The Isis Covenant

XLI

Paul Dornberger sat motionless in Jamie Saintclair’s unlit flat absorbing the sights, scents and sounds around him. The instincts of the hunter and the ability to stay immobile were bred in him. He had spent countless hours in the freezing mud beside the pond on his father’s estate waiting for the ducks to fly in. His father stayed in the hide, watching for any movement, and Paul knew that even the slightest twitch or attempt to ease his aching muscles would be punished. When he was older, they had travelled to the Highlands to shoot stags on the misty slopes of some Scottish mountain and he had squirmed through the gorse and the heather an inch at a time to get himself in place for the killing shot. The gillies had praised his marksmanship and his stamina, but he had seen the sidelong glances at his lack of emotion or feeling for the kill.

It took enormous effort and concentration to maintain this level of alertness and not allow the mind to be absorbed or tire or wander. A distant scratching noise caught his attention and his whole being focused on it like radar as his hand closed over the butt of the pistol that sat in his lap. His mind ran through the possible threats one after another, discarding each as they came. Not someone working on the lock, but a mouse or a vole nibbling at the skirting boards. The room’s only illumination was provided by the orange glow from the street lights below. It meant he could make out the shapes of everything around him, but not the colours or textures that gave them their true identity. He knew there were paintings on the wall, but whether they were the work of Impressionists or Cubists was hidden in the gloom. Each piece of furniture was imprinted on the inside of his brain so that when the time came he would not trip or stumble, but could use them to his advantage. Likewise the layout of the apartment was as familiar to him as his own. The bedrooms to the rear beyond the kitchen — to the right — and the bathroom — left, one of them used as an office and equipped with a computer whose standby light produced a dull red line below the doorway. It was in the bathroom that he had placed everything he needed.

A siren sounded in the distance and drew closer; for a few seconds the room was bathed in a dozen shades of neon blue and then it was gone. He almost missed the sound of the lift opening, but the moment his ears caught the mechanical hiss he was on his feet and beside the door. A slight hesitation and then footsteps, wary and quiet. The sound of light breathing within two feet of his right ear. A liquid feeling in his brain as he felt the whisper of another mind seeking out his. He forced himself to relax. Tension slowed the reactions. Allow the mind to take control. Another pause before the muffled rattle of keys and the sound of one entering the lock. Counting down the seconds, he swapped the Glock from his right hand to his left, drew a spring-loaded leather cosh from his pocket. The door handle turned and the door opened inwards, the light from the hallway projecting a shadow across the floor of the lounge. He had removed the bulb from the light. By now a hand should be reaching for the switch. A voice screamed a warning inside his head. He raised the cosh as the shadow thickened and a figure appeared behind the painted wood. With astonishing power the heavy door swung into his face. But Dornberger was already moving backwards, allowing the threat to dissipate itself and rolling between a chair and a display case in a move that brought him to his feet ready to attack or defend as the situation required. There was no panic, only a constant revision of the circumstances. Saintclair had been quicker and more wary than he had believed possible, but that changed nothing. The art dealer was an amateur. Paul Dornberger had been trained from birth to deal death. He had lost the pistol and he could only pray his opponent didn’t find it first. Attack. He weighed the cosh in his hand as the door closed and the shadow merged with the surrounding darkness. The soft sound of breathing merged with the shuffle of feet on carpet. He had a picture of the room in his mind and though he could see nothing he had a mental image of his opponent. He should be hesitant. Fearful. But what was this? A blur of speed moving towards him at hip height. He just had time to half turn and as the shoulder hit him a glancing blow the cosh was already descending. The shoulder was more solid than he had expected, but he heard a grunt of pain as the leather-wrapped steel struck. Even as the sound reached his ears he knew he’d missed his target, the kidney, and he was already moving away from danger as the other man swung a left hook towards his heart. The punch had all his weight behind it and threw him off balance, allowing Paul Dornberger to bring the cosh down on the point of Saintclair’s shoulder. This time he felt the jar of a solid connection and he smiled inwardly because he knew his opponent wouldn’t be able to use the arm for at least an hour. He was crippled and at his tormentor’s mercy, as Dornberger had planned all along. What he hadn’t planned was the skull that swung into his ribs with the power of a close-range cannonball. He heard the crack of breaking bone even as the pain speared through him like a red-hot bolt. His unconscious mind flared in wonder at the depths of unexpected endurance and violence his victim was capable of, but the conscious mind only had time to register his agony as the skull was followed by the rest of the body. Hard bone and solid muscle forced him backward and smashed him off the wall, creating a new ball of pain as the two men fell to the floor with a wooden chair splintering under their combined weight. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had had all the advantages against an opponent who should have been unprepared. Now he could smell the other man’s breath as teeth snapped at his throat an inch from his jugular and the fingers of one functioning hand clawed for his eyes. But they had fallen with Dornberger on top and now he was able to get his right hand free. With a short professional swing he brought the cosh down on the forehead above the other man’s eyes. Saintclair gave one convulsive shudder and was still.

