Necroscope: Defilers by Brian Lumley
Minutes after the last vehicle and persons were aboard, the tailgate was raised, and the vessel powered up and reversed out into midharbour. There, vibrating alarmingly as the rudder was held over, it turned about, picked up speed, and churned for the open sea. In a surprisingly short time Keramoti had dwindled to a toy town against a backdrop of green and yellow foothills and purple mountains, and in as much time again the mainland itself had narrowed down to a thin wedge floating on the Aegean’s blue horizon, with a hazy grey crest of mountains that might just as easily be clouds.
As for the bulk of the passengers, they were mainly Greeks; and Liz, who as a child had holidayed frequently in the islands with her Graecophile parents, found them very typical—indeed, almost stereotypical—of the island folk that she had known:
The obligatory, toothless old grandmother in a black dress and black headsquare, weighed down with a battered suitcase and a plastic bag of red mullets, complaining endlessly of the heat and the fact that her poor fish would surely have “gone off” by the time she got to Krassos town. And another (who might be the first’s sister) with two live chickens squawking exhaustedly in their wicker cage with every lurch of the ship. And yet a third encumbered with her young grandchildren, twin sisters and their disobedient, hyperactive brother, who in-sisted on climbing onto the bottom bar of the rail and reaching too far out in order to feed crusts of bread to the vessel’s shrilling seagull escorts. Soon called to order by a gruff deckhand, the latter banged his chin in his haste to get down, and fled wailing to his granny’s lap.
Then there were the tourists: mainly Germans from the buses on the freight-deck, but also a few British and other nationalities. The latter were late holidaymakers, extempore travellers who knew they’d have little or no trouble finding accommodation off-season on a wilting Greek island.
“Mad dogs and Englishmen …” said Goodly, watching from the shade as young British couples paraded the open decks in shorts and open-necked shirts, or no shirts at all. “They’ll be burned to crisps before they even see a beach!”
Liz nodded. “Whiteys from Blighty,” she said, as she remembered what she and the other E-Branch personnel had been called by their friends in the Australian special forces when they had first arrived down under. “Thank goodness for my Aussie tan. At least I shouldn’t blister!”
“I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you,” the precog warned. “Outdoors in heat like this … even shaded you’re not safe. It bounces off sand, steel, and even stone.”
“What does?” Lardis inquired.
“The sunlight,” said Goodly. “Mercifully, I seem immune. I don’t tan easily, and I’ve always preferred my skin pale.”
“Myself,” Lardis shaded his eyes, “I never imagined any sun could rise so high or get so hot. No wonder my ancestors called this world the Hell-lands! On Sunside it gets warm—but never too warm. Then again, it never gets too cold, either.”
“I’ve read about your world in Branch files,” Liz told him. “And I think I’d like to see it some time.” But:
“No, you wouldn’t,” Lardis and Goodly told her, almost as a man. And the Old Lidesci followed it up with, “Not just now, at any rate.” Then he sighed and turned his face away.
The precog knew what was bothering him and said, “Nathan?”
“Nathan, aye,” Lardis answered. “Nathan and everyone I left behind to fight my fight. If all was going well, we should have heard about it—heard from him, from Nathan—long before now. That lad, Nana’s boy, he could come here just as easily as when he brought my Lissa and me out of Sunside. Why, he can come and go like … like Harry Hell-lander himself! Like the Necroscope that Harry was and Jake Cutter might yet become! He could do it aye, and he would do it, certainly … if all was well.” Lardis shrugged, sighed again, and fell moodily silent.
“Three years,” the precog nodded his understanding. “It’s a very long time, yes. But looking on the bright side—er, given that there is one—while we haven’t heard from Nathan, neither have we heard from anyone or any-thing else. The Starside Gates stand open now, that’s true, but since that terrible night when the Refuge was destroyed nothing has come through them. The Romanian Gate is blocked permanently, by ten thousand tons of rock, and despite that Premier Gustav Turchin doesn’t have control of the other Gate at Perchorsk, still he seems to have good intelligence of it. So … perhaps you’re worrying needlessly.”
