Revelation

32 Piz Radont

Findhorn came out of the Glasgow sleet into the warmth and chatter of a crowded pizza parlour. Waiters were whirling around the tables, the plates balanced on their arms defying gravity. A young Sicilian in a tuxedo led Findhorn to a table, lit a candle. Findhorn, indifferent to what he would eat, ordered spaghetti and clams.

His free hours in Glasgow had left him emotionally battered. Miss Young, the white-haired departmental secretary, had looked at Findhorn with open-mouthed dismay when he had called in. He knew it when she scuttled off to collect Julian Walsh, the prim-mouthed, fussy little head of physics, and he knew it when Walsh came in the door looking like a funeral undertaker.

Archie had been on vacation, and had stood too close to the edge of the Isthmus of Corinth. It's a steep man-made gorge, in Greece, you know.

I've heard of it. Did anyone see him fall?

No. You're surely not implying that he jumped? The prim lips had twitched anxiously: the eyes had worried about departmental scandal, pressure of work, sharp questions at next month's faculty meeting.

Oh no, nothing like that. He'd been pushed. He was a path to the Temple of Celestial Truth, and much too dangerous to be left alive.

Findhorn had kept the last bits to himself, and Walsh's lips had relaxed, he had grown expansive. He will be missed. His second-year lectures on solid-state physics were a model of clarity.

Findhorn followed the spaghetti by a phoney zabaglione, made with cheap sherry rather than marsala al'novo, but the house saved money and the punters didn't know the difference. He emerged into an Argyle Street drizzle.

The next twenty-four hours, he knew, were going to be the most difficult and dangerous in his life.

He wandered off reluctantly to find a taxi, his whole body suffused with a sense of dread, the spaghetti and clams lying heavy in his stomach.

'I'm dying. I can feel myself slipping away.'

'Shut up, Stefi. Let Joe do his job.'

'I tell you I'm freezing to death.'

'At least be quiet about it.' Findhorn turns to the man crouching behind the boulder. 'What do you see?'

'Gie's a minute.' The man shifts his position slightly, and taps the brass eyepiece of the telescope. 'A big dog. It looks like an Irish setter. No, it's a Doberman.'

Findhorn says, 'That's bad news.'

'You might put it that way. Here, have a peek.'

The man stands up, rubbing his thighs and flapping his arms. Findhorn crouches down, fiddles with the focus. Under the high magnification the image in the Questar is rippling slightly as cold air drifting up from the valley far below mingles with the colder air at three thousand metres.

A fence nine feet or so high encloses about four acres of rocky, sloping ground in the shape of a square. In the centre of the square is a large rectangular building, glowing red in the light of the setting sun. A kilometre beyond it, and separated from the building by an immense grim chasm, a restaurant sits atop an adjoining peak like an illuminated flying saucer. In the telescope Findhorn can just make out that restaurant and building are joined by a cable and that a trio of small cable cars are slotted into a concrete station underneath the restaurant. The cable disappears round the back of the rectangular building and Findhorn cannot see where it ends.

The building has four turrets, one at each corner, and golden domes surmounting each turret. There are windows on two levels, about a dozen on each of the two sides Findhorn can see. The roof is steeply sloping and white with snow, the eaves projecting out over the walls. A massive, arched double door shimmers in the field of view, and above it is a large wooden circle enclosing a cross: the zodiacal Earth sign, and the adopted symbol of the Temple of Celestial Truth. In front of the big door three people are in conversation. They seem to be dressed in long black robes, but at this range it is impossible to make out any features. The Doberman is sniffing around their ankles.

'What do you think, Joe?' Findhorn asks.

'It gives me the creeps.'

'I mean…'

'I don't like the look of it. It's high risk.'

Findhorn glances at his watch but it isn't necessary. Already they are in the gloomy shadow of a big mountain and the temperature is plummeting. The Temple is still in red sunlight, but long black fingers are creeping towards it.

'Point of entry?'

The man nudges Findhorn aside, looks through the eyepiece of the powerful telescope again.

'They've gone in. I can't see the dog. Point of entry.' He pauses thoughtfully, a general studying the terrain. 'The flat-roofed building to the left.'

'The one with the helipad?'

'Aye. We can approach using these rock outcrops as cover, then snip through the wire and into the wee building, if it's empty, that is.'

'Then?'

The man stands up and starts to fold away the Questar. 'Then it gets difficult. A first-floor window if we're lucky. If not it has to be the roof.'

Findhorn thinks about the high, steep, snow-covered roof. He says, 'Stefi, you get back to the car.'

'No, I'll stay here. If you get lost I'll flash the torch.'

'Okay, people, let's go.'

'I don't think so,' the man says.

There is a stunned silence. He says, 'It's far too risky.'

