Revelation

12 Doomsday

Findhorn is conscious of moving shadows beyond the circle of light. He walks forward, holding up the briefcase. Closer in, he sees that the plump woman behind Romella is holding a hypodermic syringe. Romella says, 'Fred, clear off,' but her voice is slurred and barely reaches him.

He puts the case down on the frost-covered grass about ten feet from the men, and steps back. Everyone's breath is steaming in the icy air. He has never known such an alertness in all his senses; everything around him seems slow. He wonders what is going on behind the circle of light but doesn't dare to turn round.

Mister Religion leaves Romella, steps warily to the briefcase, as if he expects it to explode. He crouches down to open it and pulls out a diary at random. He pulls a small black torch from his pocket and shines it on the book, flicking rapidly through its pages. Then he shines the torch into the case and briefly counts the diaries. The lasers are flickering overhead and Findhorn feels as if he is inside some weird science-fiction fantasy.

'You can let her go now,' Findhorn says. He is judging distances.

The man looks up. 'If only life were so simple.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

'All men are liars. Psalms…'

'Stuff the quotes. We have an agreement.'

The man sighs. He closes the briefcase, stands up and puts the torch in his pocket. 'It's only fair, in your closing moments, that I tell you this. Miss Grigoryan is privileged. Her talents will help to solve a great mystery and enable a great prophecy to be fulfilled.'

'Prophecy?' Findhorn asked, to keep him talking.

'With her help we will be able to turn the key to the bottomless pit.' Mister Religion turns and nods. The syringe woman, and the men holding Romella, move backwards. It is as if they are on wheels. For a moment Findhorn half believes he is in a bizarre nightmare.

He hears movement from behind.

The bandstand lights switch off.

Suddenly there are only the strobing blue lights in the sky, and silhouettes against the Castle wall.

Findhorn rushes forward. He collides painfully with a dark figure who says 'Oof!' Someone from behind grabs him by the arm, shouts, 'Run, you fool! We have her.' He pulls free and sprints in her direction. He catches a whiff of Romella's perfume. She is being hauled along by the hand. Findhorn grabs her free arm; he can't make out the other party. Torches are probing dark corners. Staccato, angry shouts follow him into the dark. Someone runs past, footsteps pounding on the frozen ground. Findhorn whispers, 'Go to the left!' They run wide at the big Christmas tree, keeping away from its radius of light, towards the narrow pedestrian bridge over the railway.

Stefi, gloved and helmeted, is revving the engine of her Vespa. Seconds are lost while Romella climbs onto the pillion. She seems about to collapse. Then Findhorn is shouting 'Hold tight!' and Stefi accelerates away on the footpath, lights out. Findhorn races along the path after them, his companion following. On to a road, with lights and cars, and across it to a multi-storey car park. Footsteps pacing them from behind. Stefi's scooter is disappearing briskly round a corner, Romella clinging like a baby monkey.

The car park will have security cameras and there is a busy street on the far side. If the Syringe People want to avoid cameras, the car park is a buffer. But now, in the street lights, Findhorn recognizes the other man: Mister Speedhand. He shouts to Findhorn and beckons towards a car, jumping into it.

Four men burst onto King Stables Road from the park entrance. Their faces are concealed under balaclavas. Findhorn knows he has no chance in a race. They spot the car, race Findhorn to it, but Findhorn gets there first and leaps in, slamming the door. It is the sort of car that has in-flight navigation and quadrophonic CD and deep leather seats and air conditioning and twin carbs, and there is a satisfying thrust in Findhorn's back as the driver takes them from zero to sixty in a millisecond. The pursuers shrink to gesticulating dots in the rear window.

Findhorn, his heart thumping, and gasping for breath, wonders about the liquid in the syringe. He looks at Mister Speedhand, and Pitman clinically studying him in the mirror, and he wonders if he should have taken his chance with the religious maniacs.

Along the Grassmarket, with its winos and bistro crowds. He thinks he glimpses a red tail light disappearing up the Candlemarket, a steep cobbled hill ending at a T-junction. The car goes up this hill. The turn, left or right, is going to be crucial. Findhorn is gasping.

Left is down the Mound, skirting the Gardens again; but it is also city centre, traffic lights, evening crowds. Right is no stopping, suburbs, countryside beyond; right is dark lay-bys, and narrow tracks winding into the Pentland Hills.

The big car turns left. Findhorn feels his legs going to jelly which is unfortunate as he intends to jump out at the first red traffic light. He sees Stefi's bright yellow scooter a couple of hundred yards ahead, wonders if Pitman has spotted it, or even if he is following it.

Down the Mound. The traffic lights are co-ordinated so that if they are green at the foot of the hill they are green all the way and he will be swept through the city and on to an unknown destination and an uncertain future.

Don't let them suspect your intentions. You are the Grateful Rescued.

'Thanks. I thought my e-mail was a long shot, especially as I just pressed the reply button. Were the musicians your people?'

'No, they were theirs. You owe us, Findhorn.' Speedhand's tone is icy, but it carries an undertone of seething anger.

'Who are they?'

'You've just lost us the diaries, Findhorn. Why should we tell you a fucking thing?'

