Clarke wanted to be sick, but that would incapacitate him and right now he dare not be incapacitated. But the grass . . . it was strewn with clots of blood, shreds of skin and gobbets of. . . of meat! Human flesh! And under the narrow beam of his torch there was something else, something which might just be God, a kidney!
Clarke ran — or rather floated, fought, swam, drifted, as in a dream or nightmare back to his car, drove like a madman back to Paignton, hurled himself into INTESP’s suite of rooms. He was in shock, remembered nothing of the drive, nothing at all except what he’d seen, which had seared itself onto his mind. He fell into a chair and lolled there, gasping, trembling: his mouth, face, all of his limbs, even his mind, trembling.
Guy Roberts had come half-awake when Clarke rushed in. He saw him, the state of his trousers, the dead white slackness of his face, and was fully alert in an instant. He dragged Clarke to his feet and slapped him twice, ringing blows that brought the colour back to Clarke’s cheeks —and blood to his previously blank eyes. Clarke drew himself up and glared; he growled and showed his gritted teeth, went for Roberts like a madman.
Trevor Jordan and Simon Gower dragged him off Roberts, held him tight and at last be broke down. Sobbing like a child, finally he told the whole story. The only thing he didn’t tell was the one which must be perfectly obvious: why it had affected him so very badly.
‘Obvious, yes,’ said Roberts to the others, cradling Clarke’s head and rocking him like a child. ‘You know what Darcy’s talent is, don’t you? That’s right: he has this thing that looks after him. What? He could walk through a minefield and come out unscathed! So you see, Darcy’s blaming himself for what happened. He had the shits tonight and couldn’t go on duty. But it wasn’t anything he ate that queered his guts it was his damned talent! Or else it would be Darcy himself minced out there and not Peter Keen. .
Tuesday, 6.00 A.M.: Alex Kyle was shaken rudely awake by Carl Quint. Krakovitch was with Quint, both of them hollow-eyed through travel and lack of sleep. They had stayed overnight at the Dunarea, where they’d checked in just before 1.00 A.M. They had had maybe four hours’ sleep; Krakovitch had been roused by night staff to answer a call from England on behalf of his English guests; Quint, knowing by means of his talent that something was in the air, had been awake anyway.
‘I’ve had the call transferred to my room,’ said Krakovitch to Kyle, who was still gathering his senses. ‘It is someone called Roberts. He is wishing to speak to you. Most important.’
Kyle shook himself awake, glanced at Quint.
‘Something’s up,’ Quint said. ‘I’ve suspected it for a couple of hours. I tossed and turned, sleep all broken up but too tired to respond properly.’
All three in pyjamas, they went quickly to Krakovitch’s room. On the way the Russian inquired, ‘How do they know where you are, your people? It is them, yes? I
mean, we had not planned to be here tonight.’
Quint raised an eyebrow in his fashion. ‘We’re in the same business as you, Felix, remember?’
Krakovitch was impressed. ‘A finder? Very accurate!’
Quint didn’t bother to put him right. Ken Layard was good, all right, but not that good. The better he knew a person or thing the easier he could find him or it. He’d have located Kyle in Bucharest; they’d have systematically checked out the major hotels. Since the Dunarea was one of the biggest, it must have come up high on the list.
In Krakovitch’s room Kyle took the call. ‘Guy? Alec here.’
‘Alec? We have a big problem. It’s bad, I’m afraid. Can we talk?’
‘Can’t it go through London?’ Kyle was fully awake now.
‘That’ll take time,’ Roberts answered, ‘and time’s important.’
‘Wait,’ said Kyle. He said to Krakovitch: ‘What are the odds this is being monitored?’
The Russian shrugged, shook his head. ‘None at all, that I can see.’ He stepped to the window, opened the curtains. It would soon be dawn.