Blood Red City (18 page)

‘And did Hess appreciate speaking to him?'

‘Hard to tell. He'd read some of Wells's books, which was a help. They discussed colonialism as much as anything. Hess believes, if what he says is true, that the Vril are essentially imperialists.'

‘That all makes sense,' Sarah said. ‘In fact it's pretty much what we'd concluded already. But did he give any reason why they have been here for so long?'

Brinkman shook his head. ‘I had Wells suggest to him Elizabeth Archer's theory that they have been waiting for civilisation to reach a stage where it's useful to them. But Hess didn't seem to have any thoughts on that. He sees the Vril as creatures of darkness, lurking underground, and interested in causing death and destruction for its own sake. Conquest as a means in itself.'

‘Maybe it's not the Vril he's describing there,' Sarah said.

Brinkman nodded. ‘That's what I thought. Guilt and regret can take many forms.'

‘So we've learned nothing new, really, have we?' She shook her head, disappointed.

‘It was a good idea,' Brinkman told her. ‘And to be honest, the relevance and value of what we have discovered may not become apparent for a while. Maybe we've gleaned some nugget of information that will be important later. We'll just have to see. And Mr Wells himself may yet come up with some useful insights.'

*   *   *

The instructions were precise, and imprinted indelibly on Ralph Rutherford's memory. He found the house easily enough, in a leafy suburb that seemed largely unaffected by the bombing. Exactly seven o'clock, the instructions had said. He waited in the street, smoking to calm his nerves.

He was excited as well as nervous. Finally, he was doing something. He was making decisions that were not dictated by others – by Crowley. He wouldn't tell the Germans much, he decided. Just enough to get well paid for his services. To get enough money to be able to do what he liked. Maybe he'd buy a house like this one. Maybe he'd take over from Crowley – the man was old, he couldn't go on for ever.

There had been a time when Rutherford believed Crowley saw him as his successor. But increasingly he felt side-lined and insulted. And now that Crowley was pandering to MI5 or whoever they were …

He checked his watch, and made his way up the drive. The revolver was a reassuring weight in his jacket pocket. There were four doorbell buttons beside the door. Each had a name against it, apart from the top button. That was the one he pressed. Two short presses and one long one. He listened, but could hear no response from inside the house.

After what seemed an age, the door was opened by a young woman wearing a dressing gown. Her auburn hair was a mess and there were dark rings under her eyes. She looked at Rutherford warily.

‘I don't know you,' she said.

‘I don't know you either,' he told her.

She started to close the door.

‘No, wait! I'm here to see…' For a moment, the name escaped him.

The door paused. ‘Here to see who?'

‘Lucy.' Yes, that was it. ‘Lucy White.'

The door swung open again. ‘Then you'd better come in. Top floor, second door on the left. Knock the same way as you rang the bell.'

The woman disappeared down the hallway, leaving Rutherford to make his own way up the stairs. There were four floors, the top being almost an attic. The carpet was threadbare, and the walls a plain white that was fading to a dull ivory colour. Rutherford knocked on the second door on the left as she had said – two knocks, a pause, then another.

‘It's open,' a woman's voice called.

It was like entering another world. Soft carpet under Rutherford's feet, and deep red wallpaper patterned with black swirls. Matching velvet curtains were drawn although it wasn't yet dark outside. The light came from a central chandelier and several lamps on tables round the walls. The room was dominated by a large bed. Rutherford saw that there was another door on the other side of it.

The woman was lying on the bed. She glanced at Rutherford, then put down the book she had been reading. ‘You looking for me?' Her voice was soft as the carpet.

‘I am looking for Magda,' he replied, just as the instructions had said.

‘Then you've found her.'

Magda, or Lucy, or whatever her name really was, sat up and swung her feet off the bed. She went over to a side table and helped herself to a cigarette from a wooden box. She didn't offer Rutherford one, but lit it and stood regarding him with dispassionate interest.