Down the hill, the lights are at green. The cars ahead are accelerating through. Pitman is strumming his fingers on the steering wheel, studying the traffic flow, judging a system of vortices and eddies unknown to the authors of the Highway Code.

Stefi has skimmed past the traffic and she is through. Findhorn imagines that Romella, without helmet or riding gear, is being freeze-dried. The scooter turns smartly right then left, speeding up Hanover Street and out of sight.

'You didn't rescue us as an act of charity.' Findhorn's mouth is dry.

The queue ahead is streaming fast through the lights. The lights turn orange but the drivers ahead are chancing it. Pitman accelerates. The streets are packed with Christmas shoppers.

The lights are now red. Still he is going to try for it. An Edinburgh citizen, full of his rights, steps onto the road. Pitman curses and stops.

Findhorn contemplates the crowded pavements. He stays put. 'How did they find us?'

Speedhand said, 'How many translators of Armenian do you think there are in Edinburgh?'

'Okay, I'm an amateur. But I'm learning fast. What do you want from me?'

'You've just created us a mountain of trouble, friend.' The traffic flow has changed; filter traffic is turning off. It won't be long. Findhorn pretends to look out of the window but he is examining the door lock and the handle. A long stationary queue has accumulated behind them.

A horrible thought strikes him. Maybe there's a child's lock. Maybe he won't be able to open the door.

The car is an automatic. It moves off smoothly; the big engine can hardly be heard. Speedhand is saying, 'Unless you're even more stupid than I think, you've made copies of the diaries. We'll have those.' The car is slowing to turn left up Hanover Street. In a department-store window, reindeer with no visible means of propulsion are pulling Santa Claus into a snow-filled sky.

People are jaywalking. Pitman swears briefly, idles, picks up speed. Findhorn waits as long as he dares. He snatches at the door handle. The door opens; he jumps out. The car is doing about fifteen miles an hour and he staggers, almost falling, before swerving onto the pavement and muscling his way through the crowds. The car, swept along by the traffic flow, is heading up the street. He looks back and glimpses Mister Speedhand at the rear window. The man's face is out of control, full of surprise and rage. Findhorn gives him a wave but he shows no sign of Christmas spirit.

Romella emerged from the downstairs toilet after half an hour of vomiting. She was chalk-faced, apart from livid bruises around her eye and lips. She waved aside an offer of help and made her way to the leather couch.

Findhorn said, 'I'm sorry. Maybe you should just walk away from this.'

She managed a weak, defiant stare through one eye. 'Don't blame yourself, Fred. You told me the situation and I chose to think it was just a fantasy thing. You're a bit weird, after all.'

Stefi came in bearing hot chocolate.

Romella was whispering again. 'And thanks for turning up. You didn't have to do that.'

'It was the least he could do,' Stefi said. 'Look at you.'

'If you didn't turn up they were going to burn holes in me until I told them where you were. There were three of them.' She managed to pull the blanket from around her knees. 'Look at my tights!'

Findhorn obliged. 'What happened?'

'The bastards dumped me in the boot of a car and drove off. I don't know where we went. They drove for hours and I nearly froze to death.'

'They were keeping you on ice until they set up the meeting with me,' Findhorn suggested. 'They'd have killed us both, me right away. I'd have been just a braindamaged smackhead who overdosed in Princes Street Gardens. They'd have dealt with you later, once you'd translated for them.'

'When they finally let me out, it was dark and I was in a car park. My legs wouldn't hold me at first but when they did I started to struggle. They got alarmed at the noise I was making. That's when the punching began. I don't know what happened next except that they shoved me back in the boot, and next time they opened it they forced some horrible liquid down my throat. I'm sure it was just cough mixture. You know, two teaspoons only, don't overdose, may induce drowsiness.'

Romella's voice was beginning to trail off, and her eyes were beginning to swim in her head.

Stefi put the mug on the coffee table and said, 'That's enough. No more talk.'

'The car was a Mercedes 600 SL. Maybe a year old. Boot smelled new.'

They laid her out on the couch.

'Green Merc. Swiss registration, I think. Didn't get the number.'

Findhorn took off her trainers. Stefi tucked the blanket around her and switched off the lights. The room glowed a gentle red from the stove. 'She needs medical attention.'

Findhorn said, 'With bruises like that, and an overdose of medicine, a doctor would have to call the police.'

'So what?' Stefi wanted to know. 'I'm calling the police anyway.'

'Romella has a say in this. Wait until morning.'

'Any change?'

'She's breathing more easily.'

'You look like death warmed up, Fred. Get some sleep.'

Findhorn staggered off. If men were going to burst into the house waving hypodermic syringes, he hoped they would do it quietly.

Findhorn was awakened by sunlight. A voodoo mask stared at him with empty eyes, on top of a small bookcase devoted to travel books, thrillers and cricket. He looked out over the Edinburgh skyline, with its monuments and steeples. The Castle was less than a mile away, black and dominating. Stefi's yellow scooter was propped up against the wall of the back garden, out of sight from the streets. He dressed, discovering a swollen ankle, and limped down the stairs. Romella was turned towards the back of the couch and an elegant leg protruded from under the blanket; the offending tights had disappeared. Her breathing was normal. Stefi was on the armchair, head tilted back. She was snoring slightly.

