EPUB Ebooks: Free ebook sample of "Maxim Gunn and the Serpent Force" by Nicholas Boving

The secretary drained his glass. “Well, thanks for the beer. I must be off about my business.” He got up, and was about to leave when he snapped his fingers. “Damn. I almost forgot.” He reached into an inside pocket, and took out an envelope. “Phone call while you were playing. The caller seemed to think it was rather urgent.” He gave the message to Gunn, who looked at the white envelope in puzzlement, and ripped it open with his thumbnail with a feeling of mild excitement. Maybe this would balance the awfulness of Milo Bellamy; and he made a mental note to check up on the man and do something unpleasant.

The contents were brief; merely a request to call a certain number in London at his earliest convenience. The number was a very private one, given out on a strictly need to know basis, but Gunn knew it would connect him straight through to the Secretary of the Cabinet in Downing Street. His puzzlement increased.

There had been a time, a couple of years earlier, when he had reported directly to that office; but that was before his resignation from the covert branch of the Government security service, known simply as the Organization. Since then, he had been a free agent, a man of leisure pursuing his own interests, apart from one brief excursion back into that murky world to deal with his old enemy, Wanda Liszt. He got up and went to the telephone in the lobby.

His call was answered before the tone had rung twice. He gave his name, and waited. Twenty seconds later, the well-bred tones of the Cabinet Secretary came over the line.

“Sorry to spoil your game, Gunn, but needs must when the devil drives. I’d appreciate it if you could make your way here with all reasonable dispatch.”

“I’m no longer with the Organization, you know,” Gunn replied, mildly.

“Yes. I am aware of that.”

“Then what can the Cabinet want with me?”

“I’d rather tell you in person,” the Secretary replied. “How soon can you make it?”

Gunn felt mild irritation at the assumption that he’d obey the summons, even though he knew he would. “Today?” he asked.

“Oh, certainly. It is important.”

Gunn glanced at his watch. “Give me two hours to be on the safe side.”

“By the way, I may bring someone with me.”

“Very well,” replied the Secretary, and he chuckled softly. “By the way, how was Milo Bellamy?”

“Most unpleasant. I’m tempted to do something about him,” Gunn said, shortly.

The Secretary laughed. “Yes, he does rather give the impression that the most important date in the history of the world is his own birthday, doesn’t he. Well, whatever it is, it will be well deserved. In two hours then. Au revoir.” And he hung up.

Gunn put down the phone, and went back to his beer. Two hours would give him time for lunch, if he was quick.

On his way back to the car, he stopped briefly at the professional’s shop, took Milo Bellamy’s cheque out of his pocket, endorsed it and gave it to the man. It was for two hundred pounds. The game had given him no pleasure, but taking Bellamy’s money had. The professional demurred, but Gunn insisted, and countersigned it.

“I didn’t have to play with the man,” he said. “You did. I got pleasure in beating him. You spend his money. Take your wife out to dinner or something.”

As he passed through Richmond, the bright late April afternoon disappeared, to be replaced by low cloud and a spatter of windswept rain. It suited his mood. Kings Road, Victoria Street, Parliament Square, and moments later he had parked under the anxious eyes of a policeman, who nevertheless let him stay without question.

Five minutes later he was ushered into a quiet office, and noted, with private satisfaction, that exactly two hours had passed since his phone call. The tall, elegant man behind the desk rose, and offered his hand.

“Glad you could make it, Gunn,” the Secretary said. “Can I offer you tea?” He smiled. “Just what did you have in mind for Bellamy, anyway? Not that it’s any of my business.”

“Not a thing, Sir,” Gunn replied. “The moment has passed. It’s just that he gave such an irritating display of bad manners, and embarrassed two very hard working golf professionals that I wanted to give him a resounding kick in the pants. Enough said. What did you want to see me about?”

There was a pause as their tea arrived and was poured. The Secretary handed Gunn a cup. “You know Doctor Jardine, I believe. Harry Jardine. Used to be one of your old tutors, didn’t he.”

Gunn nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Well, he now heads an establishment at a place called Depedean, in Sussex. You know anything about it?”

“Not a thing, Sir,” Gunn replied.

“Well, that’s not so surprising, I suppose, as it was started after you left your old job. The whole thing is kept pretty well under wraps, mainly to keep the taxpayer quiet, apart from anything else. Basically it’s a kind of think tank, specifically designed to monitor anything out of the ordinary, and that gives it the widest scope imaginable. I won’t go into details: Jardine will do that when you see him. But you name it, and they probably have an eye or an ear on it. Sorcery to cybernetics; E.S.P. to E.T.'s, and lots of even funnier things. And I, or rather the P.M. wants you to go down there and listen to what he has to say. All I’ll say is that a great deal of importance is being placed on some of his recent findings. You may find it all very far-fetched, but do listen, carefully, and if you agree, take it from there. Jardine’s expecting you to stay the night, so pack a toothbrush. Any questions?”

Gunn took a sip of his tea, put down the cup, and sat back.

“Yes,” he said. “What makes you think I’m going to do anything about it in the first place?”

The Secretary frowned. It was not at all what he expected.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

Gunn smiled. “I am no longer one of Her Majesty’s Civil Servants, Sir. I am a completely private citizen. What makes you assume that I’m going to jump when someone from this office snaps their fingers?”

The Secretary steepled his fingers, and said in his silkiest tones, “Because you’re here and because you’re Maxim Gunn.”

