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The Case of the Left Hand of Thoth
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter Three Gatecrashers Spoil the Party Paul Gunner was loosing all sense of reality. They had strapped him to a chair and subjected him to a light show which left multicoloured after-images dancing across his retina. Headphones were clamped to his ears, pumping out an almost subsonic beat which, he recognised, reproduced the Alpha and Theta rhythms of the human brain. His defences were pushed to the limit. Quaestor’s eyes sliced through the visual cacophony and drilled into his skull. Speaking into a throat mike, the Doctor’s voice seemed to bypass Gunner’s ears altogether, planting an insidious directive in the centre of his brain like a fast-growing weed, its tendrils creeping into the nooks and crannies of his psyche. Gunner was being primed to react in a particular fashion when key phrases were uttered or when particular conditions arose. At its heart — in the deepest root of this horrible weed — lay the false premise that Holloway-Stoddard Industries, of which Paul Gunner was President, was a bloated, inefficient, money-wasting giant which needed to be stripped back to basics in order to survive and prosper. Redundancies must be made. Budgets must be cut. Research and development must be curtailed. All of this, Gunner knew, was absolute nonsense. But with Quaestor’s decree firmly embedded in his subconscious mind, he would begin an unnecessary campaign of streamlining. It would bring the company to its knees. And when Gunner spoke in public about his industrial hooliganism, he would inadvertently find himself saying exactly the wrong things to exactly the wrong people at exactly the wrong times. Soon, he would become a press favourite — a once powerful man fallen from grace; a brilliant entrepreneur transformed into a bumbling clown to be mocked and lambasted. Holloway-Stoddard Industries would collapse. The stranglehold, under which its competitors had laboured for so long, would be unexpectedly released — and those who had invested in the competition would reap the benefits. Doctor Quaestor and his cohorts, of course, had invested heavily. It was an audacious plan — so incredible, in fact, that few people would believe that such a thing could happen. And therein lay its strength. Gunner’s conditioning must be infallible. So the merciless mesmerism continued. For three hours now, his senses had been assaulted; the seeds of his downfall planted. Gunner ran through mathematical equations, played an imaginary game of chess, mentally coded a bolt-on program for his computer’s firewall defences, furtively examined his opponent; all this to maintain his psychological fortifications while, at the same time, appearing to succumb. He sank into the pulsating colours, the throbbing rumble, the droning voice; found himself imagining the structure of Holloway-Stoddard Industries and visualising the weak spots which he, as President, would weaken further until the whole edifice collapsed. It became authentic; an illusion made fact — and Gunner felt himself slipping away. A noise intruded and broke the spell: the click of a door. The blonde man with the horrible tie swam into view and bent over at Quaestor’s side, whispered into his ear. The doctor looked momentarily disconcerted then signalled with his hand. The normal room lights snapped on and the headphones were pulled from Gunner’s head by someone standing behind him. He hadn’t realised anyone was there. He groaned and toppled forward, laying his forehead on the table. “Untie him,” ordered Quaestor. He felt the straps pulled from his arms. “We have visitors. It’s time to go. Mr Vertex and I will lead. You bring him. How many men have we got?” “Me, Quill and five others,” said a voice from over Gunner’s shoulder. He recognised it as that of the bearded man. ‘Who’s Quill?’ he wondered. 'And who's Mr Vertex?' “Make time for us,” Quaestor commanded. The door clicked open again. Someone shouted in the distance. Hands reached under Gunner’s armpits and pulled him up. He opened his eyes. The room was empty except for himself and his guard. “It’s alright,” he told his captor, “I can walk.” The bearded man pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Gunner’s side: “Then do so!” Gunner staggered towards the door and out into the room beyond. His guard stayed close. The door to the corridor was standing wide open. As Gunner approached it, a security man skidded to a halt outside, shouted “Back!” to someone further along the corridor, and then jerked straight up into the air before hitting the ground in an angular heap. He lay twitching. “Needle gun,” muttered Gunner and span on the spot, putting all his weight into his right fist. It caught the bearded man on the point of the chin and he buckled, falling to his knees as if his bones had suddenly turned to rubber. His pistol went clattering across the linoleum. He swayed, blinking rapidly. Gunner shrugged and hit him again. This time he went down, out for the count. Gunner sucked his knuckles and stepped into the corridor. A needle sizzled past his head. He turned and looked at an overall-clad individual standing halfway through the main entrance. “Careful with that thing,” he said, “you nearly hit