Blood Red City (14 page)

He pulled a plain, spotlessly white handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped first his fingers, and then the bloodied handle of his gun. Then he replaced handkerchief and gun, picked up the briefcase, and walked away.

*   *   *

They had moved Number Seventeen to a desk in the cloister room down near the Vault. Her last picture was an image of a woman's face – her mouth open as if screaming. In extreme close-up.

The nurse supervising lifted the sheet of paper away, numbered it and placed it on the pile. Number Seventeen was already drawing again. Shading black across almost the whole sheet.

She stopped abruptly. The pencil fell from her fingers and clattered down on the stone table before rolling off and falling to the floor. The girl's eyes widened, as if she was seeing the nurse for the first time. Her hands bunched into claws. She gave a hiss of anger, saliva spattering across the paper. Then her eyes rolled upwards until only the whites showed, and she pitched backwards, falling after the pencil.

 

CHAPTER 11

The bed was drenched in sweat, the bottom sheet crumpled and torn. Jane Roylston was awake suddenly – no slow surfacing from the dream, but an abrupt plunge into the real world. Her hand clawed at the ripped sheet, nails shredding the cotton. Her whole body was slick with perspiration.

At some point in the nightmare she had thrown off the covers – sheet, blankets, eiderdown lay in a heap on the floor. She tumbled out of the bed, scrabbling for something to put on. She needed to see Crowley. Had to tell him what she had seen played out in her dreams.

Crowley heard her urgent footsteps as she clattered through the house. He emerged from his bedroom, tying the cord of a paisley-patterned silk dressing gown. Through the open door behind him, Jane could see Edith, one of the newer acolytes. She was sitting up in the bed watching, her mass of red hair tumbling untidily forwards and cascading over her breasts. Crowley pulled the door closed behind him.

‘What is it, Jane?'

‘The cat's dead,' she told him. ‘At least I think it is.'

‘My study,' he ordered, leading the way briskly across the landing.

As they entered the room, Ralph Rutherford appeared, bleary-eyed and hastily dressed. Jane hoped Crowley would send him away, but he followed them into the study and slumped down in one of the chairs.

‘More visions?' he asked.

Crowley ignored him. ‘Tell me what you saw. As much detail as you can recall.'

She sat down, closed her eyes, and let the dream play out again in her memory. She described it as it happened, what she could remember of it. The long gallery. The display cases. The people. The fight. The light outside. Attacking the blonde woman – claws raking her face. Biting, scratching, spitting … And the sudden terrible darkness as the cabinet pitched forwards, falling towards her.

Jane opened her eyes. She was breathing heavily. Sweat prickled down the middle of her back. ‘Will you tell Brinkman?'

‘No,' Rutherford said. ‘There's no need, surely,' he added quickly as Crowley turned to stare at him.

‘And what if he finds out anyway? We don't know who was there, who witnessed these events. Who they will tell.'

‘About a dead cat?'

‘There was a fight,' Jane pointed out. ‘A robbery.'

‘We don't know they got away with it.'

‘An attempted robbery, at least,' she snapped.

Rutherford turned to Crowley. ‘We can't just tell these people everything we know. All the time.'

Crowley sniffed. ‘Why not?'

‘I thought we were after power for ourselves, not to give it away to others.'

‘You think knowledge is the only power?'

‘It's a damned good start.' He got up and went over to the desk, reaching for the whisky decanter.

But Crowley put his hand over it. ‘Do you really have such little understanding of the sort of power that we have? That
I
have?'

Rutherford met his stare, but only for a moment. Then he turned away. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you – I'm leaving,' he said.

For a brief instant Jane was elated.

But Rutherford added: ‘Just for a couple of days. I have some business I need to sort out.'

‘Yes,' Crowley agreed. ‘Take a break, by all means. But come back with a better attitude. A better understanding of yourself and of us.'

Rutherford looked like he was going to say something in reply. But then he changed his mind, and walked quickly from the room.

Crowley stood up and came over to where Jane was sitting. He held out his hand, and she lifted her own to take it. The metal bracelet was heavy and loose on her thin wrist. As she moved her arm, it shifted, a thin trail of blood oozing out from beneath.