Gunn restrained a laugh. The ball had been put firmly in his court. “Touché,” he said.

“We need you,” the Secretary said, softly.

“Why me? Why not one of the others?”

“I thought I’d already made that clear.” The Secretary smiled. “Do you know what the P.M. said to me this morning when your name was suggested?”

Gunn lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“It was a paraphrase of Hilaire Belloc’s little poem. I misquote. “Whatever happens, we have got, Maxim Gunn, and they have not.”

For a second Gunn felt acutely uncomfortable and embarrassed; it was such blatant flattery. “Any idea who ‘they’ are?”

“None,” the Secretary said.

Gunn got up and went to the door without another word, and turned as the Secretary said, “I'm sorry you’re not going to do anything about Bellamy. One or two people would be very grateful if he got knocked down a peg or two. Well, there it is. Goodbye, and good luck.”

An hour later, Gunn was threading his way back through the rush hour traffic of Richmond, wondering just what the devil he’d let himself in for this time.

The A3 road, south, unwound beneath the wheels of the Lagonda as he pressed on into the darkening afternoon. Rain and wind continued to buffet the car as he passed through Esher and Woking, and finally turned off after Guildford on the Petworth road. Just before Petworth, he turned up a side road, and within minutes found himself at the gates of an Elizabethan manor house, with a small sign at the roadside which bore the legend, “Depedean Manor. Research Establishment”, which told him precisely nothing. He turned and drove in.

The house was divided into two parts by the massive front door. To the right was, what he guessed was the working section, as every window was uncurtained and ablaze with lights. The left wing was in darkness, as was the upper story.

He pulled to a stop in front of the entrance, grabbed his bag off the back seat, and made a dash through the rain. The door was opened as he ran up the steps, and he found himself in a large, panelled hall, with what looked like good Persian rugs on the oak flooring, and a collection of dark coloured portraits around the walls. He put down his bag, shook raindrops off his jacket, and turned to the man who had opened the door.

“You must be Mr Gunn,” the man said. “I’m Andrews, Doctor Jardine’s assistant.” He held out a welcoming hand. “Leave your bag, and I’ll take you to him. I’ll show you your room later.”

Gunn followed him down a wide passage to the left of the hall. Andrews knocked at a door and they went in.

Harry Jardine looked up from a stack of computer printouts, and smiled broadly as he saw Gunn. He hurried forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a searching look.

“The world must be treating you well, Maxim,” he said. “You don’t look a day older than when I last saw you. How long ago was that? Good God, it must be all of ten years. But come in, come in, and warm yourself by the fire. It must have been a miserable drive.”

He turned to Andrews. “David, see if you can rustle up a pot of tea for us, and make sure we’re not disturbed till dinner. I don’t want to see a soul.”

Gunn waited patiently by the fire, and studied the older man. Doctor Harry Jardine was exactly as he remembered. A shade older, a touch more white in his hair, but basically no different from when Gunn had studied under him at University.

Jardine patted his pockets, and pulled out a battered pipe and tobacco pouch, which he fiddled with. He smiled a little wryly. “I wasn’t much surprised when I heard you’d become one of Her Majesty’s cloak and dagger boys,” he said. “Not quite what I’d hoped for, I admit. You had a lot of promise in other fields. But I’ve no doubt you’re good at it.” He chuckled. “In fact you must be. I got a personal call from the P.M.” He dug his pipe into the pouch and started filling it. “Dammit, Maxim, I’m glad it’s you. No one else wouldn have understood what I’m going to tell you.”

Gunn cut off the flow with a laugh. “Steady there, Doctor. I should tell you that I’m not in the cloak and dagger business, as you call it. I resigned some time ago. I’m now a free agent. I agreed to come down here to listen, no more.”

Jardine looked a little non-plussed. “Not...then why are you here?”

“Because the Cabinet Secretary asked me to come.”

Jardine waved his hands airily, and spilled tobacco. “Same thing then.”

“Doctor,” Gunn said, seriously. “I’ll listen, and I’ll help if I can. No promises. And I haven’t the faintest idea what this is all about.”

They were interrupted as Andrews came back with a tray of tea and some biscuits. “Best I could do,” he said, and set the tray down.

“Excellent,” Jardine replied. “Now, mind you keep the rest of the pack out of here. Tell them anything you like.” Andrews nodded, and left.

Jardine poured the tea, handed Gunn a cup, and sat down.

“All I ask of you is to listen, Maxim,” he said. “And then make up your own mind. It’s a pretty weird story.”

CHAPTER THREE

Jardine leant back in his armchair, and concentrated on filling his pipe. Gunn waited patiently until it was belching smoke satisfactorily. He was in no particular hurry, and the sound of rain and wind on the long windows made the flickering fire, and the warm glow of the old room, all the more welcoming. Finally the Doctor grunted, and dropped the spent match into a big glass ashtray at his elbow.

“I know all this will probably sound like a lot of nonsense to you, Maxim,” he began. “But I think you know me well enough to realize that when I say I’m frightened, it’s not premature senility creeping in.” He smiled. “I haven’t been reading too much science fiction, and I haven’t been listening to the half-baked ravings of any quasi-religious sect. These events are quite verifiable. Any decent almanac will provide you with the information, and you can work it out for yourself.” He paused and put another match to his pipe.