me.” “Sorry, sir,” came the sheepish response, “I didn’t recognise you.” “I hardly recognise myself at the moment. Give me a sit-rep.” The man stepped in and walked up to Gunner, keeping his needle gun raised and his eyes on the stretch of corridor beyond. He was short and wiry; dark-skinned and tense. “Fifteen of us, sir, plus SD6. CCTV cameras are off. Police and airport security have been decoyed. We surrounded the place; kept out of sight. SD6 did a recon then ordered a full assault, so here we are. All four outer guards were needled. Then I got this chap here—” he nudged the man on the floor with his foot. “The others have entered through side and back doors. There’s SD6 now.” Gunner turned and saw a grubby youth approaching from the far end of the corridor. On either side of him, doors started opening and heads and needle guns poked out as the invading force slowly gathered towards the centre of the building. Shouts of “Clear!” echoed along the hall. The man beside Gunner moved off towards his comrades. The youth arrived and smiled, displaying gnarled teeth. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, “you look like hell.” “Thanks. Who’re you meant to be?” “Stuart Smedley.” “Stupid name. Couldn’t you think of a better one?” “Theodore Thistlethwaite? Bertie Biggleswicke? Timothy Tiddlywink?” Sexton Blake sighed and lowered his face into his hands. He rubbed it vigorously. “I don’t like being Paul Gunner. It feels strange having an old face,” he grumbled, “I wish this stuff would wear off!” “It’ll hurt like blazes when it does, guv’nor. All your facial muscles will cramp up.” “I know, I know. And I’ve been pumped full of narcotics and hypnotised too. My head’s spinning. Who’s in charge of the CI men? Let’s get an update then go home. I want to sleep for a week.” Stuart Smedley, otherwise known as SD6, otherwise known as Edward Carter, otherwise known as Tinker, hooked out his artificial teeth and threw them onto the floor with a grimace. He and Blake always wore disguises when operating with the CI mob — just as a precaution — but sometimes, like right now, it seemed a wasted effort. He called to one of the men from the Craille Institute. Franklin Goodheart extricated himself from the small group further down the corridor and walked over. “All done and dusted,” he reported, “Hallo Blake!” “Coutts!” exclaimed the Baker Street detective, “What on earth are you doing here?” “Oh, just getting my hands dirty for a change.” George Coutts was the descendent of a CID man. He was also CID but in his case the initials stood for ‘Craille Institute — Director’. He was head of an ultra-top secret organisation. It made him one of the most powerful men in the country, though few people knew it. As such, he definitely should not have been ‘out in the field’. His place was behind a desk, pulling strings and manipulating events. “A typical Coutts,” noted Sexton Blake, who had known the family for many years, “Steaming in without thought for the consequences!” “Got to look after my people,” grunted Coutts. “And you.” Blake smiled, grasped the Director’s hand, shook it firmly, and then asked, “So what have we got?” “Five men,” said Coutts. He spotted the bearded man on the floor behind the detective and corrected himself: “Sorry. Six.” “Six?” jerked Blake. “Four guards outside; this one in the corridor; and that one in there.” Blake glared at him. “There’s three more: a young blond thug, an undernourished doctor and an albino!” Coutts frowned. “We’ve searched! No sign!” “Well search again, dammit!” Coutts raced back to his men. Tinker pulled a vicious-looking weapon from his jacket and handed it to Blake. The needle gun held six three-inch long darts which, upon hitting a target would release a 50,000 volt charge, over-riding the victim’s central nervous system with incredible takedown power. It was far more sophisticated than its nearest equivalent, the police tazer, whose darts remained attached to the gun by 15-foot wires. Blake took it and ordered his assistant to start searching for a hidden exit. For the next fifteen minutes each member of the assault team — apart from three who were loading the captives into the minibus which had been driven up and parked outside — scoured every inch of wall and floor space. But it was Sexton Blake who found the trapdoor. It was in Room 2, cunningly obscured by a pile of linoleum cuttings. He called the CI squad together and, lifting the door, led the way down a short flight of steps. He found himself in a maintenance tunnel which ran in a straight line off towards the airport runways. It was lit by regularly spaced red light bulbs. Blake turned to Coutts. “Would you send all but four of your men above ground to find the other end of this tunnel and guard it? Have them look at the plans first. If they find the tunnel joins others, they should split into teams and cover all the exits. I want this escape route locked down.” “Right ho,” snapped Coutts. “Carrington, Jones, Murray, Holland; you’re with SD5 and myself. The rest of you heard the man: get going!” As eight of the CI men moved away, Blake muttered, “You should go with them, Coutts.” “No chance!” replied the Director, in a low growl. “Okay,” sighed Blake, “Bring up the rear, I’ll lead.” They moved into the tunnel, needle guns at the ready. |