They both seemed to have lost interest in Anji, so she took her coffee back to her seat and stared at the clouds outside. There was something wrong here. Something that made her spine itch.

She must have dozed off. When Anji glanced at her watch, she saw that several hours had pa.s.sed. Blearily, she looked round. They seemed to be flying through the night, and the lighting had reduced to a dull glow. The cabin was empty.

Anji shifted position, trying to see further forward. Her foot banged into her shoulder bag under the seat in front, and she dragged it out and dumped it on the spare seat beside her. She could see the others now. They were all in the conference room at the front of the cabin. The lights were on, but from where she was sitting she could not see the board or screen that Hartford was pointing at, that they were all so intent upon.

She rummaged through her bag and pulled out the book she was reading. It was a detective novel by someone she had never heard of, but the enthusiastic press quotes and review comments on the back cover made it sound like she should have. She wasn't far into it, but so far she was hardly enthralled.

As much to stretch her legs as anything, Anji unbuckled her seat belt and stood up. She opened the overhead locker and hefted her shoulder bag into it. There was a bag in there already a large khaki kitbag. A printed plastic label hung free from one of the carrying straps: 'Sgt S Gamblin' and a serial number.

'Sergeant?' Anji murmured. She dosed the locker, and opened the next one along. There was another, identical kitbag in it. With an identical label. Identical except that this one read: 'Pte W Jonas'.

Glancing at the conference room to satisfy herself that everyone was busy, Anji checked the locker behind her seat. It was beside a heavy door that led into the cargo compartment.

Sure enough, there was a kitbag in this locker too. 'Pte H Harries'.

What was going on here? Were the auditors all ex*military? Perhaps their job was to audit a secret military base. In Siberia. That would explain what Hartford had called the 'cloak and dagger stuff'.

But that did not explain why they needed to take a ma.s.sive cargo plane, Anji decided. And since she was standing right beside it, there was no harm in trying the door through to the hold, was there? After all, it was sure to be locked. But just to satisfy her curiosity...

The door was not locked. It opened easily when she swung the heavy handle across. Well, if it was unlocked, there was no reason why she shouldn't take a look. They had, after all, left her to her own devices. With a furtive glance back at the conference room, Anji stepped into the darkness of the hold, and closed the door quietly behind her.

There was some light. A dim, red emergency glow. Enough to illuminate the nearest of the palettes of supplies. She took a step forward and her foot caught on something a piece of wood. She almost tripped, but regained her balance. It was a short plank torn away from one of the palettes.

As Anji's eyes adjusted, she could make out more of the palettes of supplies and equipment. They seemed to stretch forever into tile red glow. As she approached the first of the mounds, she realised just how big they were. She was dwarfed by the size of the tarpaulin*covered mountain.

One of the corners was not tied securely, and Anji was able to lift it and peer underneath. To see a pile of wooden crates. Not terribly helpful or inspiring. Beside it was a neat stack of rucksacks. On closer examination in the dim light she could see there were cords attached, printed instructions and warnings. Parachutes. She counted there were sixteen of them.

The next palette was more intriguing: underneath the heavy cover was a vehicle. It was painted predominantly white, but with patches and uneven stripes of black. It had heavy tracks in place of wheels a snow*cat. A snow*cat painted in camouflage colours.

There were several snow*cats, many crates, and eventually a smaller pile of wooden boxes. One of the boxes just' under the open flap of the tarpaulin had the lid prised open. Anji could see the gap between the lid and the box, could see the dark shadows of the nails that no longer secured the lid. She climbed under the tarpaulin, managing to leave an opening for the light. There was a red emergency bulb above the palette and as she pulled the lid of the crate aside the interior was illuminated with a dull red glow.

Grenades. The crate was full of grenades. Anji was no expert, she didn't know the type or the make or how destructive they were even if they contained smoke or gas or explosive. But they were unmistakably grenades.

There was a crowbar lying beside the box. Whoever had checked the contents, for whatever reason, had presumably left it there. She used it to pry off the lid of the next of the boxes. To find it was full of guns. Machine guns. The next was full of ammunition belts of bullets carefully folded and packed.

After that the light suddenly dimmed, and she heard the cough. It was a polite, deliberately*clearing*the*throat cough.

Anji could see the silhouette of the man who was blocking out the light. He beckoned for her to come out from under the tarpaulin.

It was Hartford. The tall black man, Thorpe, was beside him. And Thorpe was holding a gun.

'Now that is a pity, you know, Miss Kapoor.' Hartford's voice was menacingly quiet. 'I was so hoping that when this was all over, We wouldn't have to kill you.'