'We have a deal. Ten thousand pounds to get us in and out undetected. Tonight.' The steel in Romella's voice takes Findhorn by surprise.

'Lady, yon perimeter fence and the dog are telling us something. These people are security minded, a fact which I do not like one little bit. There could be all sorts of nasty surprises in there. I don't know what you lot are into, but with my record, if I'm caught I go down for ten years.'

'Can't you do it?' Findhorn asks.

The man bristles. 'I can, but I'm not into kamikaze. You didn't tell me to expect a set-up like yon. I'm telling you this one is pure insanity.' He waved a hand towards the big building a mile away. 'It's no' exactly some suburban bungalow with PVC windows.'

Romella says, 'Twenty thousand pounds. And if you can't do it we'll get someone else.' Except that we're out of time to get anyone else.

Greed and prudence are battling it out in the man's head. Romella adds, 'Just as soon as we get back to Glasgow.'

Joe is balancing the odds. Cold is penetrating the marrow of Findhorn's bones. Then the burglar is saying, 'There's a showroom just up the road from where I live. It has a sweet wee Alfa Romeo in it, two-plus-two, open top, flamenco red. A fabulous bird trap. It costs twenty-six.'

'Get us in and out, undetected, and you'll be driving it tomorrow morning.'

In the near-dark, Joe is still weighing the odds. Then he exhales heavily and picks up his rucksack: 'Okay, okay. But if I give the word, don't ask any questions, just run.'

They cut left, leaving Stefi shivering behind the rock. They plough through deep snow and skirt boulders, taking a meandering path through hollows. Findhorn assumes they won't be seen in the dying light, at the same time imagines dark faces watching them from every window. It is a difficult, tiring walk. As they approach, it seems increasingly unlikely that they can have avoided detection. Snatches of Mike's typed words run through his mind, form a disturbing pastiche: '… accumulation of weapons… paranoid… aerosol attacks… body count…'

About two hundred yards from the fence, in the shelter of a massive, glacier-scored boulder, Joe motions them to a halt. The sun is still touching the top of the domes but otherwise the grounds are dark. Most of the windows are lit up, but, as they watch, shutters are closing over them. He rumbles around in a rucksack, produces night-vision binoculars, props his elbows on the boulder, scans the building. 'Bleedin' lights, can see eff all.' Then he is rumbling again in the bag. He distributes black silk gloves. 'Put these on. Now single file, follow me, and no talking.' Findhorn brings up the rear, his nervous system jangling and his feet painful with cold.

About thirty yards out, close to the perimeter fence, Joe stops. A light wind is freshening, and whistling gently through the fence, which is topped with barbed wire.

He produces a flat slab from his bag. 'Best fillet of steak. Cost me nine francs.'

'You got off light.'

Then Joe looks again through his binoculars, and, like a discus thrower, hurls the steak over the fence. A minute passes. Then he whispers, 'Run!' and in seconds they have covered the thirty yards to the wire. Strong wirecutters make a low gap in the fence and then they are through, crawling, and up against the rear wall of the flat building. Findhorn's heart is thumping in his chest. Romella is panting.

Joe stands up and tests a window. It is unlocked. He titters. The window squeaks loudly as he opens it and he curses quietly. Findhorn cringes. And then they help each other through the gap. There is warm air, and a smell of chlorine. The lights from the main building throw a ghostly glow through the cavernous swimming pool, and ripples of light are shimmering over the roof and walls from the water.

They creep past exercise bikes and treadmills, which, in the faint light, look like mediaeval instruments of torture. At the swimming-pool door, Joe uses a small flashlight to examine the lock. 'Kid's stuff,' he declares. His voice echoes. Romella holds the flashlight while Joe gets busy with a Swiss army knife. He uses its detachable toothpick and the long, thin awl-like blade.

Joe opens the door a couple of inches. The warm air from the swimming pool makes an instant mist with the outside cold. Directly ahead of them is a patch of black shadow where the round turret joins the wall. 'Move fast,' Joe whispers. They run, bent double, across thirty feet of exposed ground to the shelter of the shadow, leaving tracks in the deep snow. There is a narrow, dark window in the turret, about ten feet above the ground. It is protected by heavy internal shutters.

They pass the Doberman, lying in the snow. It raises its head momentarily. There is a dribble of froth at the side of its mouth and its breathing is noisy. Findhorn feels bad, hopes the animal will be okay.

Joe gives instructions in sign language and Findhorn finds himself supporting the burglar on his shoulders. After a minute the discomfort turns to an ache, and after another minute the ache is approaching pain, but then the weight is off his shoulders and he looks up to see Joe heaving himself in through the window.

Minutes pass.

