Daoud's attention was on the dark, blood-soaked mound lying in the water only a few yards away, his grip loosened on the wooden handles of the garotte. Halloran, half-kneeling below the Arab, swiftly brought the point of his elbow up into the other man's groin. Daoud hissed, releasing one of the handles to clutch at himself, the wire cutting across Halloran's throat. The operative grabbed the Arab's ankle and pulled, sending his opponent crashing onto his back.
Despite the pain, Daoud kicked out at Halloran, toppling him as he tried to rise.
They came up together, but tears blurred the Arab's vision. Halloran's stiffened fingers jabbed at the front of Daoud's neck, striking for the thyroid cartilage. If his balance had allowed a greater force to the blow, the Arab would have been killed instantly; as it was, Daoud crouched over his knees, choking and gasping. Halloran half-rose, turning as he did so, ready to launch himself at the Arab's companions.
Cora had sunk down against the altar, blood from the open body above spilling over the edge to stain the shoulders of her white robe. Kline was stumbling around the stone slab, one hand against it for support, the other stretched out, fingers spread, as though reaching for the relic lying in the wetness of the floor some distance away. Khayed's gaze was fixed on his choking lover. Rage burned when it shifted to Halloran. Khayed lifted the long and broad chopping knife.
But others had entered the chamber.
Janusz Palusinski, whom Kline had ordered to investigate the earlier sound of gunfire, had returned. A man in a rain-drenched anorak gripped the Pole's collar from behind; in his free hand was a revolver pointing at Palusinski's head.
Danny Shay was dismayed by what confronted him in the gloomy, candle-lit room. Dismayed, then fiercely angry. There were robed figures below him, one wielding a long, bloodstained knife, another in black wearing a hideous mask of some kind. There was a girl resting against a stone slab, her legs exposed, blood soaking her clothing. And the stone resembled an altar, and on that altar—oh dear God in Heaven !—there was a mutilated body, blood pumping from it like red springwater. There were moving shadows, dark alcoves that might have hidden others involved in this atrocity. Shay thumbed back the hammer of the .38.
And then his eyes came to rest on the man he had been seeking.
'Halloran!' he yelled.
The operative looked up towards the top of the stairway, as did the others in the chamber. Khayed became still, while Kline leaned heavily against the stone, a wildness in his eyes. Cora barely reacted, for the moment too disorientated to care.
The man with the gun shoved Palusinski away from him, and the Pole staggered down a few steps before cowering against the wall, folding himself up so that he was small, a poor attempt to make himself invisible. The weapon came around to point at Halloran.
'You've given the Organisation a lot of grief, man,' Shay said.
Halloran straightened slightly, his body remaining tensed. The man above him had spoken with a thick, southern-Irish accent and a hint of the truth began to dawn in Halloran's mind.
'You killed three good men, Halloran. Valuable men to the Cause, they were. Shot 'em before they had a chance. You should have known we'd find you, you must have realised the IRA would never stand for that!' Halloran was stunned. So it was he who had been the target all along. This bastard had tortured Dieter Stuhr to find him...
The man on the stairway felt uneasy with the strange smile that had appeared on Halloran's face.
Shay spoke to cover his own inexplicable fear. 'There'll be three Provos, good an' true, smiling in Heaven this night,' he said, raising the .38 so that it was aimed directly at Halloran.
'There's no such place for killers,' the man below said, and his voice was mild, the lilt of Irish there as if he'd not been gone too long from the ould country.
'That you'd be knowing yourself,' Shay replied. 'God only knows what Divil's worship you're involved in here. Ask His forgiveness, if you've a mind to, an' do it now.' Thunder rumbled as his finger curled against the revolver's trigger.
'Liam!' Cora screamed, and just for an instant the gunman was distracted.
That was all the time that Halloran needed to make a grab for the collapsed Arab.
The gun roared deafeningly in the confines of the underground room, but Halloran had already hoisted up the Arab to use as a shield. Daoud shuddered as the bullet struck his forehead and lodged inside. The operative fought to control the twitching body, his hands beneath the dead man's shoulders, holding him upright. The second bullet entered Daoud's stomach, and the third went through his side. Halloran felt this last one nick his hip as it emerged and, although most of its force was spent, the shock was enough to make him drop his cover.
More screams filled the air, but these were from Khayed who had witnessed the slaying of his lover. He ran towards the stairs, the long blade raised high, a continuous screech now rising from deep inside his throat.
Shay was obliged to turn to meet the attack, and he was hardly aware of the person who had led him to this ungodly place brushing past. Palusinski was too afraid for his own life to tackle the gunman; he made for the safety of the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Khayed was almost on the bottom step when Shay fired the gun at him. A hole appeared in the Arab's chest, its edges immediately spreading blood. He staggered backwards, his arms waving as if for balance, then came forward once more, his face not contorted with pain but with outrage. He reached the second step and seemed to sense he would never get close to the one who had killed his beloved Youssef.
The huge knife was already leaving his hand as the next bullet tore away his throat.
Shay fell back against the stairs, the blade imbedded at an angle in his stomach, the heavy anorak he wore no protection at all. His vision was already beginning to dim as he turned his head towards the man below, his target, the Irishman turned traitor whom he and his group had been sent to assassinate as an example to others of how the Organisation always avenged themselves. His hand wavered as he raised the Webley .38, for the weapon was suddenly very heavy, almost too heavy to lift.
Once again he aimed the gun at Halloran.
49 RETURN TO THE DEATH HUT
'We can't waste any more time with this one,' Mather remarked. 'Find another point of entry?' his operative suggested, looking up from his kneeling position against the porch wall.
'No need,' Mather replied, raising a hand to the other two Shield men running towards them. He went to meet them, keeping out of sight of the main doors inside the porch from where the gunman held them at bay. He tightened his coat collar around his neck against the drenching rain.
'In the mood for target practice, Georgie?' he asked when the two men reached him.
'Always, sir,' came the answer, as all three moved in close to be heard over the storm. 'What's the problem?'
'We're being refused admittance. You see the Mercedes parked in line with the porch? You'll have a clear view of the house doorway from the rear passenger seat, or at least you can see some of it in the darkness—our friend appears to have switched off some lights. The vehicle's ours, so use your spare key if it's locked.'
'How much damage?'
'Just hit the bugger.' Mather limped away, followed by the second operative who crouched low and used the Mercedes as a screen to reach the opposite side of the porch. The man named Georgie doubled over also, going to the car and trying the doorhandle. Halloran must have left it in one hell of a rush, he thought, when he discovered the doors were unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. Georgie switched on the system, then crawled over to the backseat and pressed the button to lower the passenger window.
lie raised the Browning, keeping it clear of the rain that spattered in, and waited.
He watched as the operative with Mather crawled on his belly into the tunnel, keeping to the shadow of one wall. The Planner reached inside with his cane to tap the floor, hoping to attract the attention of their quarry.
It worked. Georgie squeezed the Browning's trigger as flame flashed from the doorway ahead. All he heard was the bark of his own weapon, but he assumed Phil, inside the porch, had fired at the same time, aiming slightly left of the gunflash. They waited a few seconds then, as lightning seared and thunder shook the sky, he saw Mather rush inside, Phil rising to accompany him to the doorway. He bundled out of the car, taking up position on the opposite side of the porch to his other colleague, their weapons pointing inwards at the entrance.