“We’re a pretty funny bunch here at Depedean, and as a result, we don’t exactly advertise our doings to the world at large. God knows, the poor benighted taxpayer has enough of a burden without thinking he’s paying for what he would probably classify as a bunch of witch doctors and crackpots.”

“The Secretary mentioned something like that,” Gunn said.

Jardine looked up sharply. “Well, that’s just what we definitely are not.” He held up one hand and ticked off fingers with the other. “We use computers. We gather information and evidence. We examine some, and discard or reject a lot more. And every so often a piece fits into the jigsaw. The Russians are doing it, and so are the Americans. And the word is that they’re both starting to get as worried as we are.”

A gust of wind thudded against the old building, rattling rain on the windows like birdshot. A log fell in the grate, sending a swirl of sparks up the chimney. Otherwise there was silence in the room as Jardine gathered his thoughts, and Gunn remained in the dark, but patient.

“We’ve been called a lot of things,” Jardine went on, “most of them not very complimentary. In fact, the Department of Loony Ideas is one of the least offensive; but our real purpose is fully appreciated by only a very few, and as they’re the ones who approve our budget, I suppose they’re the ones who matter.

Basically, what we do is delve into the past, watch the currents and signs, and try to predict what will happen in the future.” He saw Gunn’s eyebrows raise fractionally. “No, we’re not fortune tellers. History has a nasty habit of repeating itself, and usually only the bad bits. What we try to do is catch the repeats before they happen. Pity we can’t do that with television,” he added, with a smile. “Then we let the powers that be know what we think will happen, and with a bit of luck they can do something about it before it’s too late.”

“Do they listen?” Gunn asked.

“Some do, and some don’t. Fortunately the P.M. does. But then he’s a pretty unusual sort of person. He may have a will of iron, but he also seems to realise that there’s not a lot of point in having advisers if you don’t listen to them. This one has got us worried; and I presume that’s why you’re here.”

Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour, and there was a rattle of dishes. The Doctor looked at his watch. “Another hour to dinner,” he said. “I've got time to put you in the picture, briefly. More tea?” Gunn shook his head, and Jardine went on.

“What it boils down to is this. Over the years, a lot of work has been done on the earth’s magnetic field, and the most widely held theory is that the movements of the molten mass of iron at the core generate currents of electricity. A school of thought holds that the Ancients understood this - though God knows where their information came from - and build their temples: places like Stonehenge - on particular eddy points of this magnetic force. You’ll be aware that there are certain places where compasses go completely wild?” Gunn nodded. “These points were linked by the smaller stone circles and megaliths, or standing stones, you see all over the country, and supposedly traced the lines of the force. These were called Ley Lines by a man called Watkins. There are a couple that run due north and south, and east-west through Stonehenge, by the way, making it a kind of focal point.

Now, we believe that this current, this energy, could be tapped and used if anyone knew how; and that the coming planetary alignment will be the optimum time. That’s when all nine planets will be strung out like beads on a string, and for a brief moment you’ll be able to draw a straight line through the lot of them, from Mercury right out to Pluto. We’ll be under maximum attraction, and the power they’ll generate will be beyond belief. Oh, you and I won’t feel a thing, but the Earth will, in the shape of dramatic physical disturbances, such as earthquakes, for instance, unusually high tides, floods and violent storms. There’ll probably be a sharp upward trend in the incidence of violence too. Small wars, terrorism and general crime. But we’ll ride these out; we always do given time. But nothing will ever be the same again if this other thing happens.”

“What other thing, Doctor?” Gunn asked, quietly.

“I’m coming to that; and this is where we part company with scientific fact and start to roam into tiger country. It’s the point where normal people start looking for a quick way out of the room.”

Gunn smiled, slowly. “One of my great fears is that I’ll wake up one morning and find out I’m normal.”

Jardine looked at him amusedly from under his shaggy brows. “Yes, there were times, weren’t there?” He relit his pipe once again and continued. “Way back, in what we call the Dark Ages, being the enlightened people we think we are - I wonder what they’ll call us in a thousand years - there quite probably was a man, call him Merlin if you will, like the fellow from the King Arthur legend. By my reasoning, and a certain amount of computer work, I think it’s nearly certain he just caught the beginnings of this ‘power’. It had remained untapped for centuries, never really used properly, and how he got on to it no one will ever know, of course. But I think he only caught the first small wave, before he either fell off or lost it. Before him, I think you’d have to go back to some Stone Age priest or other, who in all likelihood lost it too. But there it is, a vast powerhouse of energy, just waiting to be tapped by the right, or maybe the wrong person.”

Jardine peered closely at Gunn to see how he was taking it, and on seeing him impassive and patiently listening, went on.

“You ever thought how those massive stones at Stonehenge really got there?”

“Not really,” Gunn replied. “I always reckoned on sheer manpower.”

“All the way from the Prescelly Mountains, in Wales? That’s a long way; a hundred and thirty five miles as the crow flies. Quite a drag, wouldn’t you say?”

Gunn shrugged. “Isn’t there some theory about floating them part way; from Milford Haven or somewhere?”

“It’s a theory,” Jardine agreed. “But damned unrealistic if you ask me, and it’s a trip of around two hundred and forty miles by sea and river. Neolithic man, at the time the Henge was built - around 25OO B.C. - was a pretty basic sort of fellow. He hunted, did a bit of primitive husbandry, and maybe had flimsy hide coracles to do some fishing from, but nothing big enough, or strong enough to float slabs that big. Good God, some of them weigh twenty-five to thirty tons! You’d need something pretty substantial to support that; and then you’d have to contend with bad weather, accidental sinkings, and God knows what else.”

