Doctor Who_ The King of Terror - Keith Topping [24]
It was pure chaos theory, thought Greaves, sadly. Maybe the old boy really was losing it. ‘I never thought you would subscribe to such a Luddite view,’ he said, astonished at Control’s brave and lonely battle against the windmills.
Control, however, didn’t seem interested in Greaves’s comments. ‘The transfer and receipt of information has become impersonal. We look at this cold screen of glass and are given . . . ’ He paused. It was, thought Greaves, the first time he had ever seen him lost for words. At length Control said simply,
‘It shows you everything, but it tells you nothing.’
‘Interesting way of putting it,’ replied Greaves as Control switched on the office lights and turned the screen away.
Control smiled, benevolently, and asked, ‘You have some gossip for me?’
45
‘Yes,’ Greaves said, ever eager to please. ‘The information we’ve been waiting for. It’s in the hands of friendly sources.’
Control was silent again. The only sound was the distant traffic noise, the hum of the office air conditioning and Greaves himself. He was aware, for the first time, of how loud his breathing was in the presence of Control.
‘Good news tends to come all at once,’ said Control, shattering the peace like a hammer through a plate-glass window. He picked up the telephone. ‘I think it’s time I gave out a little good news myself.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m giving InterCom the thing they most want,’ said Control. ‘An alien.’
There were thirteen in the sepulchre. The inner sanctum. They knelt in a circle around the pentagram, their faces masked from the flickering candlelight by the black, hooded cloaks they wore. The air was heavily scented with incense, and buzzed with a low murmur of whispered chanting.
And the soundtrack to The Omen, which was playing on a cassette recorder.
‘For it is written,’ said the leader, standing up. ‘Written in the blood of the prophet, Six jours l’assaut devant citte donne, livres sera forte et aspre bataille, trois la rendront et a eux pardonmne, le reste a feu et a sang tranche taille. ’
‘Couldn’t he have written it in English?’ muttered one of the coven.
‘I shall translate for those Philistines without a degree in medieval French like what I have,’ said the leader, pulling back his hood.
His name was Jon Newton and he looked like an unholy cross between Aleister Crowley and the With the Beatles- era Ringo Starr. He wore a black polo-neck shirt beneath his cloak, and a weighty gold ankh medallion that threatened to snap him in two. His accent was pure English West Country.
The group knew little about him, other than that he was wanted in sixteen countries around the world for various acts of witchcraft, terrorism, murder, embezzlement and that nasty business with the chicken farm in Brazil. They also knew that he was charismatic, prone to extreme paranoia and mood swings and that he had transformed their group from a hopeless bunch of drifters into one of the most feared terrorist organisations America had ever known.
They just wished he would stop hitting them quite so often.
Newton cleared his throat and, as he did so, landed a stinging backhander across the face of the nearest of his brethren.
‘Ow! What was that for?’ asked Bill Quay pitifully. Bill was big and hairy, a dead ringer for Noddy Holder circa 1973, only without the mirrored top hat and the talent.
‘Pay attention,’ said Newton. ‘For it is written, “For six days shall they assault the city from the front. A great and fierce battle shall be fought. Pardoned, 46
three shall surrender. The rest shall be put to the fire. And the sword”.’
‘Great,’ said Hayley Tonkin eagerly. Short-sighted and hugely overweight, she removed her bottle-end spectacles and cleaned them on the hem of her T-shirt. ‘When’s that happening then?’
‘Who shall know the exact moment of the end of days?’
‘I thought you said you did?’ murmured Nigel Dunkley, a slight, pale-looking young man with a strange haircut and severe acne.
‘I do,’ hissed Newton angrily. ‘And you don’t. So watch it, sunshine, or I’ll knock