Prologue
London, England
3 December 2019
The voice spoke again.
Larry Antony kicked the bedsheets aside and stumbled to the floor of his hotel room. He stood up, obedient to the ethereal command. A trickle of blood ran down his leg, darkening as it settled on the rug beneath his feet. He looked away, drawn once more to the glare of a fierce, inquiring lamp. He screwed his eyes and raised his hands like a shield. ‘Goddamn you,’ he screamed. ‘I’ve told you guys everything. Everything … that I can.’
Naked, and alone, he fell to his knees and wept, begging his nightmare to end.
The voice summoned him once more. He rose, wiped his eyes and crossed the room to a chair by a simple, wooden desk. Trembling, he sat in front of the lamp. He glanced down. His confession was still there. His anguished words forced by an endless torment that racked his brain. And faces that scowled and drifted towards him. And a light that stayed constant.
He picked up the pen and steadied his hand. October 2 he wrote, feeling things would soon be okay. The words were coming, and he could remember … people and events. He lifted his eyes as the faces fell back—stationed against the walls of his room. He nodded and lifted his hand in a friendly gesture. It was official now, he thought. Like a tribunal, a tribunal of the mind. Smiling, he put the pen down and spoke to the ghostly delegates instead. ‘Must be a couple of months ago, now, gentlemen. Met with the British … a little after I got back from the States. I think it was near London Bridge. In some kind of security suite. High up. With sloping glass windows.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘It was my first meeting with their intelligence team.’ Larry watched as the lifeless faces weighed his words. He was telling the truth, they agreed.
Another voice spoke. But calmly. And from behind. Larry didn’t turn, but it was still okay, he thought. Just routine. Just preliminaries about the Brits and who they were. He leant forward, speaking again. ‘Correct, James Ellison, sir. A senior UK official. And one of their juniors. A rookie called Felix. Felix Leighton. Joint intel. Washington and London.’ He sat upright. His eyes fell on the confession. The voices in his head wanted more.
‘The CIA was out of it.’ He looked around. His words caused a sudden stir. ‘I mean, Carter … their liaison guy. He’d messed up. They had to pull him out.’ The faces reared. Larry tensed. ‘It was my assignment, dammit. My boss … he said so. He promised me.’
Larry grabbed the armrest of the chair. He was too anxious. Too loud. Too helpless, he realised. He counted over and over, waiting for his inquisitors to settle down. And his pulse to slow. He relaxed his hands.
A voice spoke. ‘Who are the main conspirators? What are their intentions?’
Larry picked up his pen and returned to his confession. Three students, he wrote. Art history. University College London, England.
A second voice demurred.
‘I mean, at first there were three students.’ He bit his lip. The eyes sharpened. He lowered his head and wrote again. Two males. Francis Eggar. Age twenty-one. Alex Rowdesley. Twenty. And the girl. Jane Shere. Brits. Young Brits. Radicalised. Forbidden studies. Hostile to the world order.
Larry leant back, sneering at the words on the page. The faces nodded. He was doing okay. Doing his job. He drew a breath, feeling his pulse settle down. He was ready for more. ‘Yeah,’ he said, dropping the pen and folding his arms. ‘Kind of dumb guys,’ he added, sitting upright. Talking aloud. ‘And some kind of weird science. And the occult. The crazy occult.’ He laughed and threw his arms in the air. ‘I mean, they want to screw the world and start over again. Like they know the secret. The origin of America. The day it all began.’ He stood up, but the second voice interrupted.
‘The fourth student, Mr Antony, you haven’t spoken about the fourth student.’
‘Pardon me.’ Larry sat down and retrieved the pen. The pen touched the page. He wrote. The fourth student. Name of Addings, Richard Addings. Nineteen years of age. Literature. Freshman. No evidence of radicalisation.
The eyes exchanged glances. Tell us more.
November 7, Whitehall, London, he wrote. Kind of like a palace. He crossed out the words. But the eyes noted. Watching. Silently. I mean the fancy room. And all the mad, pagan signs. Just like the zodiac. The eyes turned. Warily. The pen jumped off the page.
A voice probed. ‘You mean the British Foreign Office?’
‘Yeah, the Locarno Room.’ Larry lowered his head. ‘I meant to write that,’ he mumbled. There was a silence. He glanced around the room. A shuffle of feet unsettled him. Like journalists comparing notes. And eyes watching. He sat still, clutching the hotel chair.
