an aqualung to keep from drowning in the rain.
And apart from the weather – not that you could ever get apart from the weather in Ireland – there were the Irish, an odd lot who didn't seem to speak English properly and their own tongue not at all. Irish English seldom seemed to mean the same thing as English English. So often there seemed to be nuances and subtleties and shades of meaning he failed to grasp, most of which seemed to end up to his financial disadvantage.
Thinking of financial disadvantage reminded him of the alimony he'd been saddled with, and then of his mother-in-law in Alsace. On reflection, perhaps he was better off in Ireland after all.
'Do you ever miss the mercenary life, Gunther?' asked Kilmara. He decided to light his pipe. It was that hour of day, and he was in that sort of mood.
'I'm not sure the Legion qualified as mercenary,' replied Gunther. 'The pay was terrible.'
'I wasn't referring to the Legion,' said Kilmara. 'I was thinking of that little interlude just afterward.'
'Ah,' said Gunther, 'we don't talk about that.'
'I merely asked you if you missed it.'
'I've matured, Colonel,' said Gunther. 'Before, I fought purely for money. Now I have higher ideals. I fight for democracy and money.'
Kilmara was busy for a few moments with pipe cleaners and other gadgets. Pipe smoking is not an impetuous activity. 'What does democracy mean to you?' he asked when order was restored.
'Freedom to make more money,' said Gunther with a smile.
'I like a committed idealist,' said Kilmara dryly. 'Pearse would have been proud of you.'
'Who was Pearse?'
'Padraig Pearse,' said Kilmara, 'Irish hero, poet, romantic, and dreamer. He was one of the leaders of the 1916 uprising against the British that led to independence in 1922. Of course, he didn't live to see the day. He surrendered after some bloody fighting and was put up against a wall and shot. He had company.'
'Romantics and dreamers tend to get shot,' said Gunther.
'Good evening,' Fitzduane broke in from the doorway.
'Speak of the devil,' said Kilmara.
Danelle did not like to admit, even to himself, that he felt uneasy. There was no good reason for a highly educated, rational, cosmopolitan twentieth-century man to be prey to such a feeling so close to home on land he knew well. Nonetheless, there was a certain atmosphere in the wood that was, at best, unsettling. Oddly, there were no bird sounds, and indeed, everything was quite remarkably silent. His boots made no noise on the thick mulch. It was ridiculous, of course, but it was as if he could hear his heart beating.
There was, from time to time, a sudden rustling of what must have been a large animal – either a fox or a badger – but otherwise the oppressive silence continued.
Danelle wished he had brought a colleague. He was not fond of his fellow faculty members, but they had their uses, and on this occasion even the most obnoxious of his fellows would have been welcome. Slowly he recognized the unsettling sensation that gripped him. It was an old ailment of humankind and could be smelled as well as felt. Fear.
It was darker in the wood than he expected. These short, gloomy March evenings of Ireland. He wished that he were somewhere farther south, somewhere warm and sunny and dry – especially dry. A raindrop slithered down the back of his neck, and soon there were others. He began to feel cold and shivery.
The feeling he had was changing. It was no longer fear. He stumbled on through the gloom and gathering darkness, branches and briars whipping and dragging at his face and body. The feeling identified itself. There remained little doubt about it. It bore a distinct resemblance to absolute, all-encompassing, mind-dominating, blind panic.
He stopped and tried to get his nerves under control. With great deliberation, his hand shaking as if he had malaria, he removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the cold sweat and rain and streaks of dirt from where the branches had whipped him. The action, calmly carried out, made him feel better. He felt more in control. He told himself that he was being ridiculous and that there was no rational reason for this extraordinary terror.
He walked on. The undergrowth became particularly dense, and the twisty path began to incline upward. He realized he was near the old oak tree, God rot it, the source of all his trouble. His feeling of relief was canceled abruptly when his foot caught on a protruding root and he tumbled headlong into the dank mulch. He rose slowly, his heart pounding from the shock.
A sudden vile stench assailed his nostrils, and he gagged. It was like rotting flesh mixed with the acrid smell of sulfur, the tang of hell.
There seemed to be light coming from behind the old oak tree. He thought at first that it was the last gesture of the setting sun, but he realized now that it was too late for the sun, and anyway, this was different, a strange glow, and its source was from below, not from the sky. He wanted to turn and run, but he felt compelled to move forward. He walked as if in a trance, his steps slow and faltering.
What he saw, as he round the thick trunk of the old oak tree, was more than his brain could – or wanted to – grasp. In the clearing ahead, a large circle had been made out of stones, and the spaces between the stones were filled with greenery and flowers. Inside the circle of stones and flowers was another shape. It looked like a vast letter 'A,' its extremities touching the inside of the circle at three points. In the center of the circle a fire burned and flickered and slowly devoured something that had once been living. Entrails spilled in yellowing coils from the ripped-open stomach. The small, hot flame of the fire hissed and spit – and close up, the smell was nauseating.
There was a flash and a sudden, sharp smell of sulfur from the fire, and the lower branches of the old oak tree were lit up in the glow. Danelle raised his eyes. It was the last conscious vision of his life, and it was utterly horrible. Through the smoke of burning flesh and sulfur, he beheld the horned head of the devil.
He was still unconscious when they threw him off the edge of the cliff onto the rocks and the waters of the Atlantic far below.
Fitzduane slept a sound, dreamless sleep and woke up the following morning feeling cheerful and rested.
After Etan had left for the studios, he made himself a large pot of black coffee, put his feet up in front of the crackling fire, and began reviewing what he had learned so far. It came to him that if you're the kind of person who turns over stones – and most people learn not to early in life – what comes crawling out can be disconcerting.
He started with his meeting with Kilmara the previous evening. A computer search had thrown up the fact that Draker was more than a select school for the children of the rich and powerful. Out of a full complement of sixty pupils – now fifty-eight – no fewer than seventeen were designated 'PT' on the Ranger computer printout.
'Computer people prefer to talk in bits and bytes,' Kilmara had said, 'but one of the advantages of getting in at the start of the Rangers was that I was able to twist the buggers' arms to make them take some cognizance of the English language. ‘PT’ stands for ‘possible target.’ It's not a high-level classification, but it means that, in theory, you take some precautions and you think twice when some incident occurs involving someone with ‘PT’ after his or her name.'
'Tell me more,' said Fitzduane.
'Do I detect a flutter of interest, Hugo?' said Kilmara. 'Relax, my son. Thousands of people in Ireland have a designation of ‘PT’ or higher: politicians, businessmen, diplomats, visiting absentee landlords of the English variety, and God and the computer only know who else.'
'But why these particular seventeen students?' asked Fitzduane.
