jherbert.sepulchre-第1部分

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cattle；　and　above　every　beast　of　the　field；　upon　thy　belly　shalt　thou　go；　and　dust　shall　thou　eat　all　the　days　of　thy　life。'　Genesis　3：14
　　
　　　THE　SUMERIANS
　　
　　Three　thousand　years　before　the　birth　of　Christ；　the　first　real　moves　towards　civilisation　emerged　from　southern　Mesopotamia；　around　the　lower　reaches　of　the　Euphrates　and　Tigris　rivers。　Because　the　land　was　between　two　rivers…Sumer…the　people　there　were　called　Sumerians。
　　Their　ethnic　origins　have　never　been　explained。
　　This　race　of　people　made　three　important　contributions　towards　our　advancement…four　if　you　count　the　establishment　of　firmly　governed　munities。
　　The　first　two　were　these：　The　measurement　of　time　in　hours；　days　and　months；　and　astrology；　the　study　of　the　stars'　influences；　which　eventually　led　to　the　science　of　astronomy。
　　But　the　third　was　most　important　of　all；　for　the　Sumerian　high　priests　discovered　a　way　of　making　man　immortal。　Not　by　eternally　binding　his　spirit　to　its　earthly　shell；　but　by　preserving　his　knowledge。　These　high　priests　devised　the　written　word；　and　nothing　invented　since　has　had　a　greater　effect　on　mankind's　progression。
　　Yet　little　is　known　of　these　people　themselves。
　　By　2400　BC　they　had　been　swallowed　up　by　surrounding；　less　enlightened　tribes；　who　absorbed　the　Sumerian　culture　and　spread　it　to　other　lands；　other　nations。
　　So　although　their　achievements　survived；　the　Sumerians'　early　history　did　not。　For　the　kings；　the　princes；　and　the　high　priests　destroyed　or　hid　all　such　records。
　　Possibly　they　had　good　reason。
　　　
　　　
　　　1　MORNING　DUES
　　
　　The　man　was　smiling。　Halloran　was　smiling　and　he　shouldn't　have　been。
　　He　should　have　been　scared…bowel…loosening　scared。　But　he　didn't　appear　to　be。　He　seemed　。　。　。　he　seemed　almost　amused。　Too　calm　for　a　sane　man。　As　if　the　two　Armalites　and　the　Webley　。38　aimed　at　his　chest　were　of　no　concern　at　all。
　　Well；　that　wisp　of　a　smile　on　his　unshaven　face　would　spirit　itself　away　soon　enough。　This　'eejit's'　reckoning　was　ing；　sure；　and　it　was　a　terrible　unholy　one。
　　McGuillig　waved　his　revolver　towards　the　van　parked　in　the　shadows　of　trees　just　off　the　roadside。
　　'Your　man's　in　there。'　The　harshness　of　his　tone　made　it　clear　he　held　scant　patience　with　Halloran's　manner。
　　'And　your　money's　here；'　Halloran　replied；　nudging　the　bulky　leather　case　on　the　ground　with　his　foot。
　　McGuillig　watched　him　coolly。　When　he'd　spoken　on　the　phone　to　the　operative；　he'd　detected　a　trace　of　Irish　in　Halloran's　voice；　the　merest；　occasional　lilt。　But　no；　he　was　pure　Brit　now；　no　doubt　at　all。
　　'Then　we'll　get　to　it；'　McGuillig　said。
　　As　he　spoke；　rays　from　the　early　morning　sun　broke　through；　shifting　some　of　the　greyness　from　the　hillsides。　The　trees　nearby　dripped　dampness；　and　the　long　grass　stooped　with　fresh…fallen　rain。　But　the　air　was　already　sharp　and　clear；　unlike；　as　McGuiliig　would　have　it；　the　unclean　air　of　the　North。　Free　air。　Uncontaminated　by　Brits　and　Prods。　A　mile　away；　across　the　border；　the　land　was　cancered。　The　Irishman　regarded　the　weapon　he　held　as　the　surgeon's　scalpel。
　　Just　as　McGuillig；　brigade　mander　of　D　pany；　Second　Battalion　of　the　Provisional　IRA；　watched　him；　so　Halloran　returned　his　gaze；　neither　man　moving。