His own interest was anything but dispassionate. Magda had flame-red hair curling over her shoulders, and dark, smouldering eyes. She was wearing a red satin corset, black silk stockings, and very little else.

‘Well, at least you're punctual,' she said. ‘Our mutual friends said you'd be dropping by. So, what can you do for me?'

 

CHAPTER 15

Despite her attire, or lack of it, Magda evidently took her business seriously. All aspects of it, Rutherford suspected. He realised she had stopped speaking. She had been explaining how to write a hidden letter in invisible ink between the lines of a real letter. How she would pass the letter on, and give him instructions written in the same way.

But now she was silent – watching Rutherford watching her. He had been staring. It was hard not to. She was sitting at the small desk, facing him as he stood watching.

‘Eye contact,' she said, ‘is usually made above the neck.'

‘Sorry.' Rutherford was used to seeing women literally in the flesh. But something about her unnerved him. Her easy confidence and business-like manner, perhaps.

‘Business before pleasure.' She leaned back in the chair, running her hands down the front of the corset. ‘If you're a good studier, perhaps I'll teach you some other tricks. But afterwards.'

Then she was straight back to explaining how Rutherford should contact her in an emergency. She spent several minutes cross-questioning him on what she had covered. He made an effort to concentrate. After that she wanted to know why he was working for the Germans. It seemed easiest to say it was for money.

‘There's just one other thing you need to know,' she said at last, standing up. She stood in front of him, looking him up and down in much the same way he had examined her. ‘Yes, I think you'll do nicely. If it's money you're after, then we can help you there.'

‘You and the Nazis?' He meant it as a joke. But his mouth was dry and it came out more as a flat statement.

Magda gave a short laugh. ‘I don't work for the Nazis,' she said.

She must mean she worked for money too, Rutherford thought as he watched her cross to the door beside the bed. The view of her from behind was as impressive as from the front. A deep warmth stirred inside him.

And froze to an icy chill as she opened the door and a man stepped into the room.

A man he recognised, though he didn't remember his name – if he had ever known it. A round, freckled face that looked younger than the thinning red hair above it.

‘You!' Rutherford gasped. ‘But – you were with Brinkman.'

The man stared back at him. ‘I'm as surprised as you are,' he admitted. ‘Magda told me she had a new client. I never expected “Thor” to be you, Mr Rutherford.'

‘You're a German spy?' Rutherford said. It seemed incredible. But his surge in confidence in the reach of the Reich was dashed by the answer.

‘Oh, please,' the man said. ‘I'm here to persuade you to work for us. To feed back what we ask to your German masters, and to answer their questions exactly as we want you to.'

‘They pay well,' Magda said. She was leaning back against the wall, smoking again.

Rutherford's mind was in a whirl. ‘But – they'll know. If I lie to them, the real German spies…'

The red-haired man was shaking his head sadly.

Magda pushed herself away from the wall and blew out a stream of smoke. ‘I'm the only German spy you'll meet,' she told him.

‘Give it some thought,' the man said. ‘It's either a generous salary or it's execution. I can't imagine it's that difficult a choice.'

Rutherford's head was throbbing. It felt like it was about to explode. He needed to think. What if he didn't agree? But if he did, then what if the Germans found out? What if
Crowley
found out? He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold metal of the gun he'd brought.

‘So what do you think?' the man was saying through the fog that filled his mind. ‘Obviously you'll have to come with me while you decide.'

But Rutherford wasn't going anywhere with this man. If he did, he might never see the light of day again. He pulled the revolver out of his pocket. It snagged on the way out, and he had to disentangle it. But despite the fumble, the man looked surprised as Rutherford aimed at him.

‘There's no way out for you,' the man said. ‘Except to work for us.'

Magda moved away from the man, putting distance between them so that it was hard for Rutherford to cover them both with the gun. There was a hardness in her eyes now as she watched him. No one else knew he was here, Rutherford thought. He could shoot them both and just walk out.