Dornberger felt like collapsing on top of his victim, but the blow with the cosh had been little more than a tap and he knew he only had limited time. Still in darkness, he dragged the unconscious figure through into the hallway and turned left into the bathroom. The flat was part of an older building but the bathroom looked as if it had been recently modernized and contained a shower stall with a shower head fixed to the ceiling. He laid the unconscious body down on the tiled floor and pulled the cord that controlled the light switch. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust and when they did he felt the muscles bulge in his neck and an involuntary growl of suppressed rage escaped from his throat. Saintclair. It should have been Saintclair. Who was this man he had never set eyes on before, with the pale, almost albino looks, and cropped sandy hair? It took time to recover from the surprise, but he realized he had no choice but to go ahead with his original plan. There were things to be learned here, perhaps not what he had thought to learn, but they might be important. The intruder had Saintclair’s key and he had fought with the speed and strength of a soldier or a martial arts specialist. The pain in Dornberger’s ribs had subsided to a deep, throbbing assault and he knew what he was going to do next wouldn’t help. He bent with a grunt and pulled the prone man’s wrists together above his head and pinioned them with a cable tie. In the next movement, he heaved him to his feet and attached the tie to another that was already fixed to the shower head. The pain made him cry out, but he ignored it. He’d tested the head earlier and reckoned that it would take his victim’s weight, unless he was able to exert pressure on it, which Dornberger didn’t intend to allow him to do. When he was finished, the man who should have been Saintclair was suspended by the arms from the shower head with his head slumped to one side, snoring through his nose. Dornberger reached for the neck of the dangling man’s shirt and ripped it apart, baring his hairless chest. He pinched the pale cheek hard, eliciting a small reaction. He pinched again.

Frederick opened his eyes to see a blurred figure looming in front of him. His aching head and the fire in his arms competed for his attention. After killing the woman he had come to the flat to wait for Saintclair. The attack as he’d entered had been a complete surprise, but he had known he could take the Englishman. What he hadn’t expected was the strength and power he’d encountered, nor the cosh that had disabled him and eventually allowed his opponent to get the upper hand. Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings and he felt the first sharp thrill of fear. His initial reaction had been that, even though Saintclair had defeated him, he was in no real danger. The art dealer might rough him up a little — Saintclair might look like a typical English gentleman, but in the past he’d proved a tough, dangerous and intractable opponent — but then he would hand him over to the police. But as his vision cleared the man standing in front of him wasn’t Saintclair, and the ice-chip eyes would have told him he was in trouble even if the short black plastic pole didn’t.

‘I see you recognize this. Good, I do not need to explain. First we set the ground rules.’ The voice was businesslike and contained no hint of emotion. It reminded Frederick of his own. ‘They are simple. I will ask you a question and you will answer. If you do not answer I will apply the prod. I will ask you again. If you do not answer, I will increase the power and apply the prod. If you continue to fail to answer I will apply the prod for as long as it takes, even if it burns a hole right through you. Nod if you understand.’

‘Verpiss dich.’

‘German, eh?’ Dornberger nodded. ‘That’s a start. But no, I don’t think I will fuck off.’

He peeled off a short strip from the roll of brown tape he always carried and slapped it without ceremony across Frederick’s mouth.

‘So, we begin.’

He placed the twin prongs against the German’s flesh and pressed the power button.

Four hours later sweat poured off Paul Dornberger and his whole body ached. Frederick, as he knew him now, hung naked and the pale white skin was leopard-spotted with weals and burns, some of them still emitting wisps of smoke from the craters the cattle prod had created in the flesh. Christ, how could any man take what he had taken without speaking? Every name and every detail had had to be burned out of him. He now knew all about the neo-Nazi link and the vendetta against Saintclair that Frederick had come to complete. He knew about the woman Frederick had killed to get the key to the flat.

Frederick lived in a world of physical torment. He understood that there was little to be gained by holding out. He knew that whatever happened here he was dead. Still, everything he had ever been brought up to believe told him that he must never give in. By now he understood the only person he was protecting was Saintclair, a man he had vowed to kill. But that counted for nothing. Fight to the last man and the last bullet, that had been the watchword of the man he admired beyond any other. Only a weakling buckles. Still, the pain had been so terrible that his secrets had been torn from him one by one in throat-tearing shrieks of agony. He felt no shame, because his strategy from the beginning had been to create a series of defence lines, each of which could be given up so that the next could be defended for a little longer. He had been forced to choose one secret to protect above all others. There was no rational reason, apart from the importance Saintclair seemed to attach to it. He had come close, a gabbled reference to the telephone message, but if he went to his grave without divulging the name, he could hold his head high among the legions of Valhalla.

End it now, he prayed. End it now.

But Paul Dornberger had registered the lapse, cut off almost as soon as it began, as if the tortured man had only just realized its significance.

‘The phone message. You said there was a name. What was it?’ He removed the tape and there was an incomprehensible mumble from lips lacerated by Frederick’s own teeth.

‘I didn’t hear it. Tell me again.’

This time the answer was clearer. ‘Verpiss dich.’

Dornberger shook his head wearily. ‘Dummkoff.’ He gave Frederick’s head a slap that was almost affectionate. He replaced the tape and swung the hanging body round so the back was to him. ‘Tell me the name.’ Frederick gave a shake of the head and Dornberger placed the prongs of the cattle prod carefully at the entrance of his anus and pushed hard. He felt Frederick shudder and when he pressed the button the tethered body bucked like a rodeo pony. When the tortured man had stopped shaking he peeled off the tape and held the prod in front of the tormented face.

‘The name?’

Frederick uttered a single word. When he heard it, Paul Dornberger felt as if someone had applied the cattle prod directly to his brain.