“Rafts?” Gunn queried.

“Again, possible,” Jardine replied. “But the flotation properties of wooden logs aren’t all that wonderful, and they’d be nearly impossible to manoeuvre.”

Gunn smiled, knowing full well that the Doctor was leading him to his explanation. “Okay. So what do you think? How was it done?”

Jardine was uncharacteristically diffident. “I don’t know; but I’ve got ideas.”

“Go on,” Gunn encouraged. Knowing full well he was going to hear something very unusual.

Jardine got his pipe going again, delaying his reply. Then he looked sharply up. “Merlin. Have you thought about him?”

Gunn almost laughed, but managed to stifle it with an effort. “Fiction,” he said, firmly. “Part of the Arthurian legend. Anyway, Arthur supposedly lived in the fifth century, and that’s a hell of a long time after Stonehenge was built. How would you tie the time factor in?”

Jardine nodded. “Of course. But legend usually has a basis of fact; no matter how lost or obscured by time.” He jabbed his pipe, making the point. “Just suppose there was someone, someone who discovered and used the Serpent Force.”

“Serpent Force?” Gunn questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s what I call it. Earth lines of power. You know anything about that kind of thing?”

Gunn shook his head. “Not a thing. The only power lines I know are the ones carrying electricity.”

Jardine wrinkled his nose at the poor joke, and assumed a lecturing attitude that Gunn remembered well.

“The most universal power legend is that of the serpent dragon, and it has always been a symbol of both good and evil. The power can be used both ways. To the Greeks and Romans, the Drakontes were life enhancing forces of the inner body of the earth. To the Egyptians, the dragon was beneficial and the serpent harmful. In China and Japan the dragon is generally good; the embodiment of water and other life giving forces, and the protection of the dragon brought good luck, rejuvenation and, possibly, immortality.

This was also believed by the Algonquin and Iroquois Indians, and the flying dragon shown on the rocks at Piasa in Illinois, is the same as those in the Far East. You have only to look at the great serpent mound near Locust Grove in Ohio to see the awe in which the serpent was held by them.”

Jardine paused briefly, and seeing Gunn was still listening intently, went on.

“In Chinese geomancy, divination by figures on or of the earth, by using Feng-shui, people were shown where to build cities, temples, palaces and tombs; and the earth currents were of two kinds. The negative, or yin, and the positive, yang: female and male, dark and light.” He looked earnestly at Gunn. “Maxim, it’s no coincidence that this has been believed for thousands of years. People and civilizations so far apart in time and distance didn’t simply hit on the same ideas by chance. They knew. They were closer to the earth and its forces than we so-called civilised people are, and they could feel the streams of terrestrial magnetism about which we know so little.

We do know how the moon affects tides, and the lives of creatures in tidal waters. We know it influences a whole range of other things: from the incidence of criminal activity and erratic behaviour - ask any psychologist - to life and birth and death. Think what an alignment of all nine planets might do!

Our legends and literature have dozens of instances of dragons - the evil use of the force - being dealt with by the local hero, including St. George, Beowulf, King Arthur and Sir Lancelot, to name just a few. But significantly, there don’t seem to be any legends about the good side. Nobody ever told stories of good dragons, or useful serpents. Maybe that’s because power corrupts, and the people who get the power, no matter how small the amount, start using it for their own ends.” Jardine frowned, his face creasing with inner worry. “There have been more theories and more crackpot ideas about this force than I’m going to bother you with now - we don’t have the time - but basically, there’s a thread of rightness and truth about them all, and that’s what worries me.”

“Anyway,” he went on. “Suppose there was a man called, say, Merffyn ap Llyn - Mervyn of the Lake. By usage and abusage, the name could become...”

Gunn cut in. “Merffyn ap Llyn - Merffyn Llyn - Merffllyn, and finally Merlin.” He felt pleased with himself.

“Go to the top of the class,” Jardine nodded. “Those names are Welsh, but maybe the tongue spoken in those days wasn’t too different. Anyway, what I’m getting at is that perhaps there is some kind of basis to the legend. Maybe Merlin did exist in a different time, and maybe he had the power, or part of it. And, maybe, that’s how the stones got from South Wales to the Salisbury Plain.” He sat back and smiled. “It would be a devil of a lot easier, and more convenient to use something like levitation than dragging, or floating them there. You know.” He went on. “There are little pointers, if you care to look for them.”

“Such as?” Gunn asked.

“Ever heard of Geoffrey of Monmouth?”

Gunn nodded. “Twelfth century monk of some kind,” he replied, tentatively.

Jardine smiled. “Correct. He wrote a highly imaginative account called “The History of the Kings of Britain”, based on a lot of traditional and mythical material; but unfortunately that kind of thing is all we’ve got when it comes to the post-Roman era. Anyway, in his account of Aurelius Ambrosius, whom many take to be King Arthur - Yes, I know we’re out of context and time frame - Merlin, the prophet of the Gewissei tribe in Wales, tells the King to steal the Giant’s Ring from Mount Killaurus in Ireland, and erect it in Britain as a memorial to his defeat of the Saxon invaders. After a lot of argument, Aurelius agrees, beats the Irish chieftain in a battle, and sets about getting the stones. But his men can’t carry them, or even dismantle them; that is, until Merlin arrives on the scene, derides their brute strength, and takes down the stones himself “more easily than you could ever believe”. Anyway, Merlin re-erects the stones at Stonehenge in exactly the same way as they had been at Mount Killaurus, “thus proving that his artistry was worth more than any brute strength”.”