The three sat together on a bench in the shade of the upper deck, facing the stern and watching the ship’s wake. Liz sat in the middle, with Lardis on her left. Behind them, an open hatch led to the “passenger lounge,” a large indoor seating area with a bar for soft drinks, tea, coffee, and biscuits. With its shade and so-called air-conditioning (two overhead fans that turned far too slowly) the lounge had lured the bulk of the passengers in out of the sun. Occasionally, however, a Greek or other national would come out through the hatch to light a cigarette.
One such smoker, a mature, smartly dressed man with his arm in a sling, had emerged just a few minutes ago. Standing at the rail nearby with his cigarette, at first he appeared to have no great interest in the three people on the bench. But on hearing snatches of their conversation—which should have been meaningless to any outsider—he had gradually edged closer, until Liz and the precog were suddenly aware of him … the way he stared at them as if fascinated.
Liz’s reaction was instinctive: to open telepathic channels and see what was on this inquisitive stranger’s mind. She was a good “receiver” but her sending was as yet underdeveloped; with the exception of Jake Cutter, she’d had little success with it. Also, heeding Ben Trask’s warning, she had been keeping a tight rein on her telepathy. Venturing into enemy territory like this, she didn’t wish to alert anyone to her presence—and certainly not Malinari the Mind! But now, looking at this stranger’s face and gauging the thoughts behind his penetrating stare:
What? (He was thinking, as his jaw fell open.) Am I hearing correctly? The Gates, and Perchorsk? Necroscope, and Harry? … The Harry? Harry Keogh? These people must be E-Branch! … They can only be E-Branch!
Liz took a deep breath; her elbow dug sharply into the precog’s ribs as her hand dipped into her shoulder bag to find the grip of her modified Baby Browning. “He knows us!” she gasped.
But Manolis Papastamos was fractionally quicker. “Yes, I am knowing you,” the compact Greek policeman said, stepping behind them and sticking his left arm in its sling between them before bringing it up under Liz’s chin from the side. “We’ve never met—and I caution you to be very careful what you are doing with your hand in that bag—but I am knowing you, most definitely. You are Ben Trask’s people, E-Branch!”
They looked—saw the blued-steel muzzle of an ugly, squat little automatic poking out of the sleeve of Manolis’s sling—and Liz froze with her own weapon only half drawn from her bag. Goodly was rising to his feet, beginning to tower threateningly over Papastamos, and the Old Lidesci was looking astonished and struggling to stand up. But the Greek policeman wasn’t alone.
Two of the men who had been with him in Kavála were emerging from the lounge intent on enjoying a smoke on the open deck with their chief. Taking in the scene at a glance, they immediately sprang to flank the bench and one of them produced a gun. In that same moment, seeing that the chance meeting was rapidly turning into a confrontation, Manolis held up his right arm and hand and snapped, “Everyone holding your fire!” And to Liz:
“Young lady, I am Papastamos. Ben Trask may have mentioned my name to you? In which case you will know that I am a friend. Please don’t shoot me or do anything to cause me to shoot you!” And then, after waiting a moment to let that sink in: “You must be, er, Liz?”
Still uncertain what was going on, Liz nodded. But Papastamos’s mind held no threat, and so she relaxed, breathed easier, and took her hand out of her bag. Manolis grinned and drew back his left hand and weapon into the sling and out of sight. “Very well,” he said. “This is much better, d
“You will be … er, Ian Goodly?” And, as the other nodded: “Yes, I see it now. Ben’s backup team. It is thee coincidence, that we should meet like this.” He turned to Lardis. “And you?”
“This is Lardis Lidesci,” Goodly introduced them as finally the old man got to his feet.
“Lardis?” Manolis frowned. “Lidesci? A Romanian, perhaps? I don’t think Ben mentioned you.”
“That’s possible,” Lardis grunted. “I’m nobody round here.”