Except – there was the woman downstairs who had let him in. Probably others too. They would hear the shot. And he didn't know if the man was alone. He backed away to the door, moving the gun from Magda to the man and back again.

‘Don't try to follow me,' Rutherford ordered as he reached the door. Then he spun round and pulled open the door.

He slammed it shut behind him. There was no way to lock it, so he ran – clattering down the stairs, stuffing the gun back into his pocket. Hoping no one would see him or try to stop him.

Outside, he gulped in huge lungfuls of fresh air before hurrying off down the drive. A quick glance down the street assured Rutherford it was deserted before he set off back the way he had come.

Behind him, a dark shape detached itself from the shadow of a driveway. A man in a raincoat, with his hat pulled down low over the eyes, followed Ralph Rutherford.

*   *   *

David Alban closed the curtains again.

‘Thompson's following him.'

Magda stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the desk. ‘What if Thompson loses him?'

Alban smiled. ‘He's good. And I doubt Rutherford is capable of losing an elephant in a maze. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I know where he's heading.'

Magda walked over to Alban, standing so close her body brushed against his. ‘Then I assume you're in no hurry to get after him.'

She turned round so that he could undo the laces down the back of the corset.

‘I suppose not,' he said.

*   *   *

The ‘Twenty Committee' took its name from the Roman number – XX. Double cross. Closely affiliated with MI5, it was the group responsible for running all the German agents in Britain – identifying them, interrogating them, then imprisoning or executing or ‘turning' them. To say it was an efficient operation was an understatement. During the course of the war, the only German spy to elude them did so by committing suicide. Despite what the Abwehr and other German intelligence organisations believed, there was not a single spy in Britain who wasn't actually working for the British and sending back a stream of disinformation. Many of the spies the Germans thought they had in play didn't exist at all.

As soon as he knew for sure where Rutherford was headed, Alban phoned the head of the Twenty Committee to report events. John Masterman listened carefully, as he always did, before asking Alban for his own recommendations.

‘The only information Rutherford can provide to us concerns Crowley's activities,' Alban said. ‘And Crowley, so far as we can tell, is cooperating anyway. I don't trust him, but I doubt Rutherford knows any more about what he's up to than we do.'

‘Any value in turning him?' Masterman asked.

‘Not a lot to be honest, sir. From what he told Magda, the Germans didn't seem terribly interested in what he had to offer, and as I say he has rather a limited field of operation. It just wouldn't be credible if he suddenly stumbled across the sort of information we'd really like to pass on. And we're not exactly short of other German agents.'

Masterman's chuckle echoed in the receiver against Alban's ear. ‘Normally, I suppose we'd send him to Camp 020 for interrogation, find out all about him. But as he's British, we probably know all we need to already. And from what you say he's a pretty volatile character. We certainly can't have him wandering about knowing that you and Magda are involved in counter espionage.' There was a hint of rebuke in his voice as he added: ‘It's a shame he got away from you.'

‘I know where he is, sir. I can have him dealt with by a third party with no comebacks to us.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Positive.'

Masterman sighed. ‘Well, there's no need to involve the whole committee for something as relatively insignificant as this. I'll mention it at next week's meeting. Since this Rutherford fellow's not left us a lot of leeway, I'll leave it with you.'

As soon as he had hung up, Alban redialled. The phone at the other end rang for a while before it was answered.

‘Mr Crowley? You may remember me – my name is Alban, and I work with Colonel Brinkman. I have a small problem which I think, when I explain what's on my mind, you'll be happy to help with.'

*   *   *

There was no sound from inside the study. Rutherford listened at the door for as long as he dared. There was no sign of light from under the door, but that didn't mean the room was empty. He had to be fast – MI5 would be after him, and Crowley might return at any moment. His only way out of the situation was to find something he could use to bargain with.

He was angry – with himself for getting into this mess, but mostly with Crowley and even more with Jane Roylston. It was her fault, the bitch – talking to the Manners woman, poisoning Crowley against him. If there was time, he'd find her before he left. But time was something he was short of.