“Yes. All very interesting,” Gunn replied. “But it’s just legend, like anything else. And old Geoffrey is known to have been a little slack about telling the truth, specially if he was on to a good story. Surely you can’t take that kind of thing seriously?”

Jardine shook his head. “No, not as such, of course. But it’s another interesting little bit of folklore that bears thinking about. The little clues add up, you know.”

Gunn said nothing for a minute, feeling a little off-balance at the thoughts chasing through his head. He couldn’t get rid of Walt Disney pictures of wizards in long, black cloaks, spotted with stars, waving wands that sparkled. Finally he asked. “So what evidence have you been gathering?”

Jardine made no mention of Gunn’s lack of comment on his theory. “Reports come to us from some fairly unlikely places,” and here he pushed a folder across to Gunn. “Take a look at that lot. A carpet seller in Baghdad, a geologist in the Australian Northern Territory, a trapper north of Winnipeg on Hudson’s Bay, and a monk in a monastery in the Karakorums. Little pieces of information that in themselves don’t mean a lot, mere curiosities, but thanks to the miracles of modern electronics and the microchip, we feed them into the mainframe here, and the beginnings of a pretty grim picture start to appear. No one knows what the key is. If we did we could stop it. But we desperately need to find out.” He pointed at the folder, which Gunn had opened and was browsing through. “As you can see, by my calculations we've got about two months. Sunrise on Midsummer’s Day is when it’ll probably happen; and in that moment a monster will be born, a man of such awesome power that the world will never be the same again. He may be planning good things, like peace, universal happiness and prosperity, an end to all these petty and terrible small wars, but I doubt it. The whispers are that he is evil, more evil than you and I can imagine.”

“Evil,” asked Gunn. “Or just power mad? There’s a difference.”

“Is there, really? Ultimate power seems to breed evil, and that’s what he would have - ultimate power.”

Gunn nodded. He had met a few people in his career with that kind of ambition - Wanda Liszt for one - and had been lucky enough to deal with them before their dreams could come true. “Point taken,” he said.

“Then, how am I doing so far, Maxim? Still ready to listen, or is it all too far-fetched?”

“I’m still here,” Gunn replied, quietly. “And I’ll give you fair warning before I send for the men in white coats.”

The Doctor chuckled. “We don’t know where the original information came from, of course, and it’s unlikely that a bunch of Neolithic priests understood terrestrial magnetism, so there was perhaps an outside agency.” He gave a peculiar snort, half laugh and half derision. “Maybe Von Daniken’s theories about visitors from outer space aren’t so far out. Who knows? If there were records, they were lost until, maybe, now. The kind of power I’m talking about really is awesome. Occasionally the veil has been torn in the past, and one or two have caught the briefest glimpse of what lies beyond, before they lost it; occasions for which we can thank God. But it’s my belief that this time the key has been found, and the right time for unlocking the door is very close. Call it a time lock if you will.”

Gunn got up, crossed to the window, parted the heavy curtains and looked out into the darkness. All he saw was his own reflection, distorted by the blur of rain drops. He turned.

“What sort of power are we talking about?”

“At a guess,” Jardine replied. “And it’s an educated one, not wild surmise, he’ll have the power to read minds, anyone’s, at any distance. He’ll be able to control thought just as I can control the computer by punching in a programme. And then he’ll have telekinesis, the power to move inanimate objects with his mind, like my Merlin. Not the spoon bending or watch stopping variety, but almost the power to move mountains. He could stop a rocket or plane in flight, make them crash. Jam a gun that was pointed at him. Probably even split the atom. But from a mental and physical point of view, his power would be virtually limitless, and I doubt whether he’d have to leave the comfort of his armchair to do it.”

For a moment Gunn's senses rebelled. This was all so much fantasy and science fiction. But then there was Harry Jardine, sitting opposite, calmly smoking his pipe so sanely and normally. And Maxim Gunn knew Harry Jardine. He was not a man given to fantasy. And besides, this was a government sponsored establishment, and governments, in his experience, didn’t much like spending money without a good reason, whether the taxpayer agreed with those reasons or not.

“And you really believe this?” he asked.

Jardine nodded, emphatically. “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m sitting here telling you this. But even suppose I’m only half right. Suppose I’m grossly overestimating this power. Can we take the chance? Do you want one person to have one hundredth part of such power? I know I don’t.”

Gunn rubbed his hands across his face, and sat up. “Well, that’s that then. If it’s good enough for you, it’ll do me. I’ve never known you wrong about anything, and I think that’s the thing that annoyed me most about you when I was a student.” He became business-like, all trace of his previous impassiveness gone. “Now, suppose we get down to details. Where do I look, and what am I looking for? And most of all, why me? You people have got all the qualifications.”

Jardine shook his head. “I honestly don’t know where you start. But there is a man, and if anyone can find him, it’s you, Maxim. You see, you’ve got to believe that such things are possible before you’ll make the right kind of effort, look in the right places and ask the right questions.” He waved his hand airily. “Oh, other people believe, or say they do, but they’re not you. They don’t have your special abilities. It would be just another investigation to them.” He leant forward and looked at Gunn anxiously. “You do believe, don’t you?”