“Not true,” the precog shook his head. “Lardis is very much a somebody. But he’s not Romanian.”
“Ah!” Manolis looked at Lardis again. “You E-Branch people: all of you mysterious! You have thee powers, eh?”
Lardis shrugged. “Powers? Not me, not really. I’ve a seer’s blood in me, if that’s what you mean—not to mention a spot of rheumatism!—but what I do have is knowledge.”
And Liz said, “Lardis’s presence here is … it’s something of a secret. If Ben Trask wants to tell you about him, I’m sure he will.”
“You don’t trust me yet.” Manolis nodded his understanding and grinned a tight grin. “I don’t blame you. Me, I don’t trust anyone! And where we are going, you shouldn’t either.”
Looking at him—looking straight into his eyes—Liz said, “Oh, I think we can trust you at least, Inspector Manolis Papastamos. Currently based in Athens, you head up a squad of drug-busters. An expert on the Greek islands, you’ve worked with the Branch before. You have a lot of respect for us, and I know Ben Trask and David Chung hold you in the highest esteem—which is all very well, but—” And here Liz paused and frowned. “But … you aren’t supposed to be involved in all this!” Her frown lifted, and she tilted a knowing eyebrow at him and said, “You’re gate-crashing this one, aren’t you?”
“Ahhh!” Manolis said, this time with more feeling, as again his jaw fell open. “I know what you have done! But this is thee same as thee poor Zek, or Trevor Jordan. They, too, were—”
“Telepaths, yes,” Liz cut him short. “But don’t go changing the subject. You were asked to stay out of this, Inspector. You aren’t supposed to be here. When I called you a gate-crasher it was because I saw it in your mind: you were wondering how you’d explain what you’re doing here to Ben Trask.”
The other narrowed his eyes and chewed his lip, and after a moment said, “Well, maybe. But this is Greece, and I’m a Greek. And anyway, my men and I, we’ll be of use. We have thee special weapons. But please, I would like that you call me Manolis.” He turned again to Goodly.
“So then, Lardis has knowledge … he understands thee ways of thee enemy, and Liz reads thee minds. But what about you?”
“I read the future—sometimes,” said the precog. And then, as Manolis went to reach in his inside pocket: “For instance, I won’t accept the drink you’re about to offer me. If anything, I take a shot of scotch, not brandy.” And when Manolis produced a flask, “But on the other hand,” Goodly continued, “Lardis would very much appreciate it!” His smile was warm, contrasting oddly with his gaunt frame and undertaker’s pallor.
Manolis’s face was full of awe. He shook his head in disbelief, looked at the flask in his hand, and said, “Fantastic!”
Liz glanced at the precog and said, “It seems that credentials are all in order, then?”
And he answered, “Long-term, I see only the most beneficial of mutual collaborations coming out of all this.”
“Me, too!” said Lardis, wiping his mouth after a long swig from Manolis’s flask. “Exactly what you said!” And then to Manolis: “What is this stuff?”
“It’s Metaxa,” said the other. “A very special brandy. But surely you are familiar with it?”
“There are many things in your world—er, your country, I mean—that I’m not yet familiar with,” Lardis answered. “But as for this stuff, I certainly intend to be!”
“Ah, you E-Branch people!” said Manolis, shaking his head. “You are amazing!” And then he frowned. “But … you are Ben’s backup team? Just thee three of you?”
“For the time being, yes.” Goodly answered. “Ben intends to build up his forces slowly.”
“Assuming there’s time, of course,” said Manolis darkly. In answer to which the precog could only shrug his shoulders.
“Very well, then.” Manolis nodded his head decisively. “Now there are six of us. As for Ben: he can argue all he likes, but thee fact remains that I am Greek and Greece is me, and I won’t have thee vrykoulakas in my islands!” He indicated the hatch to the lounge area. “Let’s go inside, drink some iced tea and make thee proper introductions. Krassos is only twenty minutes away; we’ll soon be in thee territory of thee enemy.”