In the kitchen, he found a percolator and coffee beans from a small sack stamped Blue Mountain, Mavis Bank, Jamaica. Typical Doug, he thought; no nasty instant powders for little brother. The noise of the coffee grinder was rasping in the still of the house. A couple of minutes later Romella appeared, bare-footed, hair dishevelled and with a colourful yellow and blue swelling surrounding her right eye, and a bruised lip. Her sweater and skirt were wrinkled from a night's sleep.

'The Swamp Thing,' Findhorn said.

'What?'

'An old horror movie. You remind me of something I saw in it.'

'Thanks, Fred.' She winced.

'Shall I get you a damp cloth?'

'I still feel drugged.'

Over tea and toast, Stefi turned up looking like Action Woman in black sweater and leggings. She poured herself coffee, added condensed milk from a tin and flopped down at the kitchen table.

Findhorn broke the silence. 'I had no idea things would get this heavy. I can't have you risking your lives like this. I think you should just walk away. It's me they want, and the diaries.'

'Who are they?'

'I don't know. There are at least two groups after the diaries. One of them offered me a lot of money.'

Romella studied Findhorn over her coffee. He found her steady gaze disconcerting. 'How much money?'

'A million pounds.'

There was a stunned silence.

Stefi eventually broke it. 'A million pounds? Are you joking?'

'I'm very serious.'

'And you turned it down?' Her voice was incredulous.

'Money isn't the primary issue here, Stefi. It's not clear who really owns the diaries, if anyone. But the main thing is, I want to find out for myself what's in there. Petrosian was an atomic scientist, remember. Say he's discovered some way to make a super-bomb, or even some political secret that people don't want out. I might just want to burn the lot.'

Romella touched her bruised eye and groaned. 'Forgive me, Fred, but who are you to make judgements on things like that?'

'Diaries plus conscience equals responsibility. I had no idea what I was getting into but here I am, stuck with it. There's nobody else.'

'And suppose it's something beneficial?'

'Then I'd want to patent it first and become wildly rich.'

Stefi looked at Romella, fixed a look on Findhorn, and spoke in a tone which allowed for no argument. 'I think you'd better start at the beginning, Mister. Spill the beans.'

Findhorn thought that maybe Stefi Stefanova had picked up some of her English from old B movies. Romella was having some difficulty drinking. She reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and patted her bruised lips. 'Yes, Fred, it's time to spill the beans.'

'You wouldn't believe a word of it,' Findhorn warned.

Stefi and Romella were giving him hard stares. He spilled the beans.

Finally Romella said, 'Right then, we should get on with it.'

Findhorn's heart leaped. 'You mean you're willing to carry on with the translation?'

'Why not? I don't like being knocked around.'

Stefi was looking reflective. 'There could be a lot of money in this.'

'Or none.' Findhorn pointed out.

Stefi said, 'Romella gets fifty per cent.'

'Ten,' said Findhorn.

'Twenty.'

'Agreed.'

'You said that money isn't the issue,' Stefi reminded him.

Findhorn nodded warily. 'Uhuh.'

'Good. So I'll settle for ten per cent.'

'For Heaven's sake, Stefi, why should you get ten per cent?'

She waved a finger at him. 'Because you need me. They know you and they know Romella. Every time you step out of the house you both risk your necks. But me? They know nothing about me. I can come and go in safety and do research for you, like HMS Daring, for example.'

'Good point. You could make all the difference. I've been consulting a friend with specialist knowledge. I'll surprise him with ten per cent of whatever we end up with, which will probably be nothing.'

'How secure are we here?' Romella asked, with a touch of anxiety in her voice. 'They might find out you have a brother in Edinburgh and check up.'

'This is Doug's hideaway. Nobody knows about it. Doug has a Queen Street apartment, but as a criminal lawyer he also wanted some place he could escape to without getting phone calls or visits at strange hours from strange people. So this pad is in our Mum's maiden name — that's the MacGregor on the nameplate. And the phone is ex-directory and under Mabel MacGregor.'

Stefi waved her hands around. 'I could get to like it. All this space, and angels and crocodiles.'

Findhorn said, 'We've assembled a team, and agreed the division of spoils. It's a start.'

'One for all and all for one,' said Stefi, reinforcing Findhorn's suspicion that she learned her English from movies.

Findhorn said, 'My bet is that the value of the secret lies with whoever discovers it first. And I don't know what resources we're up against.'

Romella was dabbing her lips. 'We're in a race? So let's get started.'

Findhorn was crouching in front of the genuine coal effect Scandinavian stove with the imported Mexican fire surround, trying to understand the controls.

'There's one thing I'd love to read about now.' Romella was carefully applying a skin-coloured powder to her bruise. The photocopies were laid out on a coffee table.

'Well?'

'The first time they set off an atom bomb. How Petrosian saw it. What it was like from the inside.'

Stefi, cross-legged at the table, flicked through a heap of photocopies. Findhorn pressed a button and flames shot up. He joined Romella on the couch.