Gunn answered, slowly. “Yes, Doctor, I think I do. It’s just the sort of incredible thing you would be right about. Yes,” he said, his voice firm. “I believe you. My experiences over the last couple of years have shown me that there are more things in heaven and earth than...” He trailed off and shrugged.

The older man gave a sigh of relief, and sat back. “One thing I’m certain of. You won’t find the answer, the person, in the ordinary places. You’ll have to delve back into the past, the secret ways our ancestors knew. If it were me, I’d start with the great and not fully explained things. Places like Stonehenge, the stone alignments at Carnac in Brittany.” He paused, and said, almost to himself, “Why should there be a temple to Amon-Ra at Karnak in Egypt? I find the similarity of names interesting, and there was a much older temple on the same site. I’d go to the pyramids at Giza, and to Chichen Itza in the Yucatan. The list is almost endless. But to my mind these places are the keys. Chart out a course for yourself and start making enquiries. I think you’ll find that something will start to happen.”

Gunn chuckled, quietly. “It usually does when you poke your nose into very private business.”

“Exactly; as you’ve no doubt found out in the past. Once this person gets wind of the fact that you are on the trail, he won’t be able to let it rest at that. He will know, or find out about your reputation, and he will not be able to ignore you. He won’t rest quietly and hope you’ll miss the signs until it’s too late. He can’t take that chance. He’ll have to do something about you; and that’s where he’ll make his mistake.”

Gunn felt himself getting uncomfortable for the second time that day. First the Cabinet Secretary, and now the Doctor, both laying on flattery with a shovel. He frowned. “Don’t pin too much faith on me, Doctor. I’ll be like a blind man in a dark room he’s never been in before.”

Jardine waved his objection aside, brusquely. “Rubbish. And don’t be too covert. Let him know you’re coming.” And there he smiled, impishly. “I’m sure you know the best way to do that. It may be that I’m wrong, and that he’s so supremely sure of himself he won’t bother. But I’m betting the same confidence will play him into your hands.”

Gunn sighed. It seemed people were intent on regarding him as some kind of superman. He also wondered how Jardine could find anything to laugh about if what he believed was really true. But then he knew you had to see the funny side if you weren’t going to go stark mad in the world as it was rapidly becoming. “I’ve got to start somewhere,” he said. “Don’t you have anything you can give me, some kind of jumping off point?”

The Doctor went over to a large work table and picked up a map of the world. He passed it to Gunn. “Naturally we put as much information as possible into the computer, and told it to do its sums; to get some correlation between ley lines and any focal points. The results are quite interesting. What we in fact got was this map, the lines of possible or probable major world ley lines, and the half dozen points I’ve ringed are where the majority intersect. There’s not a single surprise in the lot.”

Gunn studied the map carefully for some minutes, and then looked up at the Doctor with a smile. “I think I've just been very successfully conned,” he said. “I’ve been under the impression that this was going to be fairly local, with the hub in England, or Europe, anyway.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” replied Jardine, with a bland, innocent face. “Though it may be. Anyway, I thought I’d mentioned Egypt and the Yucatan somewhere along the line.” He returned to his chair and sat down, recharged his pipe and lit it.

“No. You must realize that these stone circles and megaliths, the stones, exist all over the world in various forms; plus a lot of other places that are just called ‘sacred’ for no very clear reason. Good God, you’ve only got to go to Australia to find that. The Aborigines have literally hundreds of them, all over the place.” He gave Gunn a slightly worried look. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind because the stage has been somewhat widened?”

Gunn shook his head. “No. I gave you my answer, and it stands. Now fill me in on the rest of it.”

Jardine rubbed his hands, briskly. “Right then. Now, from the map you’ll see that there are several main sites: Stonehenge, here in England, the pyramids at Chichen Itza, the temple of Amon-Ra at Karnak, and the Parthenon in Athens. Logically they should all point somewhere, but they don’t seem to, at least, not in any way I can find, so I suppose I’m still missing something. There must be some link, some vital factor that I haven’t applied, and no amount of armchair work is going to come up with anything. As I said, my bet is that it’ll turn up when someone starts nosing around hard enough. You’ve got that kind of nose.” He tapped the map. “Those places were, of course, not all built at the same time; but as far as we can tell, either by historical or archaeological dating, each of them must have been under construction at about the time of a major planetary alignment.”

“So they were all built with the same purpose in mind, and according to specific instructions?” asked Gunn, and added, “Frankly I’d have thought you fellows would still be much better at finding the key than myself.”

Jardine shook his head, firmly. “No, Maxim. We’re a bunch of boffins, academics and theory men. This person, whoever it is, is likely to be utterly ruthless, and probably more than half mad into the bargain. If we got in his way, he’d just eliminate us. God knows, I’d do it myself if I thought I had the ghost of a chance, but I haven’t.” He stabbed his pipe stem at Gunn. “But you, Maxim, are a different story. It would take a very foolhardy, or overconfident, man to take you on; and from what I’ve heard a few have tried. You’ve got the brains, and moreover, you know how to look after yourself.”

The Doctor, spread his hands and sat back. “There you are then. I’ve said enough for the time being to probably make you think I’m a prime candidate for a straight jacket. But I do very firmly believe in what I’m saying; and I’m one hundred percent certain in my own mind that mid-summer is the deadline. That’s when this person is either stopped by, or it will be too late.”