35: The Great Attractor

The bell jangled in the distance. Maxwell Curtis settled back in the chair and waited for Holiday to appear. His hands held the book tightly, as if afraid it might escape from him. He was fixated on a single paragraph on a single page of the handwritten journal. His heavy finger traced down the margin as he read it again. And again.

'You rang, sir?' Holiday's voice was cultured, yet there was an element almost of disdain in his tone.

'I've found it' Curtis breathed 'Just as you suspected. Exactly as you said.'

'Indeed, sir?' The large manservant took a step closer. The light of the evening fire flickered across his dark suit and threw his face into and out of shadow as he bent to look at the book. The light flowed over and round him as if desperate to illuminate Curtis, falling towards the seated man and washing over the book he held.

'An ice formation. A cave. Just as you said.'

'So I see, sir.'

'There is even a map' Curtis thumbed ahead several pages and showed him the sketch.'

Holiday nodded. There was satisfaction in his voice now. 'They should be able to find it from that. Even Naryshkin can follow a map.' He straightened up. 'If you are sure it is the place.'

'We found ourselves in a vast cavern, apparently hewn from the glacier itself,' Curtis read. His voice was shaking with emotion and excitement. 'And here look: Deep within the ice, we could see tiny flickers of light, dancing flames held stiff as if frozen in time Deep within the ice, we could see tiny flickers of light, dancing flames held stiff as if frozen in time.' He looked up at the big man. 'This is it!' he hissed.

'So it would seem,' Holiday murmured.

Curtis pulled himself to his feet with an effort, brandishing the journal and jabbing at Holiday with it. 'We know that low temperatures, close to absolute zero slow down light. And we know that slow light is what we need. Forget Naryshkin's cold room and his cynicism. Here we have it a material that slows light perhaps to the point where we can finally achieve our objectives.' He breathed heavily, sagged slightly with the effort. 'Finally.'

Holiday reached out to steady his employer. The manservant was not tall, though he was taller than Curtis, but he was heavily built solid. 'The next communications window is in about three hours,' Holiday said as he helped Curtis back into his chair. 'Do you want me to arrange a satellite link up with the Inst.i.tute?'

'Yes,' Curtis nodded emphatically. 'Yes, as soon as we can.'

'I could send him an e-mail? Scan the map from the journal and send it over to them now?'

Curtis considered. 'Do that as well,' he said. 'But I want to talk to Naryshkin. Face to face.'

They got some pa.s.sing trade in The Black Swan The Black Swan. But not much. Mostly it was locals, villagers. They did not serve food, and the beer was unremarkable. So there was little reason for anyone to travel to the pub.

Leo King knew his clientele. So he knew at once that the man who walked in at seven o'clock that winter Thursday evening was not a regular. He would have remembered him if he had ever been to the Swan Swan before, he was sure; with his shoulder length hair curling in the damp air, his threadbare waistcoat, his wide smile and those deep eyes that seemed to take in so much without really trying. before, he was sure; with his shoulder length hair curling in the damp air, his threadbare waistcoat, his wide smile and those deep eyes that seemed to take in so much without really trying.

But it was not the man's appearance that surprised King. 'I didn't hear a car,' he said as the man approached the bar and smiled broadly. He nodded at the people sitting at the low round tables. He paused to glance at Ollie d.i.c.kerson's hand of dominoes, and raised an eyebrow as if he knew already who would win.

'Nor did I,' Alan Marks agreed with King as the man joined them. 'Walked did you?' he asked the man.

'In this weather?' the man seemed surprised. 'It's raining hard out there. 'Cats and dogs.' He grinned. 'And mice and frogs too, come to that.'

King looked at the man closely. His long*fingered hands were resting on the counter, emerging from faded cuffs that seemed too big for his thin wrists. There was no hint of damp, no sign of rain on him.

'We didn't hear your car,' Marks said.

'Really?' the man replied. His expression seemed to become effortlessly enigmatic.

'What will you have?' King asked when it was apparent that the stranger was not going to elaborate.

'Given the inclement nature of the elements, I think a small brandy is called for.' Somehow there was a pile of coins on the counter top when the man moved his hands away. 'I hope you gentlemen will join me,' he said.

'I don't accept drinks from people I don't know,' King started to say as he fetched the brandy. But somehow it came out as: 'Thank you. Don't mind if I do.' He frowned, and refilled Alan Marks's pint from the beer engine.