Suddenly the perimeter lights come on. For a panicky moment Findhorn thinks they have been detected, has a brief fantasy image of klaxons sounding and jackbooted German guards shouting 'Achtung!' But the seconds pass, and there is only the whistle of the wind through the fencing, and Romella and Findhorn squeeze into the dark corner, as far as possible from the ocean of white light around them, while the hammering in their hearts subsides. There is the faintest hiss from above. A thick, knotted rope is dangling down. Findhorn goes first, turns to pull Romella unceremoniously in as she clambers over the windowsill.

Then Joe is quietly closing the window behind them. He stuffs the knotted rope back in his rucksack.

They are on a wooden spiral staircase, devoid of carpets, pictures or any sort of decoration.

Voices.

They go down the wooden stairs on tiptoe. Joe is carrying his rucksack, as if to drop it and run at a moment's notice. There is a heavy, partially open wooden door. Joe waves Findhorn and Romella back, takes a look. Then he is rummaging in his rucksack. They drop their heavy jackets on the steps and wriggle into long, black theatrical robes which add to the miasma of unreality already enveloping Findhorn. Romella is struggling with a camera, looping its cord round her neck while trying not to make it bulge under the robe. Joe stuffs things into pockets and inside his shirt.

Out into the warm, carpeted corridor. Findhorn catches a whiff of hot food. At the end of the corridor is a broad flight of stairs. Along and to the right, an open double door from which comes a buzz of conversation and the clatter of dishes and cutlery. To reach the stairs they will have to pass this door. They follow Joe, stepping warily along the corridor.

A man and a woman appear at the top of the stairs. Joe, Romella and Findhorn huddle together, as if talking. Findhorn realizes that their costume pieces are all wrong, they are too black, the collar isn't right. The man and woman, heads bowed and hands in their sleeves, are down the stairs and walking towards them. They pay the trio no attention and turn into the refectory.

Joe passes by the open door. Findhorn dares a glance as they pass. He glimpses four long dark tables, with about a hundred faithful in all. There is a raised dais and a lectern with a backdrop of heavy curtains. They pass unnoticed, climb the stairs, find themselves on a landing with two corridors leading off.

One corridor leads to a chapel, ablaze with candles. Silver flying saucers hang from its ceiling, suspended on chains. A mother-ship the size of a large chandelier, lined with portholes, dominates them all. The chapel walls are covered with paintings: Jesus with open arms, saints with halos. These are interspersed with blow-ups of the Roswell alien, the face on Mars, the Belt of Orion, a star map showing the track of Sirius as it snakes across the sky. A feeling of uneasiness overwhelms Findhorn, as if he is in the presence of evil. He can't analyze it, tries to shrug it off, but the feeling persists.

They retreat. Joe points to a double door. 'This has the look of a private apartment,' he whispers.

Findhorn nods his agreement. Light is shining under the door. Joe drops to his knees, starts to use some tool on the lock. Romella stands guard at the top of the landing. A gust of laughter comes up from the refectory.

Then the door clicks open and they are in a hallway, which, for sumptuous excess, rivals Dougie's flat. Its walls are lined with tapestries. They step onto soft carpet, their path illuminated by reproduction oil lamps on the walls.

Voices, coming from an open door ten metres to their right. Joe creeps along, peers into the living room, pulls his head back. Findhorn admires his nerve. Then Joe looks again, and turns to them with an expression which somehow combines fear, horror and anger all at once. He waves them past the room.

It is empty. Marlon Brando, looking noble in a toga, is addressing a Roman lynch mob in a Nebraska accent, his words sub-titled in German. A walnut-topped desk is heaped with a disorganized clutter of revolvers, automatic pistols and cardboard ammunition boxes. About a dozen small orange cylinders are lined up against a wall. The words SARIN GAS are stencilled on them. Findhorn guesses there is probably enough of it to wipe out a small city. Joe's complexion is waxy. He hisses, 'What have you people got me into?'

Half a dozen doors lead off from the hallway. A faint blue light is shining under one of them. Joe goes down on his knees at the door and from a pocket pulls out what looks like a thin strip of coiled wire. He is visibly trembling. He uncoils the wire and slips it under the door. At the other end is an eyepiece and he holds this to his eye while wiggling the wire. Then he sighs with relief, and they are into a large empty study. The blue light comes from three small television monitors on a desk at the window. The monitors are showing the outside grounds. The front of the swimming pool is clearly visible: they had crossed in full view of a camera. Joe raises his hands to his cheeks, mutters something about Never Again.

Joe rewinds a video tape and presses the play button. Then he crosses to the shuttered window and pulls the heavy velvet curtains closed. 'Right, do your business and be quick about it. If we're caught…'

Quickly, Findhorn switches on the computer. It requests a password. Someone with Tati's secrets is unlikely to leave a password scribbled on some notepad and he wastes no time guessing. Romella is skimming through papers on another desk. There is something about the eight worldly dharmas: fame and infamy, praise and insult, gain and loss, pleasure and pain. She goes through the drawers, holding a flashlight in her mouth. One contains only maps. The other has pens, pencils, scrap paper. The third drawer is locked. She takes the torch from her mouth and hisses softly at Joe.

