The blocky Special Policeman shrugged, lit a stubby brown cigaretteand drew deeply on its cardboard tube. 'Try me anyway,' he said. 'It'scold here but I am warm enough. See, when I go to report to ComradeAndropov - and I am sure I need not remind you of his Politburo status- he will want some answers, which is why I want answers from you. Sowe will stand out here until - ''Zombies!' said Krakovitch abruptly. 'Mummies! Men dead for fourhundred years. You can tell that from their weapons, and - ' For thefirst time he heard the insistent ringing of the telephone, turnedtowards the door in the corrugated iron facade of the covered courtyard.'Where are you going?' The KGB man came alive, took his hands outof his pockets. 'Do you expect me to tell Yuri Andropov that the - themayhem - here was done by dead men?' He almost choked on the last twowords, coughed long and loud, finally spat on the snow.'Stand there long enough,' Krakovitch said over his shoulder, 'inthose exhaust fumes, smoking that shredded rope, and you might as wellclimb in the truck with them!' He stepped through the door, let it slamshut behind him.'Zombies?' The agent wrinkled his nose, looked again at thetruckload of cadavers. He couldn't know it but they were CrimeanTartars, butchered en masse in I579 by Russian reinforcements hasteningto a ravaged Moscow. They had died and gone down in blood and mire andbog, to lie part-preserved in the peat of a low-lying field - and tocome up again two nights ago to wage war on the Chateau! They had wonthat war, the Tartars and their young English leader, Harry Keogh, forafter the fighting only five of the Chateau's defenders still lived.Krakovitch was one of them. Five out of thirty-three, and the onlyenemy casualty Harry Keogh himself. Amazing odds, unless one countedthe Tartars. But one could hardly count them, for they had been deadbefore it started...These were Krakovitch's thoughts as he entered what long ago hadbeen a cobbled courtyard - now a large area of plastic-tiled floor,partitioned into airy conservatories, small apartments and laboratories- where E-Branch operatives had studied and practised their esoterictalents in comparative comfort, or whatever condition or environmentbest suited their work. Forty-eight hours ago the place had beenimmaculate; now it was a shambles, where bullet-holes patterned thepartition walls and the effects of blast and fire could be seen onevery hand. It was a wonder the place hadn't been burned to the ground,completely gutted.In a mainly cleared area - the so-called Investigation Control Room- a table had been erected and supported the ringing telephone.Krakovitch made his way towards it, pausing to drag aside a large pieceof utility wall which partly blocked his path. Underneath, lying half-buried in crumbled plaster, broken glass and the crushed remains of awooden chair, a human arm and hand lay like a huge grey salted slug.Its flesh was shrivelled, the colour of leather, and the bone where itprojected in a knob at the shoulder was shiny white. It was almost afossil. There'd be many more fragments such as this yet to bediscovered, scattered throughout the Chateau, but apart from theirrepulsive looks they'd be harmless - now. Not so on the night of thehorror. Krakovitch had seen portions like this one, without heads orbrains to guide them, crawling, fighting, killing!He shuddered, moved the arm aside with his foot, went to thetelephone. 'Hello, Krakovitch?''Who?' the unknown caller snapped back. 'Krakovitch? Are you incharge there?' It was a female voice, very efficient.