‘Interesting,' Crowley murmured. ‘Hold still a moment, my dear.'

He unclipped the bracelet, and it swung open, coming off easily. There was a band of congealed blood round her wrist where it had been attached, droplets of blood still oozing out from the tiny holes drilled into her flesh.

*   *   *

There was time only for hastily exchanged whispers on the gallery before the Gestapo men arrived and took the two spies away. Guy didn't like what was decided, but he could appreciate it was the most pragmatic approach. It might yet save all their lives. Or it might condemn an innocent man to death.

But Kriminaldirektor Fleisch, the senior Gestapo officer at the facility, knew nothing of his prisoners' hasty and desperate plan. He was a lean man, with angular features and dead, grey eyes that he fixed on the three men.

‘Take them to the cells,' he ordered.

‘But I've done nothing wrong,' the monk protested.

‘You collaborated with enemy spies,' Fleisch told him.

‘Because the Abbot asked me to. He said to bring them here and make sure they stayed until you arrived to arrest them. I was helping. Please,' the monk continued, ‘I have to report back to the Abbot. And I am due at prayers in a few minutes.'

‘Prayers?' Fleisch gave a snort of derision. ‘In that case, thank your God that I am a reasonable man.' He nodded to the guards to let the monk go, and turned his attention to the real spies. ‘If either of you believe in a God, then perhaps you should make peace with him now.'

Amused and pleased with this quip, Fleisch stepped back to allow the two spies to be taken away.

He started with the shorter, stockier man. But it was soon apparent that he spoke almost no French at all, and Fleisch wondered how long he had hoped to survive here. One of his men, Helmut Blau, spoke some English, but it was slow work punctuated by punches and kicks to encourage the man to open up.

What they did learn was unedifying. His name was Carlton Smith and he was a History professor from Harvard University. An American, surprisingly. His story that he was interested only in examining the medieval volumes held by the monks in their library for research was plausible. But Fleisch didn't believe it.

Keeping the men in different cells meant he could double-check the story. Fortunately, the second man spoke excellent French – better than Fleisch did in fact. Except he refused to speak at all, even to give his name and tell them he would say nothing more. After a fairly comprehensive beating, the man still remained silent, staring back defiantly through eyes almost hidden in his swollen face.

‘This is just the beginning,' Fleisch assured him. ‘In the morning we shall start in earnest. Heat, cold, electricity, water, knives and shears. I confess, I am rather looking forward to it.'

The man was too weak for his saliva to reach Fleisch. It splashed to the floor, and the Gestapo chief was pleased to see it was red with blood. Soon he'd be spitting out his own teeth.

Fleisch looked in on the woman on his way back to his office. They had brought her in yesterday, suspected of helping the resistance. Maybe she had, maybe she hadn't. On balance, having heard her scream her innocence, Fleisch thought she probably hadn't. But he didn't really care either way. She was manacled to the back wall of the cell, wrists and ankles held outstretched tight in metal clasps. Her clothes were shredded and stained, and her face was streaked with blood. Fleisch nodded with satisfaction as she lifted her head weakly to stare at him, her eyes wide and frightened.

Back at his office, Fleisch was surprised to see the Abbot waiting for him, together with the monk who had been with the spies.

‘They are no longer any concern of yours,' he told them. ‘You did your duty, and the Reich is grateful.' He pushed past them to get to his desk, knocking the two men aside. It was only when he sat down that he realised the mistake he had made.

*   *   *

As soon as Fleisch had dismissed him, the monk had hurried back through the monastery to the Abbot's room. He did not bother to knock, but threw the door open and walked straight in.

The Abbot was kneeling beside his plain wooden bed. He looked round in surprise when the door opened.

‘Praying for forgiveness, Abbot?' Guy Pentecross asked angrily. ‘Because for what you've done, you're going to need it.' He crossed the room and hauled the man to his feet. ‘Prayers can wait. My friend, and your Brother Pierre, need our help.'

‘Please,' the Abbot stammered, ‘I was doing what I thought was best for the monastery.'

‘Well you were wrong, and you're going to help me put it right.'