The noise subsided. He breathed again.
And then another voice. A sterner voice. ‘Are you a patriot, soldier?’
‘Yes, sir. Special Forces.’ He nodded affirmatively. ‘Proud folks.’ Larry raised his hand as if waving to his mom and pa. He smiled. Just like a family homecoming, he recalled.
The first voice interrupted. The questions continued.
‘No, sir. There were only two meetings with the British. October second and November seven. Intelligence briefings. Classified.’ He smiled. He’d be okay. They’d let him sleep, now. And go back to bed. He closed his hands, hiding blood under his nails.
‘And nothing else?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Were there no other meetings, Mr Antony? Meetings with others while you were in London? A young man, for instance? An informant who knew about the fourth student?’
Larry shut his eyes. He swallowed. He had to play it cool. ‘You mean the kid? Well, kind of casual,’ he admitted, looking around once more.
The eyes conferred.
‘You know how it is with the Brits and building rapport.’ He tried to slow his words. His body shifted. ‘Jesus … these jerks. They need a few beers sometimes. To loosen up.’ His words fell on silent stares. He sat up. Trembling, he felt cold. ‘I mean … off duty, sir.’
The voice sharpened. ‘You’re on oath, soldier.’
‘There were no other meetings. No way.’ Larry looked back at the confession on the desk. The kid was lying. Trying to drag him deeper. Trying to dodge the blame. Larry pushed it away. ‘The CIA was not doing its job,’ he bawled. ‘We needed leads, goddammit. It’s a dirty business.’ He checked the room. The reaction stayed muted. Maybe they understood. But wouldn’t say. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists. Flecks of blood fell to the floor. ‘The assassination … the killing. It was in London. By the river. Embankment Gardens.’ Larry paused. He opened his eyes unnerved by the heavy silence. And a throbbing in his veins. ‘A detail accompanied me. We found the target. The detail was armed. Glock 26, 9 mm. But I didn’t agree. It was too public. There were people. Students. Near a café. Someone would see.
He dropped his head. And stared at his hands.
The voice resumed. ‘You were a college boy too, Agent Antony.’
Larry swallowed. Another tack. Soft guy. Hard guy. They’re sweating me. Stay calm, he thought. He looked up. ‘Math and cryptography. Great years.’
The voices conferred.
‘No, sir. Stayed clear of the fraternities. Keeping focus.’
The voice probed.
Larry looked away. ‘That is correct. To my knowledge, there was no invitation. Not from the fraternities. As I said, I stayed clear. Keeping focus.’
The voice sharpened. ‘You’re a loner, soldier.’
Larry froze. The eyes stood out against the glare of the table lamp.
‘You’re working freelance. Admit it!’
‘No, sir. I’m working for my country.’
The words echoed around the room. Papers shuffled. Larry hid his face, frightened by the confession.
‘Look at me. Your boss has called you a fantasist. You’ve endangered the mission. The students are at liberty. The world order is threatened.’
Larry stood. Shaking.
‘Sit down, soldier!’
There was more talk. And accusations. His inquisitors formed a circle.
‘No, sir. I don’t believe in Satan. No way.’ Larry crossed his arms. He shook his head as they circled.
The voices stayed silent.
‘The way I see it, you’ve just got to make up your own mind. I mean, like the stories in the Bible.’ He shuddered. ‘And the commandments.’
There was movement. And anger.
‘It’s not true,’ he screamed. ‘The kid’s lying. I don’t want the secret.’ He seized the confession and waved it in the air. He grabbed a page, and sweeping his arm across the desk, wrote furiously. We went back. To the riverside gardens. The target was still there. Male. Forty. Dark haired. Light build. He saw us and turned to flee. I gave the order. There was a shot. And then another, close up, as he staggered and fell amidst the dark leafy shrubs close to the Thames. Larry lifted his head. The circle was complete. He dropped the pen. The voices slipped from his mind. The faces from the constant light.
Larry sank his head into his hands and sobbed. ‘I hate the kid. I hate Satan.’ He opened a drawer at the side of the desk and reached for an instrument stained with blood. He pushed back the chair and stood. His hand shook. Sweat rolled down his skin. He turned, and fixed his eyes on a strange spiralling shape, a glyph that beckoned from his bedroom wall, telling him things. In his head. Taunting. Mocking his fleshy bulk, his nakedness, his extra pounds.