　　Then　Halloran　said：　'Let's　see　our　client　first。'　A　pause　before　McGuillig　nodded　to　one　of　his　panions；　a　youth　who　had　killed　twice　in　the　name　of　Free　Ireland　and　who　was　not　yet　nineteen。　He　balanced　the　butt　of　the　Armalite　against　his　hip；　barrel　threatening　the　very　sky；　and　strolled　to　the　van。　He　had　to　press　hard　on　the　handle　before　the　backdoor　would　open。
　　'Give　him　a　hand；'　McGuillig　said　to　the　other　provo　on　his　left。　'Don't　worry　about　these　two：　they'll　not　be　moving。'　He　thumbed　back　the　Webley's　hammer；　its　click　a　warning　in　the　still　air。
　　All　the　same；　this　second　panion；　older　and　more　easily　frightened　than　his　leader；　kept　his　rifle　pointed　at　the　two　Englishmen　as　he　walked　over　to　the　van。
　　'We　had　to　dose　up　your　man；'　McGuillig　told　Halloran。　'To　keep　him　quietened；　y'understand。　He'll　be　right　as　rain　by　tomorrow。'　Halloran　said　nothing。
　　The　backdoor　was　open　fully　now　and　a　slumped　figure　could　be　seen　inside。　The　older　provo　reluctantly　hung　his　rifle　over　one　shoulder　and　reached　inside　the　van　along　with　the　youth。　They　drew　the　figure　towards　themselves；　lifting　it　out。
　　'Bring　him　over；　lads；　lay　him　on　the　ground　behind　me；'　their　mander　ordered。　To　Halloran：　'I'm　thinking　I'd　like　to　see　that　money。'　Halloran　nodded。　'I'd　like　my　client　examined。'　McGuillig's　tone　was　acmodating。　'That's　reasonable。　e　ahead。'　With　a　casual　flick　of　his　hand；　Halloran　beckoned　the　heavyset　man　who　was　leaning　against　their　rented　car　twenty　yards　away。　The　man　unfolded　his　arms　and　approached。　Not　once　did　Halloran　take　his　eyes　off　the　IRA　leader。
　　The　heavy…set　man　strode　past　Halloran；　then　McGuillig。　He　knelt　beside　the　prone　figure；　the　Irish　youth　crouching　with　him。
　　He　gave　no　indication；　made　no　gesture。
　　'The　money；'　McGuillig　reminded。
　　Halloran　slowly　sank　down；　both　hands　reaching　for　the　leather　case　in　front　of　him。　He　sprung　the　two　clasps。
　　His　man　looked　back　at　him。　No　indication；　no　signal。
　　Halloran　smiled　and　McGuillig　suddenly　realised　that　it　was　he；　himself；　who　was　in　mortal　danger。　When　Halloran　quietly　said…when　he　breathed…'Jesus；　Mary'　he　heard　that　lilt　once　more。
　　Halloran's　hands　were　inside　the　case。
　　When　they　re…appeared　an　instant　later；　they　were　holding　a　snub…nosed　sub…machine　gun。
　　McGuillig　hadn't　even　begun　to　squeeze　the　。38's　trigger　before　the　first　bullet　from　the　Heckler　and　Koch　had　imploded　most　of　his　nose　and　lodged　in　the　back　of　his　skull。　And　the　other　provo　hadn't　even　started　to　rise　before　blood　was　blocking　his　throat　and　gushing　through　the　hole　torn　by　the　second　bullet。　And　the　Irish　youth　was　still　crouching　with　no　further　thoughts　as　the　third　bullet　sped　through　his　head　to　burst　from　his　right　temple。
　　Halloran　switched　the　sub…machine　gun　to　automatic　as　he　rose；　sure　there　were　no　others　lurking　among　the　trees；　but　ever　careful；　chancing　nothing。
　　He　allowed　five　seconds　to　pass　before　relaxing。　His　panion；　who　had　thrown　himself　to　the　ground　the　moment　he　saw　Halloran　smile；　waited　just　a　little　longer。　McGuillig　thought。
　　　
　　　
　　　2　ACHILLES'　SHIELD
　　
　　The　sign　for　Achilles'　Shield　was　as　discreet　as　its　business：　a　brass　plaque　against　rough　brick　mounted　inside　a　doorway；　the　shiny　plate　no　more　than　eight　by　four　inches；　a　small　right…angled　triangle　at　one　end　as　the　pany　logo。　That　logo　represented　the　shield　that　the　Greek　hero　Achilles；　if　he'd　been　wiser；　would　have　worn　over　his　heel；　his　body's　only　vulnerable　part；　when　riding　into　battle。　The　name；　with　its　simple　symbol；　was　the　only　fanciful　thing　about　the　organisation。
