The White Mountain by David Wingrove Page B

herself to say it. ‘There are bodies. My aunt and uncle. Some others. I don’t know who.’ She took a shuddering breath, so close to tears again that she found it difficult to control herself.
    â€˜Listen to me, Jelka. Do exactly what I say. There should be a medical cupboard in the rest room next to you. You’ll find some tranquillizers there. Take two. Only two. Then come back to the board and stay there. All right?’
    She nodded and went off to do as she was told, but then she stopped and turned, looking back at the screen. Why was there no one here? Where was the guard unit? The pattern was all too familiar. Like the attack on the Wiring Project that time.
    It hit her suddenly. This wasn’t like the other attack on her. This had been set up. From inside. Someone had given the order for the unit to pull out. Someone at the top.
    Which meant that she had to get out. Right away. Before they came for her.
    Even as she turned and looked, the picture on the screen changed. Hans Ebert’s face appeared, red-eyed, his cheeks unshaven. He had been summoned from his bed. ‘Jelka? Is that you? Come closer. Come over to the board.’
    In a trance she went across and stood there, staring down at the screen.
    â€˜Stay where you are. And don’t worry. I’ll be with you just as soon as I can.’
    She stood there, a cold certainty transfixing her. Then, as his face vanished from the screen, she reached across and cut the connection. She laughed: a cold bitter laughter, then, not looking back, made her way across to the transit and went inside, pressing the down button.
    It was ten minutes after four when Tolonen got to the Ebert Mansion. One of the goat-creatures greeted him and ushered him through to the study. It bowed low, then, in a deep, burred voice excused itself while it went to fetch its master. A moment later another of the creatures entered the room; taller, gaunter than the first, its dress immaculate. It came across to where the Marshal stood and asked him what he would have to drink.
    â€˜Nothing, thank you,’ he answered, not looking at the beast.
    â€˜Would you like something to eat, Marshal?’
    It stood close to him, almost at his elbow. He could hear its breathing,smell its heavy musk beneath the artifice of its cologne.
    â€˜No. Now leave me,’ he said, waving it away.
    â€˜Is there anything I can do for you, Excellency?’ it persisted, seeming not to have heard what he had said, or seen his gesture of dismissal.
    Tolonen turned and shook his head, meeting the creature’s pink eyes. He had not noticed before how repulsive the creatures were; how vile their combination of sophistication and brutality. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly, controlling the irritation he was feeling, ‘but please leave me alone. I want nothing, I assure you.’
    He watched it go, then shuddered, wondering if this would be the last time he would come here; whether by this he ended it all between himself and his oldest friend. He looked around, trying to distract himself, aware that the moment was drawing close, but it was no good: the words he had come to say ran on inside his head, like an awful, unrelenting litany.
    He hadn’t long to wait. Klaus Ebert had doused his face, put on a robe and come down. He pushed the far doors open and strode into the room, smiling, his arms out to welcome his friend.
    â€˜You’re damned early, Knut, but you’re as welcome as ever.’
    Ebert clasped Tolonen to him, then released him, standing back.
    â€˜What brings you here at this hour, Knut? All’s well with you and yours, I hope?’
    Tolonen smiled wanly, touched more than ever by the warmth and openness of the greeting, but the smile was fragile. Underlying it was a bitterness that he found hard to contain. He nodded, then found his voice. ‘They were well when I left them, Klaus.’
    He drew a breath, then shook his head once,