Jardine finished, and for a while the two men sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. A log flared in the grate, and Gunn sat up with a start.

“God knows, old friend,” he said, sombrely. “You paint a terrible picture. But I still fail to see why you think I can get any closer than you experts.”

Jardine stood up, and looked down at him fondly. “Because you are Maxim Gunn, and therein lies the difference.”

Gunn made an explosive sound. He’d had enough of that kind of talk. “Then I hope your confidence is not misplaced - for all our sakes.”

“I think not,” Jardine replied. “And I also think a small toast to the Gods would be in order. After all, we’re going into their territory, and we want them on our side.”

Jardine went to the sideboard, on which stood a silver tray, complete with bottles and glasses. “It’s still Glenmorangie?”

CHAPTER FOUR

The morning came, and with it a raw, blustery wind from the north. The sky was totally overcast, and fitful rain forced Gunn to use the windshield wipers on the Lagonda until he was nearly in London.

He had left Depedean after breakfast, with no very clear idea as to how he was going to start the investigation. First things first, however, and it was mid morning by the time he stopped in front of his house in Clarges Street. He took his bag and a roll of maps off the back seat, and strode quickly across the pavement and up the steps to his front door. It opened as if controlled by an electronic eye, to reveal his man, the indispensable James Sweetstory.

“Good morning, Sir. I trust the weather was better in Sussex?”

“Good morning, Sweetstory,” Gunn replied. “And no, it wasn't.”

“Most regrettable, Sir. But this time of year was ever thus.”

As Gunn handed over his bag and took off his coat, he said, “I shall be in the study for the rest of the morning, and I would like a pot of coffee as soon as possible. Oh, and by the way, I’m at home to no one.”

“Certainly, Sir,” his man replied. “Will you be lunching at home?”

Gunn shook his head. “No, I think not.” And he went into the study where a fire was burning cheerfully in the wide hearth.

For a few moments he leant against the mantelpiece, his eyes roaming the bookshelves which lined the walls. His library was extensive, and for the next couple of hours he intended to put it to good use. Selecting half a dozen volumes with care, he took them to his desk, turned on the reading light and settled to some serious study.

The morning passed as he read and made notes, barely registering the fact that Sweetstory produced coffee more than once, and came in twice to replenish the fire; until the striking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece penetrated his concentration, and he realised it was one o’clock. He shut the book he was engrossed in with a snap, and an exclamation of annoyance, calling Sweetstory as he did so. The man materialised like a genie.

“Sir?”

“My apologies,” said Gunn. “I forgot the time. Can you rustle up a bite at short notice?”

“I had already anticipated as much, Sir. Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes. May I pour you a sherry?”

Gunn sipped his Tio Pepe, and as his man softly closed the door, wondered yet again what on earth he would ever do without him. He was as unshakable and reliable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

An hour, and a couple of phone calls later, Gunn stood on his front steps, wondering whether to chance the murky afternoon, or play it safe and take the Lagonda. A sudden squall blew a spatter of rain in his face and threatened to turn a passer-by’s umbrella inside out, and in five seconds he was sitting behind the steering wheel.

A short drive along Piccadilly and up Shaftesbury Avenue took him to the august portals of the British Museum, where he had an appointment with a senior member of the Department of Antiquities. He parked and found his way through echoing halls to a musty, book-lined room in the basement, where he knocked on the door and went in.

Emil Thanisch looked as though he might, just conceivably be one of his own exhibits. He was tall, thin, and stooped, with an unruly mop of greying hair that would have sent any decent barber into near hysteria. His tweed suit was of a cut that went out of style after the First World War, and didn’t appear to have been pressed or cleaned since it was bought. Altogether he gave the impression of someone you’d go a long way to avoid on a wet Sunday afternoon; but the eyes gave him away. They twinkled from behind heavy, horn rimmed glasses as if the whole world was one huge joke that had been laid on for his personal amusement.

Thanisch levered his bony frame out of a battered chair and extended a large, gnarled hand to Gunn.

“Maxim, my dear fellow; you really are remiss, you know. It’s been far too long. I’m beginning to think you only come to see me when you want something.”

Gunn smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Emil, but that’s why I’m here this time, I’m afraid. I need to pick your brains.”

Thanisch sighed, theatrically. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here; though I’m not entirely sure the directors would approve of the advice I sometimes give you. Frankly, I don’t think they’d understand at all. What is it this time?”

Gunn picked a pile of books off a chair, looked for somewhere to put them, and finding nowhere, dropped them on the floor. Then he sat down.

“I’ve just spent an instructive evening with Doc Jardine, and as a result have taken on a job which has all the elements of the Mummy’s Curse and Frankenstein rolled into one. I’ve come to sound you out on it. Strictly between these four walls, of course.”

Thanisch pulled at his long jaw, and nodded. “I know a little of his work, and he’s consulted me occasionally.” He scratched his head. “Frankly I’ve never known whether to burst out laughing, or crawl into a hole and hide. But if you’ve decided to take him seriously, I suppose I should as well. I’ve never known you to go off on a wild goose chase.”

“Yes, Emil,” Gunn replied. “I take him seriously; though why, I couldn’t even begin to tell you. Call it a hunch, if you like; a sixth sense. The Doctor was never one to go off half-cocked. But what do you know of his theories?”