The burglar goes down on his knees, looks closely at the lock in the torchlight and produces the Swiss army knife again. 'Simple tumbril,' he whispers in a shaky voice; Findhorn wonders why everyone is whispering in this big, empty apartment. Joe closes his eyes in concentration. He hardly seems to be moving the thin blade. But then, as if by a miracle, the drawer slides smoothly open.

Romella lifts the contents out, puts them on the desk and switches on a desk lamp.

Findhorn becomes aware that his gloved hands are shaking. They begin to go through the papers.

'Footsteps?' Romella asks.

They freeze.

Another dog. The bark is deep, of the type associated with a pit bull or a big hound. It is directly below the study window. Then there is the scrunch of boots over snow and a rough male voice.

'They've found the Doberman.' Joe's eyes are wild.

A door slams in the wind. Brilliant lights come on outside, finding chinks in the window shutters.

Joe runs out of the room. For a moment they think he has abandoned them. But then he is back. 'The gymnasium roof's lit up. Come on, we're out of here.'

'No.'

'What?

Romella takes the camera from around her neck. Findhorn holds the papers in place while Romella clicks, a page at a time. He notices that her hands, too, are unsteady.

The distant chop-chop of an approaching helicopter.

Joe is wringing his hands, pacing up and down. 'Right, people. Let's go.' He is thinking of the guns and the sarin gas, senses that capture will be a terminal event.

The helicopter is getting noisy. Findhorn says, 'Now the address book.'

Joe cuts loose a stream of obscenity. Now the helicopter is roaring mightily. The shutters rattle, and a moving light flickers through a gap. Romella and Findhorn are still photographing. Then they hear the engine dying and the whoosh-whoosh of the freewheeling rotor.

And then the sound of voices. Maybe four or five people. Joe is performing a sort of war dance, silent and frenzied.

Footsteps, heading for the front of the house. They can't help but see our tracks in the snow, Findhorn thinks in desperation.

Romella says, 'Okay.' Hastily, she returns the papers to the drawer.

'Lock it,' says Findhorn.

'There's nae time, ye eejit.'

'Lock it if you want to collect your money.'

Joe is on the edge of violence. He kneels down with his knife, fiddles with the lock. The pit bull is going crazy, its deep bay freezing Findhorn's blood. Somebody is speaking interrogatively in German.

Switch off the table lamp. Open the curtains. Exit the study, along the hallway to the landing. Findhorn gives Joe a look. Joe relocks the apartment door.

Halfway down the stairs, Joe turns and sprints back up, almost colliding with Romella. He tries a door at random: a broom cupboard. Joe squeezes in and Findhorn bundles Romella after him. The faithful are chanting, approaching the stairway. Desperately, Findhorn tries another door. It is locked, and the next and the next. He hauls open a door just as the first of the faithful reach the landing, finds himself in another apartment. He just has time to see them, dressed in long black gowns, male and female side by side, led by a bald-headed male of about fifty looking like a bespectacled Bruce Willis. The man is leading the chant in a tenor voice, each line being echoed by about half the faithful. Findhorn stands petrified in the dark room as the procession moves solemnly along the corridor, inches from him.

The procession passes. Joe opens the door, looking hunted. Findhorn opens his. The faithful are disappearing into the chapel, two abreast. One of them, a small, middle-aged woman, looks back, gives them a puzzled look. In the corridor, Joe bows his head and clasps his hands together inside the wide sleeves of the robe. He is trying not to run. The chant is now in English, fading as the line enters the chapel:

They reach the spiral staircase. Joe whispers, 'Right, for Christ's sake, let's get out of this nut house.' He opens the window. They are now bathed in the lights of the helipad. There is a ten-foot drop. Romella goes first, risking a broken ankle. Findhorn follows without hesitation. Joe drops his bag, which lands in the snow with a thud. He balances precariously on the windowsill, knees bent, closing the window. The stairwell light comes on. He hasn't a second to position himself and has a simple choice: a stunt-man-type jump, or a drop of sarin on his skin. He jumps.

Away from the turret, they find themselves in full view of a man with a rifle over his shoulder. He is speaking to the pilot. Joe says, 'Come,' and they walk across the snow, heads bowed and arms in sleeves, towards the swimming pool, Romella with rucksack and jackets over her arms. The rifleman pays them no attention whatsoever.

Into the enfolding cloak of darkness, beyond the perimeter lights; disoriented, looking for Stefi's torchlight. Joe stays behind, crouching down at the fence. He is closing up the gap and taking the time to do it well; he wants his two-plus-two open-top, flamenco red bird trap.

Findhorn will settle for a toilet.