Necroscope II Wamphyri(Vampyri) - By Brian Lumley Page 0,170

party was scheduled to stop over in Chernovtsy, it had seemed a very good idea not to. Thus, after Theo Dolgikh got into Chernovtsy at about 5.00 A.M. it had taken him a futile and frustrating two hours simply to discover that the men he sought were not there. After another delay while he contacted the Château Bronnitsy, Gerenko had finally suggested that he go on to Kolomyya and try again.

Dolgikh had been flown from Moscow to a military airport in Skala-podolskaya where he'd been required to sign for a KGB Fiat. Now, in the somewhat battered but unobtrusive car, he drove to Kolomyya and arrived there just before 8.00 A.M. Discreetly checking out the hotels, it was a case of third time lucky - and also unlucky. They had put up at the Hotel Carpatii, but they had been up and on their way again by 7.30. He had missed them by half an hour. The proprietor was only able to tell him that before leaving they'd inquired the address of the town's library and museum.

Dolgikh obtained the same address and followed after them. At the museum he found the curator, a bustling, beaming little Russian in thick-lensed spectacles, in the act of opening the place up. Following him inside the old cupolaed building, where their footsteps echoed in musty air, Dolgikh said, 'Might I enquire if you've had three men in to see you this morning? I was supposed to meet them here, but as you see I'm late.'

'They were fortunate to find me working so early,' the other replied. 'And luckier still that I let them in. The museum doesn't really open until 8.30, you see. But since they were obviously in a hurry...' He smiled and shrugged.

'So I've missed them by... how much?' Dolgikh put on a disappointed expression.

The curator shrugged again. 'Oh, ten minutes, maybe. But at least I can tell you where they went.'

'I would be very grateful, Comrade,' Dolgikh told him, following him into his private rooms.

'Comrade?' The curator glanced at him, his eyes bright and seeming to bulge behind the dense glass of his spectacles. 'We don't hear that term too much down here on the border, so to speak. Might I inquire who you are?'

Dolgikh presented his KGB identification and said, 'That makes it official. Now then, I've no more time to waste. So if you'll just tell me what they were looking for and where they went. .

The curator no longer beamed, no longer seemed happy. 'Are they wanted, those men?'

'No, just under observation.'

'A shame. They seemed pleasant enough.'

'One can't be too careful these days,' said Dolgikh. 'What did they want?'

'A location. They sought a place at the foot of the mountains called Moupho Aide Ferenc Yaborov.'

'A mouthful!' Dolgikh commented. 'And you told them where to find it?'

'No,' the other shook his head. 'Only where it used to be - and even then I can't be sure. Look here.' He showed Dolgikh a set of antique maps spread on a table. 'Not accurate, by any means. The oldest is about four hundred and fifty years old. Copies, obviously, not the originals. But if you look there' - he put his finger on one of the maps - 'you'll see Kolomyya. And here - ,

'Ferengi?'

The curator nodded. 'One of the three - English, I believe - seemed to know exactly where to look. When he saw that ancient name on the map, "Ferengi", he grew very excited. And shortly after that they left.'

Dolgikh nodded, studied the old map very carefully. 'It's west of here,' he mused, 'and a little north. Scale?'

'Roughly one centimetre to five kilometres. But as I've said, the accuracy is very suspect.'

'Something less than seventy kilometres, then,' Dolgikh frowned. 'At the foot of the mountains. Do you have a modern map?'

'Oh, yes,' the curator sighed. 'If you'll just come this way...'

Fifteen miles out of Kolomyya a new highway, still under construction, sped north for Ivano-Frankovsk, its tarmac surface making for a smooth ride. Certainly to Krakovitch, Quint and Gulharov the ride was a delightful respite, following in the wake of their bumpy, bruising journey from Bucharest, through Romania and Moldavia. To the west rose the Carpathians, dark, forested and brooding even in the morning sunlight, while to the east the plain fell gently away into grey-green distance and a far, hazy horizon.

Eighteen miles along this road, in the direction of Ivano-Frankovsk, they passed a fork off to the left which inclined upwards directly into misty foothills. Quint asked