The Descent

'Even  if  we  had  the  green  light,  it's  probably  too  late,'  January  said.  'They  have  a two-month head start.  And since their departure,  we've  heard nothing from them.  We have  no  idea  where  they  are  exactly.  Helios  isn't  sharing  any  information.  I'm  sick with  worry.  They  could  be  in  great  danger.  They  could  be  walking  into  a  nation  of hadals.'

This led them to a discussion  of  where  the  hadals  might  be  hiding,  how  many  might still  be  alive,  what  their  threat  really  was.  In  Desmond  Lynch's  opinion,  the  hadal population  was  sparse  and  scattered  and  probably  in  a  third  or  fourth  generation  of die-off. He estimated  their  worldwide  numbers  at  no  more  than  a  hundred  thousand.

'They're  an endangered species,' he declared.

'Maybe  the population's retreated,'  Mustafah, the Egyptian, ventured.

'Retreated?  To where?  Where is there  to go?'

'I  don't  know.  Deeper,  perhaps?  Is  that  possible?  How  deep  does  the  underworld go?'

'I've  been  thinking,'  said  Thomas.  'What  if  their  aim  was  to  come  out  from  the underworld? To make their place in the light?'

'You think  Satan's  looking  for  an  invitation?'  Mustafah  asked.  'I  can't  think  of  many neighborhoods that would welcome such a family.'

'It  would  need  to  be  a  place  no  one  else  wants,  or  a  place  no  one  dares  to  go.  A

desert,  perhaps. A jungle. Real estate  with a negative  value.'

'Thomas and I have  been talking,' Lynch said. 'After  a certain point, where  else can a fugitive hide, except  in plain sight? And there  may  be evidence he's up to just that.' Branch was listening carefully.

'We've  learned  of  a  Karen  warlord  in  the  south  of  Burma,  close  to  Khmer  Rouge country,'  Lynch  said.  'It's  said  he  was  visited  by  the  devil.  He  may  have  spoken  with our elusive Satan.'

'The  rumors  may  be  nothing  more  than  a  forest  legend,'  Thomas  qualified.  'But there's  also a chance that Satan is attempting to find a new sanctuary.'

'If  it's  true,  it  would  almost  be  wonderful,'  said  Mustafah.  'Satan  bringing  his  tribes out from the depths, like Moses leading his people into Israel.'

'But how can we learn more?' said January.

'As  you  might  imagine,  the  warlord  will  never  come  out  of  his  jungle  for  us  to interview,' said Thomas. 'And  there  are  no  cable  links,  no  phone  lines.  The  region  has been  gutted  by  atrocity  and  famine.  It's  one  of  those  genocide  zones,  apocalyptic. Supposedly this warlord has turned the clock back to Year  Zero.'

'Then his information is lost to us.'

'Actually,' Lynch said, 'I've  decided to go into the jungle.'

January and Mustafah and Rau  reacted  with  one  voice.  'But  you  mustn't.  Desmond, it's much too dangerous.'

If discovery  was part  of  Lynch's  goal,  the  adventure  was  another.  'My  mind's  made up,' he said, relishing their concern.

They  were  standing  in  a  virtual  cage,  with  a  massive  steel  door  and  gleaming  bars. Farther  in,  Thomas  could  make  out  walls  of  safe  deposit  boxes  and  more  doors  with complex lock mechanisms. Their  discussion went on as they  waited.

The  scholars  began  presenting  evidence.  'He  would  be  like  Kublai  Khan  or  Attila,' Mustafah   stated.   'Or   a   warrior   king   like   Richard   the   First,   summoning   all   of Christendom   to   march   upon   the   infidel.   A   character   of   immense   ambition.   An Alexander  or a Mao or a Caesar.'

'I disagree,' said Lynch. 'Why a great  warrior  emperor?  What  we're  seeing  is  almost exclusively  defensive  and  guerrilla.  I'd  say,  at  best,  our  Satan  is  someone  more  like Geronimo than Mao.'

'More  like  Lon  Chancy  than  Geronimo,  I  should  say,'  a  voice  spoke.  'A  character capable of many disguises.' It  was de l'Orme.

Unlike the others, de l'Orme had not been restored  by  his months of detective  work. The  cancer  was  a  flame  in  him,  licking  the  flesh  and  bone  away.  The  left  side  of  his face  was  practically  melting,  the  eye   socket   sinking  behind  his  dark   glasses.   He belonged in a hospital bed. Yet  because  he  looked  so  weak  beside  these  marble  pillars and metal bars, he seemed  that much stronger, a one-lung, one-kidney  Samson.

At  his  side  stood  Bud  Parsifal  and  two  Dominican  friars,  along  with  five  carabinieri carrying rifles and machine guns. 'This way,  please,'  said  Parsifal.  'We  have  little  time. Our opportunity with the image lasts only an hour.'

The  two  Dominicans  began  whispering  with  great  concern,  obviously  about  Branch. One  of  the  carabinieri  set  his  rifle  to  the  side  and  unlocked  a  door  made  of  bars.  As the  group  passed  through,  a  Dominican  said  something  to  the  carabinieri,  and  they blocked  Branch's  entrance.  He  stood  before  them,  a  virtual  ogre  dressed  in  a  worn sports jacket.