Wamphyri

Jordan looked across the room at Carson where he was stirring sugar into three cups of coffee. ‘Square one, Mike,' he said. ‘You'd better make it four after all . .

It had been Harvey Newton's first choice to take the Al north, but in the end he'd settled for the motorway. What he lost in actual distance he'd get back in speed, comfort, three-lane ru

At Leicester Forest East he stopped for a coffee break, answered the call of nature, picked up a can of Coke and a wrapped sandwich. And breathing the cool, moist night air he turned up his coat collar and made his way back across the almost deserted car park to his car. He had left the door open but had taken his keys with him. The whole stop had taken no more than ten minutes. Now he'd top up with petrol and get on his way again.

But as he approached his car he slowed down, stopped. His footsteps, echoing back to him, seemed to pause just a moment too late. Something niggled at the back of Newton's mind. He turned, looked back towards the friendly lights of the all-night eater. For some reason he was holding his breath, and maybe it was a very good reason. He turned in a slow circle, took in the entire car park, the squat, hulking snail-shapes of parked cars. A heavy vehicle, turning off the motorway, lit him up in the glare of its thousand watt eyes. He was dazzled, and after the lorry angled away the night was that much darker.

Then he remembered the upright, forward-leaning dog-thing he thought he'd seen — no, which he had seen — at Harkley House, and that brought his mission back into focus. He shook off his nameless fears, got into his car and started the engine.

Something closed on Newton's brain like a clamp, a mind warped and powerful and growing ever more powerful! He knew it was reading him like a stolen book, reading his identity, divining his purpose. ‘Good evening,' said a voice like hot tar in Newton's ear. He gave a gasp of shock and terror combined, an inarticulate cry, and turning looked into the back of the car. Feral eyes fixed him in a glare far more penetrating, far worse than the lorry's lamps. Beneath them, the darkness was agleam with twin rows of white daggers.

‘Wha — !?‘ Newton started to say. But there was no need even to ask. He knew that his vendetta with the monster had run its course.

Yulian Bodescu lifted Newton's crossbow, aimed it directly into his gaping, gasping mouth — and pulled the trigger.

It had been Felix Krakovitch's plan to stay overnight in Chernovtsy; in the event, however, he had ordered Sergei Gulharov to drive straight on to Kolomyya. Since Ivan Gerenko had known that Krakovitch's party was scheduled to stop over in Chernovtsy, it had seemed a very good idea not to. Thus, after Theo Dolgikh got into Chernovtsy at about 5.00 A.M. it had taken him a futile and frustrating two hours simply to discover that the men he sought were not there. After another delay while he contacted the Château Bro

Dolgikh had been flown from Moscow to a military airport in Skala-podolskaya where he'd been required to sign for a KGB Fiat. Now, in the somewhat battered but unobtrusive car, he drove to Kolomyya and arrived there just before 8.00 A.M. Discreetly checking out the hotels, it was a case of third time lucky — and also unlucky. They had put up at the Hotel Carpatii, but they had been up and on their way again by 7.30. He had missed them by half an hour. The proprietor was only able to tell him that before leaving they'd inquired the address of the town's library and museum.

Dolgikh obtained the same address and followed after them. At the museum he found the curator, a bustling, beaming little Russian in thick-lensed spectacles, in the act of opening the place up. Following him inside the old cupolaed building, where their footsteps echoed in musty air, Dolgikh said, ‘Might I enquire if you've had three men in to see you this morning? I was supposed to meet them here, but as you see I'm late.'

‘They were fortunate to find me working so early,' the other replied. ‘And luckier still that I let them in. The museum doesn't really open until 8.30, you see. But since they were obviously in a hurry...‘ He smiled and shrugged.

‘So I've missed them by... how much?' Dolgikh put on a disappointed expression.

The curator shrugged again. ‘Oh, ten minutes, maybe. But at least I can tell you where they went.'

‘I would be very grateful, Comrade,' Dolgikh told him, following him into his private rooms.

‘Comrade?' The curator glanced at him, his eyes bright and seeming to bulge behind the dense glass of his spectacles. ‘We don't hear that term too much down here on the border, so to speak. Might I inquire who you are?'

Dolgikh presented his KGB identification and said, ‘That makes it official. Now then, I've no more time to waste. So if you'll just tell me what they were looking for and where they went. .

The curator no longer beamed, no longer seemed happy. ‘Are they wanted, those men?'

‘No, just under observation.'

‘A shame. They seemed pleasant enough.'

‘One can't be too careful these days,' said Dolgikh. ‘What did they want?'

‘A location. They sought a place at the foot of the mountains called Moupho Aide Ferenc Yaborov.'

‘A mouthful!' Dolgikh commented. ‘And you told them where to find it?'

‘No,' the other shook his head. ‘Only where it used to be — and even then I can't be sure. Look here.' He showed Dolgikh a set of antique maps spread on a table. ‘Not accurate, by any means. The oldest is about four hundred and fifty years old. Copies, obviously, not the originals. But if you look there' — he put his finger on one of the maps — ‘you'll see Kolomyya. And here —,

‘Ferengi?'

The curator nodded. ‘One of the three — English, I believe — seemed to know exactly where to look. When he saw that ancient name on the map, "Ferengi", he grew very excited. And shortly after that they left.'

Dolgikh nodded, studied the old map very carefully. ‘It's west of here,' he mused, ‘and a little north. Scale?'

‘Roughly one centimetre to five kilometres. But as I've said, the accuracy is very suspect.'

‘Something less than seventy kilometres, then,' Dolgikh frowned. ‘At the foot of the mountains. Do you have a modern map?'

‘Oh, yes,' the curator sighed. ‘If you'll just come this way...'

Fifteen miles out of Kolomyya a new highway, still under construction, sped north for Ivano-Frankovsk, its tarmac surface making for a smooth ride. Certainly to Krakovitch, Quint and Gulharov the ride was a delightful respite, following in the wake of their bumpy, bruising journey from Bucharest, through Romania and Moldavia. To the west rose the Carpathians, dark, forested and brooding even in the morning sunlight, while to the east the plain fell gently away into grey-green distance and a far, hazy horizon.

Eighteen miles along this road, in the direction of Ivano-Frankovsk, they passed a fork off to the left which inclined upwards directly into misty foothills. Quint asked Gulharov to slow down and traced a line on a rough map he'd copied at the museum. ‘That could be our best route,' he said.

‘The road has a barrier,' Krakovitch pointed out, ‘and a sign forbidding entry. It's disused, a dead end.'

‘And yet I sense that's the way to go,' Quint insisted.

Krakovitch could feel it too: something inside which warned that this was not the way to go, which probably meant that Quint was right and it was. ‘There's grave danger there,' he said.

‘Which is more or less what we expected,' said Quint. ‘It's what we're here for.'