Harry nodded and said, ‘I can understand the way he must feel. That’s exactly what it’s like. He knows that the cross is still extant, and Simmons still alive, but he doesn’t know where they are.’
‘Right,’ Clarke nodded. But he does know where the cross isn’t. It isn’t on this earth! Not according to David Chung, anyway.’
Lines of concentration etched themselves in Harry’s brow. He turned his back on Clarke and stared out of a window. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I can very quickly discover if Simmons is dead or not. Quite simply, I can check with the dead. If an Englishman called Michael “Jazz” Simmons has died recently in the upper Urals, they’ll be able to tell me in … why, in no time at all! It’s not that I doubt your man Chung is good – not if you say he is – but I’d like to be sure.’
‘So go ahead, ask them,’ Clarke answered. But he couldn’t suppress a shiver at the matter-of-fact way the Necroscope talked about it.
Harry turned to face his visitor and smiled a strange, wan smile. His brown eyes had turned dark and very bright, but even as Clarke looked at them their colour seemed to lighten. ‘I just did ask them,’ he said. They’ll let me know as soon as they have the answer . . .’
That answer wasn’t long in coming: maybe half an hour, during which time Harry sat deep in his own thoughts (and who else’s thoughts? Clarke wondered) while the man from E-Branch paced the floor of the study to and fro. The sun’s light began to fade, and an old clock ticked dustily in a corner. Then –
‘He’s not with the dead!’ Harry breathed the words like a sigh.
Clarke said nothing. He held his breath and strained his ears to hear the dead speaking to Harry – and dreaded to hear them – but there was nothing. Nothing to hear or see or feel, but Clarke knew that Harry Keogh had indeed received his message from beyond the grave. Clarke waited.
Harry got up from behind his desk, came and stood close. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it looks like I’m recruited – again.’
‘Again?’ Clarke spoke to cover the feeling of relief he felt must be emanating from his every pore in tangible streams.
Harry nodded. ‘Last time it was Sir Keenan Gormley who came to get me. And this time it’s you. Maybe you should take warning from that.’
Clarke knew what he meant. Gormley had been eviscerated by Boris Dragosani, the Soviet necromancer. Dragosani had gutted him to steal his secrets. ‘No,’ Clarke shook his head, ‘that doesn’t really apply. Not to me. My talent’s a coward called Serf-Preservation: first sign of anything nasty, and whether I want to or not my legs turn me about-face and run me the hell out of there! Anyway, I’ll take my chances.’
‘Will you?’ The question meant something.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I left stuff of mine at E-Branch,’ Harry said. ‘Clothes, shaving kit, various bits and pieces. Are they still there?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Your room hasn’t been touched except to clean it. We always hoped you’d come back.’
‘Then I won’t need to bring anything from here with me. I’m ready when you are.’ He closed the door to the patio.
Clarke stood up. ‘I’ve two rail tickets here, Edinburgh to London. I came from the station by taxi, so we’ll need to call a – ‘ And he paused. Harry wasn’t moving, and his smile was a little crooked, even devious. Clarke said: ‘Er – is there something?’
‘You said you’d take your chances,’ Harry reminded him.
‘Yes, but. . . what sort of chances are we talking about here?’
‘It’s been a long time,’ Harry told him, ‘since I went anywhere by car or boat or train, Darcy. That way wastes a lot of time. The shortest distance between two points is an equation – a Mobius equation!’
Clarke’s eyes went wide and his gasp was quite audible. ‘Now wait a minute, Harry, I – ‘
‘You came here knowing that when you’d told me your story I wouldn’t be able to refuse,’ Harry cut him off. ‘No risk to you or to E-Branch; your talent takes care of you and the Branch looks after its own, but plenty of trouble for Harry Keogh. Where I’m going – wherever I’m going – I’m sure there’ll be times I wish I hadn’t listened to you. So you see, I really am taking my chances, I’m trusting you, trusting to luck, and to my talents. So how about you? Where’s your faith, Darcy?’ ‘You want to take me to London . . . your way?’ ‘Along the Mobius strip, yes. Through the Mobius Continuum.’