　　Situated　east　of　St　Katharine's　Dock；　with　its　opulent　yacht　basin　and　hotel；　the　offices　of　Achilles'　Shield　were　in　one　of　the　many　abandoned　wharfside　warehouses　that　had　been　gutted　and　refurbished　in　a　development　which　had　brought　trendy　shops；　offices　and　'old　style'　pubs　to　lie　incongruously　beneath　the　gothic　shadow　of　Tower　Bridge。　The　pany　plaque　was　difficult　to　locate。　To　spot　it；　you　had　to　know　where　it　was。　To　know；　you　had　to　be　invited。
　　The　two　men　sitting　in　the　third　floor　office…a　large；　capacious　room；　because　space　wasn't　at　a　premium　in　these　converted　warehouses…had　been　invited。　One　of　them　had　been　invited　many　times　over　the　past　six　years。
　　He　was　Alexander　Buchanan；　a　suitably　sturdy　name　for　an　underwriter　whose　firm；　Acorn　Buchanan　Limited；　had　a　'box'　on　the　floor　of　Lloyd's　of　London　and　pany　offices　near　Fenchurch　Street。　Acorn　Buchanan's　speciality　was　K　&　R　insurance。　Kidnap　and　Ransom。
　　The　person　with　him　was　his　client；　Henry　Quinn…Reece；　chief　executive　and　deputy　chairman　of　the　Magma　Corporation　PLC。　He　looked　ill　at　ease；　even　though　the　leather　sofa　on　which　he　sat　was　designed　for　maximum　fort。　Perhaps　he　did　not　enjoy　the　scrutiny　he　was　under。
　　The　scrutineers　were　three；　and　they　were　directors　of　Achilles'　Shield。　None　of　these　men　did　or　said　anything　to　relax　their　prospective　client。　In　fact；　that　was　the　last　thing　they　wanted：　they　liked　their　interviewees　to　be　on　edge；　and　sharper　because　of　it。
　　The　one　behind　the　large　leather…topped　desk；　who　was　in　charge　of　the　meeting；　was　Gerald　Snaith；　Shield's　managing　director；　officially　titled　Controller。　He　was　forty…nine　years　old；　a　former　major　in　the　SAS；　and　had　trained　soldiers；　British　and　foreign；　all　over　the　world。　His　main　service　action　had　been　in　Oman；　his　exploits　largely　unknown　to　the　public　because；　after　all；　that　particular　conflict…or　more　accurately；　the　British　Army's　participation　in　it…had　never　been　recognised　officially。　A　short　man；　and　stocky；　his　hair　a　slow…greying　ginger；　Snaith　looked　every　inch　a　fighting　man　which；　in　truth；　he　still　was。
　　In　a　straight…backed　chair　to　the　side　of　the　Controller's　desk　sat　Charles　Mather　MBE；　a　keen…eyed　man　of　sixty…two　years　（those　keen　eyes　often　held　a　glint　of　inner　amusement　as　though　Mather　found　it　impossible　to　treat　life　too　seriously　all　the　time；　despite　the　grim　nature　of　the　business　he　was　in）。　Introduced　to　clients　as　Shield's　Planner；　or　sometimes　Proposer；　staff　within　the　organisation　preferred　to　call　him　'The　Hatcher'。　He　was　tall；　thin；　and　ramrod；　but　forced　to　use　a　cane　for　walking　because　of　a　severe　leg　wound　received　in　Aden　during　the　latter　stages　of　that　'low　intensity'　campaign。　A　jeep　in　which　he　was　travelling　had　been　blown　off　the　road　by　a　land　mine。　Only　his　fortitude　and　an　already　exemplary　military　career　had　allowed　him　to　return　to　his　beloved　army；　sporting　concealed　sears　and　a　rather　heroic　limp；　unfortunately　a　sniper's　bullet　had　torn　tendons　in　that　same　leg　many　years　later　when　he　had　been　GOC　and　Director　of　Operations　in　Ulster；　hence　the　stick　and　early　retirement　from　the　British　Army。
　　The　only　non…English　name　among　a　very　English　assemblage　was　that　of　Dieter　Stuhr；　a　German…born　and　at　one　time　member　of　the　Bundeskriminalamt；　an　orga