Thanisch shrugged. “Virtually nothing. My consultations have never been with the aid of the full picture. I get bits only; so I think you’d better start at the beginning, it’s as good a place as any. In the meantime, would you like a cup of coffee?”

The afternoon had gone by the time Gunn left the museum, and street lights were casting yellow pools on wet pavements. Thanisch let him out of a side door into the blustery darkness.

“Take care, Maxim,” he warned, seriously. “This thing frightens me, and you may be up against a power that can’t be stopped by bullets and flashing blades. I think you’re about to step out of the good old sane world of cops and robbers, and into something beyond normal understanding.”

Gunn shook his hand and hurried to his car, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and needing to get back among familiar things.

Under his arm he had more maps, and copies of ancient documents Thanisch had given him, and which he intended to study with great care; but in the meantime he wanted to pay a quick visit to the offices where he used to work.

The drive through the steadily worsening weather took almost less time than it takes to tell, and within minutes he was pushing through the dirty glassed doors into the entrance foyer.

The seedy building, wholly owned by the Organization, was apparently the offices of a number of worthy and undistinguished businesses and agencies, among them a Methodist Missionary Society. None of them existed, and inquiries would have been met by evasive replies, and regrets, to the effect that no one was in, or the people concerned were filing for bankruptcy. And that would be as far as they got. Persistency would have been met by the awesome figure of ex-SAS Sergeant Magoon, known as Earthquake to his friends, and some enemies, or by his opposite number, the equally formidable ex-Marine O’Rourke.

The lobby was exactly as anyone might have expected, having seen the outside. It was grubby, needed paint, and had an indefinable smell that suggested mildew and things not too clean.

Gunn walked to the innocuous-looking glass-fronted porter’s booth stuck in one corner by an antique elevator. The glass was armoured, bullet proof, and at the touch of a button steel shutters would slam down and the front door, also steel lined, would lock, effectively imprisoning any unwelcome visitor. The man in the booth eyed him suspiciously, and then smiled hugely in recognition.

“Hello, Sir. Nice to see you,” he said.

“Nice to see you too, Sergeant,” Gunn replied. “Any chance of seeing the Chief?”

“I’ll check, Sir,” said Sergeant Earthquake Magoon, and picking up a red phone he dialled a two digit number, spoke a few words, nodded and replaced the instrument. “Miss Anders says you’re to go right up, Sir.”

“One of these days,” Gunn said, “someone’s going to come in here who looks like me, and then there’ll be hell to pay. What’s security coming to?”

Magoon grinned. “The day anyone comes in here who can fool me, I’ll quit. And I’ve known you too long, Sir. Besides, you’ve just been scanned.” He pointed at what looked like an antique elevator, which hid its modern counterpart and was also a second line of defense. “You know the way.”

A couple of minutes later, Gunn emerged into an upper floor lobby, totally at odds with the rest of the building. It was modern, tastefully decorated, and had an air of quiet efficiency. He crossed to an office and poked his head round the door.

“Hello there,” he said.

Polly Anders, who was nominally executive secretary to the Organization’s Chief, Casimir Vileman, looked up and gave him a flashing smile. “Welcome back, stranger,” she said. “You staying, or just passing through?”

Gunn looked into the laughing blue eyes, smiled back, and replied. “Lakhs of rupees, gold moidores, and all the jewels in the crown wouldn’t get me back to this pest hole. Is the Chief in his den?”

“You want something then?”

Gunn nodded appreciatively, and said quietly to himself, “The girl’s quick. Mind like a razor.”

Polly Anders stuck out her tongue. “You’re to go right in. Will I see you after?”

“You can bet on it,” Gunn replied, and knocking on the leather covered door, went in without waiting for a reply. He crossed the room and sat down in front of the large desk. Casimir Vileman looked up. “Have you come to spoil what’s left of the day, or is this just a social call?”

Gunn shook his head. “No. I haven’t come to spoil your day; you’ve probably done that yourself already. What I’ve come for is a certain amount of information, if you’ll authorize it.”

Vileman gave him a suspicious stare, and grunted. “Well?”

Gunn scratched his chin. “To put it mildly, a mission of some delicacy has been laid in my lap. It’s going to take me quite a long time, and involve a lot of running around. I need contacts in one or two places, the usual sort of thing.”

Vileman laughed, triumphantly. “I thought you swore never to get involved again, after the last time.”

Gunn made a dismissive gesture. “A favour for an old friend.”

“May I ask who?”

Gunn smiled his most wolfish smile. “The Cabinet Secretary passed on the request.”

Vileman deflated like a pricked balloon, as he answered directly to the Prime Minister. “What places?” he asked, grudgingly.

“Greece: Athens to be exact, then Cairo, Zimbabwe, and probably the Yucatan in Mexico.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Vileman exploded, testily. “We’re not a bloody tourist bureau, and I do know where the Yucatan is. What kind of contacts?”

Gunn shrugged. “It depends on who you’ve got.”

Vileman grunted and pressed a button on his intercom. “Chief of Staff? A moment of your valuable time. And bring the Indirect Personnel list. I’ve got a friend of yours here. What? Yes, him.” He leant back and glowered belligerently. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Gunn.

“What?” Vileman shouted. “You ask for half my damned operatives, and you won’t tell me what for. I’ve a good mind to tell you to go to hell.”

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