He looked down. White boxer shorts lay trampled beneath his feet. Spread like a cloth to soak his blood. His remorse. His sacrifice. He lifted his eyes, drawn once more to the winding curve. Following its shape. Round and round. Slipping deeper within its thin, sinuous arms ready for its instruction.
It whispered its command in a sly, lascivious breath.
Larry opened the scissors. He raised his hand. Snapping and slicing the air. Cutting the threads that whirled and danced around the room. Around his mind. His head. His body. That tightly bound his skin. His feet. His shins. His thighs. Cutting and slicing. Higher and higher. Laughing. Cutting. And shaking.
But then … nothing. The bleak, bleak emptiness … of nothing.
His eyes drifted up towards the wall. He stared. The spiral had gone.
Larry dropped the scissors. Blood settled between his toes. Colouring his nails a soft crimson red. Making patterns on his feet. Warming his thighs. Consecrating the cloth.
‘Mr Antony, sir. Are you okay? Mr Antony. Please open the door.’
Larry drew back. The night porter? He snatched his shorts from the floor and stuffed them into a drawer. He grabbed a pair of pants. ‘Yeah. Hang on, I’m okay. Just a dream.’
‘Mr Antony. Would you please open the door? I insist you open the door. Or I must call the police.’
‘Hold on. Hold on there. I’m dressing.’
Larry reached the door. He edged it ajar, his hand trembling to keep it still. ‘Jesus. That was some freaky dream. Like I was in hell or something.’
The porter drew back. ‘I am sorry … but a guest has reported noises. And screaming from your room.’ He shifted his eyes.
Larry switched on the light and opened the door. ‘Look for yourself.’
The porter stepped forward and looked around. The curtains were drawn. A bottle of bourbon sat on the desk. And alongside the lamp, sheets of paper covered with notes. The Stars and Stripes lay draped across the dishevelled bed. ‘You are alone?’
‘Yeah. Sure thing.’ Larry gestured to the table. There was only one glass by the bottle.
The porter stepped back. ‘We ask our guests … to respect the privacy of others, Mr Antony.’ He paused, focusing his thoughts. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. But there was … concern.’
‘Like I said. Just a dream.’ Larry closed the door and turned the lock. He leant hard against the door, counting as the porter’s steps withdrew. A sweat eased his weight to the floor. He pulled his knees towards his chest and placed his hands around his feet. Mixing the red between his toes. Cold and alone. Begging the dark for sleep. And forgiveness. He lifted his head and stared back at the wall.
The glyph had returned.
Chapter 1
‘You’ll shudder at the thought, Richard. But make us a promise, will you? You won’t lose heart and turn away?’
I’d met Francis and Jane by chance soon after the computer network had crashed. They were third-year students on a four-year degree course at University College London. I was a fresher, straight out of school. I’d opted to read English literature and, during my first-year, a free study option that was supposed to sharpen my academic insights and widen my circle of friends. Our paths crossed in a quiet conference hall not too far from where I’d expected to enrol on a damp, breezy day at the start of October. The hall was hosting an exhibition on sixteenth-century drawings and prints, and I had little else to do but hang around until the IT problems had been sorted out. Francis and Jane came up to me and introduced themselves. They talked to me about the artists Dürer and Da Vinci, asked me about my degree, and whether I was interested in European Renaissance studies.
And then Jane came up with an idea. ‘Why don’t you join our tutorial?’ she said, reaching for my arm.
Art history? Really? I was intrigued. We grabbed a coffee nearby, and in no time they’d sketched an outline of the central campus, told me about their tutor, Dr Hatherleigh, and their unusual course module, and then explained how to find his rooms in one of the terraced streets not far from the uni. They mentioned an entry code for the front door, but didn’t want to write it down. Oh, and access to the third floor was by stairs or an odd-looking lift with a long gallows-like pulley. But don’t worry, Francis had said, we all get used to it. As for the studies, they were full of ideas and suggestions, offered me a few tips on an interview with the tutor, and agreed to meet later if their other commitments allowed. So, Art History B, I thought. Let’s go for it!
Continued ...