*   *   *

It had taken Guy almost an hour of constant arguing and cajoling to persuade the Abbot to help. Even then, he refused to allow any of the other monks to be involved and of course there were no weapons in the monastery.

So Guy was pleased he had been able to remove Kriminaldirektor Fleisch's gun from its holster so easily when the man pushed past them to get to his desk. He levelled the Luger at the Gestapo chief.

‘It was a surprise to the Abbot too,' Guy told him. ‘Now, are you going to arrange the release of my friends, or do I need to shoot you as well as our holy friend?'

With luck, Fleisch would believe the Abbot was innocent of any deception and had genuinely tried to help the Gestapo. Well, he'd be half right. Provided the Abbot kept Brother Pierre out of sight for a while, it was unlikely anyone would connect a hooded monk with one of the British spies who had been captured and then escaped …

Like so many cruel and sadistic men, Fleisch was frightened when his own safety was at risk. With his own gun jammed into his ribs, he opened the door of his office and shouted for the two prisoners to be brought in.

‘I've agreed with the Abbot that they can make a final confession,' Fleisch told the men who led in Leo Davenport and then dragged in the barely conscious Pierre. ‘Who knows what they may say as their final words to God?'

If the men were surprised to be dismissed from the room, they were disciplined enough not to show it.

The Abbot's feelings at seeing his brother monk bruised and bleeding were more obvious. Guy gave him a warning look – he couldn't show sympathy. Not yet. He undid the cord round his own robes and handed it to the Abbot.

‘Tell him to take off his uniform, then tie him up.' Guy nodded at Fleisch. ‘In his chair. Then,' he added, making sure Fleisch could hear, ‘you are coming with us as a hostage. Who knows, we might even let you live.'

While the Abbot tied Fleisch to his chair, Davenport did his best to clean up Pierre's wounds. There was a carafe of water on the desk, and he wet his handkerchief to dab at the blood. Pierre winced with each movement.

‘You see the sort of people you're dealing with?' Guy asked quietly when the Abbot had finished.

The Abbot was staring at Pierre's battered face. ‘I … I had no idea.'

‘You didn't want to have any idea.'

Fleisch's uniform just about fitted Guy. So long as no one looked too closely, he reckoned he would get away with it.

‘They will know you are a fraud as soon as you open your mouth,' Fleisch told him defiantly.

‘I doubt it,' Guy told him in perfect German. ‘I am here at the direct instructions of Gruppenfuhrer Muller, Generalleutnant der Polizei. Would you dare to doubt me? Would any of your men?'

Fleisch looked away. Guy took hold of his chin and turned his face back, stuffing his mouth with the bloodstained handkerchief Davenport had used to clean up Pierre.

The monks' robes served to disguise that Leo and Pierre were former prisoners, and cover their wounds. With the hoods raised, they became anonymous. If Pierre was leaning heavily on his fellow monk for support, it was not too obvious. Leo himself seemed remarkably resilient. He admitted that he'd taken a bit of a beating – though nothing like the punishment meted out to Pierre. His apparent willingness to cooperate while actually revealing nothing had paid off. Not for the first time, Guy guessed.

Guy himself did his best to walk tall and proud, not showing how nervous he actually felt. Perhaps he should have changed clothes with Leo – the actor was more than capable of pulling off the role of a major working for the head of the Gestapo. But unfortunately, his German wasn't up to the task.

In the event, they were not questioned as they made their way past the cells and back towards the library. Being the small hours of the morning, there were few people about. Those who were had evidently become conditioned not to speak out of turn. It seemed that Fleisch's cruel grasp on his own people as well as others had done them a favour.

Several of the cells were occupied, pale, haunted faces staring blankly back at them as they passed. Pierre shook his head sadly. The Abbot crossed himself and murmured a blessing. If the prisoners appreciated it, they made no sign.

The last cell contained the woman that Guy and Davenport had seen brought in while they were keeping watch. But she was barely recognisable, manacled to the wall and spattered with her own blood.

The Abbot drew a deep shuddering breath. ‘Madeleine,' he breathed. ‘I remember her baptism.' He turned to Guy, eyes pleading. ‘We have to help her. We can't let those … those animals—' He broke off, unable to continue. In the cell, the girl raised her head slightly at the sound of voices.