An hour later, everyone in the pub was cl.u.s.tered round the bar. He was called the Doctor, and his soft voice and calm, amused manner had soon drawn people into conversation. He had commented favourably on the brandy and told them an amusing story about Napoleon and how he used to like a tipple. He had done a trick with a beer mat that King signed and which then disappeared only to be found again under Albert Greville's pint on the other side of the bar. He listened to their stories of local life and how the new bypa.s.s would ruin everything, and he laughed with them at the story of old Jed Meacher and the cow in the ditch. And he bought them all drinks.

'So come on then,' King demanded eventually. 'Tell us how come we didn't hear your car?'

'My, er, vehicle is parked about half a mile away,' the Doctor said. 'I have a bit of trouble navigating with any accuracy.'

'Usually that's more of a problem when you leave a pub, not when you start out,' Marks said with a cackle of laughter.

'But if you walked,' King persisted, 'why aren't you wet?'

'Wet?' The Doctor seemed surprised.

'Yes. You said it was raining outside. Cats and dogs. And so on.'

'Oh yes.' He sipped his brandy and smiled. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I have an umbrella. I left it to drip in the porch.'

This caused general laughter. But King was still not convinced. 'Must be a very good umbrella,' he said.

'Oh well, it's just an umbrella. You know.' The Doctor leaned across the counter and smiled. 'Though I have made one or two refinements to the basic design.' His eyes took on a faraway aspect, staring into the distance beyond the bar. 'I got rather drenched in Spain, I seem to recall.' He stood upright again. 'So who lives in the big house, across the river?' he asked. 'I walked past it.'

'That was a long walk,' one of the locals said with a laugh.

'Perhaps I drove past it then,' the Doctor said. 'Does it matter?'

'That's Mr Curtis,' Marks told him.

'Maxwell Curtis?'

'Why do I get the impression that you already know?' King asked as he refilled the Doctor's gla.s.s.

'Thank you. I had heard he lived round here. Famous, isn't he?' The Doctor looked round at everyone, eyebrows raised expectantly.

'Used to be,' Marks said. 'More of a recluse now. Made his fortune, so I hear, now he keeps himself to himself.'

'Doesn't pop down here for a swift half very often then?' the Doctor supposed.

This drew the most laughter so far.

'His man, Holiday, comes in once in a while,' King admitted. 'He's a strange one and no mistake. Sits by the fire and reads his paper. You know he has his own wine sent over. A case of it arrives here every couple of months. All paid for, then he pays again when he orders it. Says it wouldn't seem right not to.' He shook his head. 'Like I said, a weird one that.'

'Never see Curtis though,' Marks said. 'Made his money with that act of his. You've seen it on the telly?'

'Not that I recall,' the Doctor replied. 'What exactly did he do?'

'Not sure exactly. Some sort of trick wasn't it? Got bowling b.a.l.l.s and things to roll towards him. "The Great Attractor", they called him.'

'Like those human magnets who stick cutlery all over their bodies,' someone chimed in.

'What, all all over?' someone else asked with a guffaw. over?' someone else asked with a guffaw.

'So what does he do now?' the Doctor was asking. 'I mean, it must be pretty boring, sitting about at home. Surrounded by cutlery and bowling b.a.l.l.s.'

They laughed again at that.

'Research, I heard,' King said. 'Some sort of sponsorship. Experiments, origins of the universe or something. There was that article, remember?'

He was talking to Marks, but it was the Doctor who answered. 'Oh yes,' he murmured. 'I've read it.'

They watched him go from the window. The rain had finally eased, and the light above the pub sign illuminated the Doctor as he walked away down the road. His head was bowed, his hands in his pockets, his tread purposeful and measured.

'He's forgotten his brolly,' Bert Draper said.

'Run after him with it, Bert,' King said. 'He'll want it if the rain starts again.'

Bert Draper pulled on his coat and opened the door to the bar. There was a small porch area outside, before the outer door. He held the inner door open as he looked round.

'No brolly here,' he said at last.

King frowned.

'Must be one of those collapsing ones,' Marks suggested. 'He'll have it in his pocket.'

'Yes,' Leo King said absently. 'Yes, that must be it.' He watched the silhouette recede into the darkness of the night.

34: Hunter and Hunted

Night was drawing in, shadowing the brutal landscape in darkness. Since leaving the strange 'window' behind them, Fitz and the others had all picked up the pace. Ahead, the dark silhouette of the castle loomed over them, as if about to topple out of the mountainside itself.

For the first time since they had moved on from the window, Fitz allowed a sense of relief to creep into his bones. With luck they would be at the plateau where the castle was built before it was completely dark. With luck they would have somewhere to shelter tonight, something other than a flimsy tent to stave off the cold of the night.

But even as he was thinking this, the savage roar they had heard earlier echoed round the mountain pa.s.s. A moment later, another, slightly higher*pitched howl answered.