And twenty minutes later, they were …
Krassos town was typical of any Greek island seaport: its deep-water harbour where a hundred yards of mooring fronted the ugly concrete landing concourse, its bollards, capstans, and piles of heavy ropes, its tractor tyres hanging from the jetties, taking the crushing weight of ships that lolled on the oily swell. And behind the various landing stages, the wide, dusty service road that was the town’s main artery; and behind that the shops and tavernas, with streets and alleys leading into the shaded heart of Krassos town itself.
Disembarking with their luggage, the E-Branch people and Manolis’s contingent noticed a pall of smoke over the eastern district of the town, perhaps a quarter-mile away. One antique fire engine was drawing off sea water at the harbour’s eastern extreme, while from some unseen location in the same direction—probably the site of the fire—the high-pitched, dee-daa, dee-daa wailing of another fire engine was clearly audible.
Just before disembarking, Manolis had adopted “a disguise”; a false moustache that turned down towards his chin had altered his appearance completely, and the blue-black stubble that he’d been allowing to sprout ever since his “accident” was beginning to hide his facial bruises. Very Greek from the onset, his features might now be described as darkly handsome if not swarthy.
Now, ushering “his” group to one side of the concourse away from the bustle of disembarking passengers and the excited honking of traffic, he asked Goodly, “What’s our destination? Where are we meeting up with Ben Trask?”
The precog-who every three hours had been in contact with London by phone—answered, “Ben has arranged for us to stay at the place where he and Chung are accommodated in Skala Astris. That’s a little fishing village between—”
“I know it,” Manolis stopped him short, and spoke to one of his men in rapid-fire Greek. The man went off to speak to a bus driver in charge of one of the German tour buses. “Andreas will try to get us a lift on thee bus to Limari on thee eastern side of thee island,” Manolis explained. “They can drop us off along thee way. A lot less conspicuous than taking a taxi. We’ll know in a minute or two, but I think it will be okay. Andreas can be … persuasive. And meanwhile, do you see that smoke?” He shook his head worriedly. “If it means what I think it means …”
“And what do you think it means?” said Liz.
“We will see as we pass through Krassos,” Manolis muttered, and from then on remained silently introspective until Andreas returned.
Andreas had managed to get them a ride on the bus, which in any case was only a little more than half full. When the German tourists had taken their seats, then Manolis and his party were allowed to stow their luggage in compartments under the bus and climb aboard. They found seats in the deserted rear end.
As they got under way, Manolis went up front to have a word with the driver. Returning, he said, “It will be something like an hour, with a few stops, before we’re in Skala Astris. Meanwhile—huh!—we should ‘enjoy thee views.’ Well, to be truthful there are many beautiful villages, bays, and beaches on Krassos. Whe
To the left of the main road east out of town, a fire engine was mainly silent now where it pumped water on a blackened, steaming, gutted heap of rubble that might be the remains of a small hotel. “Oh?” said Goodly. “And what are we looking at?”
“Someone is destroying important evidence, I think,” said Manolis, scowling. “That place, it was an ice factory for thee island’s hotels, its tavernas and fishmongers. Yes, but it was also thee place I used as cold storage for thee mutilated body of a woman washed up from thee sea. Ah!—but she had a leech in her throat, that one!”
“Was it alive?” said Liz, her eyes wide in morbid fascination. “Did you see it?”
“I saw it,” Manolis nodded, and shuddered. “But alive? No, it was dead—thank God! And I burned it.”
“Now someone has done the same for her,” said Goodly. “But I don’t think it was Ben Trask. If it had been, then an incinerator would have sufficed.”
Manolis agreed. “No, this has nothing to do with Trask. Or at least I hope not, because if it has it means that they know he’s here!”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said the precog. “This is Vavara’s work, all right, but she wasn’t covering her tracks on Trask’s account. She’s done this because you were here, Mano!is—and because she knows you’re still alive. A precautionary measure, that’s all. But it’s her work, certainly, or Lord Nephran Malinari’s and the Lady Vavara’s together.”