Blood Red City (23 page)

Guy and Brinkman had managed to get to the wheelhouse, but it afforded little shelter. What Guy had assumed was a window was an empty space, the glass – if there had ever been any – was long gone.

‘She won't take much more of this,' Dimitry told them. He pointed into the distance, to the slightest break in the cloud. ‘Better weather is coming, though. If we can hold on for just a few more minutes.'

Guy kept his attention fixed on the brighter patch of sky. He tried to ignore the way the ground beneath his feet bucked and reeled. Slowly, the brighter area was widening, spreading towards them.

Just as he began to hope they were through the worst of it, there was another almighty crack of thunder as the sky was simultaneously splashed with lightning. The front of the boat dropped away like they'd sailed off the end of the world. Water poured across the deck. A wave rose up in front of them like a vicious animal about to pounce. Then it crashed down.

The sound of splintering wood was audible even above the noise of the sea. The whine of the engine became a stuttering cough, then stopped. The whole boat lurched suddenly backwards. Guy was hurled out of the wheelhouse, sliding across the slippery wooden deck, scrabbling desperately to catch hold of something fixed. His legs were over the edge by the time he caught hold of a metal stanchion.

He could see Brinkman clinging to the outside of the wheelhouse. Another wave burst through the glass-less window and swept him aside. When the water and spray cleared, Guy was amazed and relieved to see the colonel still holding tight, arms wrapped round the wooden roof support.

More water swept past Guy. Something heavy crashed into him, caught and clawed at him, then was gone. Shocked, he realised it was Dimitry. Guy twisted, staring out into the churning white water below, but there was no sign of the man.

Then they lurched again. Wood shattered and rock tore through the bottom of the hull. The fishing boat twisted on to its side, breaking to pieces on the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.

*   *   *

Somehow, Guy managed to scramble from the stricken boat to the rocks below. They were slick beneath his feet, water up to his thighs. He fought against the pull of the waves, desperately trying to make headway towards the base of the cliffs.

But first he had to find Brinkman. Was the colonel still on the boat? The vessel had almost completely broken up under the onslaught of the sea. Waves tore at it, ripping off planking. The main mast had fractured and was lying across the side of the boat, rolled back and forth as if it was a pencil on a desk.

‘Guy!'

He thought at first it was the sound of the wind. But when he heard his name called again, he managed to locate the source. Brinkman was hanging from the side of the boat, his feet almost in the water. As Guy watched, Brinkman dropped into the boiling sea and disappeared from sight.

A moment later, he surfaced again, and struggled towards Guy – who was now frantically wading towards him. The water was deeper here – up to Guy's chest. He managed to grab Brinkman's outstretched arm and together the two of them half staggered, half swam to the cliff.

There was no beach, no dry land. They had to clamber up the steep side. The rock was firm, but made slippery by the sea spray. They managed to get to a point where there was a ledge wide enough to perch precariously and look down. Saltwater stung their eyes as they watched the boat finally break up. For a few seconds the mast was left dipping in and out of the water. Then it too was swallowed up in the spray and the waves and the deepening twilight.

‘There goes the radio,' Brinkman said. ‘Not to mention our papers and guns.'

‘And Dimitry,' Guy told him.

Brinkman sighed. ‘Really? I'd hoped he was further along these cliffs.'

‘Went overboard. Didn't resurface. He may have survived, but it'd be a miracle.'

‘Then we're on our own.'

‘What about your friend the shepherd?'

Brinkman shook his head. ‘Dimitry knew how to make contact with Mihali. And without the radio we can't ask London for any help finding him.' He glanced up at the cliff rising steeply above them. ‘But we'll worry about that later. For now, we'd better concentrate on getting our breath back – there's some climbing to do.'

The cliff was steep, but there were plenty of hand and foot holds. The rain was easing as the better weather and clearer sky arrived at last. As they got higher, there were tufts of grass and spiky shrubs. They had to be careful, though, as some of them were rooted so shallowly that they just pulled out from the rock face. But others were secure enough to take their weight as Guy and Brinkman hauled themselves ever higher.

Finally, as the last of the light was fading, they reached the top. The cliff became a shallow grassy slope leading upwards. They crested the top, and flopped down on the grass. Guy's rasping breaths became laughs of relief.

But the relief was short-lived.

‘There's someone there,' Brinkman said quietly.

Guy sat up. It was an effort even to keep his eyes open, he was so exhausted. Several dark figures were approaching through the gloom. One of them called out:

‘Who's there? What are you doing?'

Guy understood what the man said perfectly, but there was something odd about his voice. Only when the figures were close enough for him to make out their uniforms and their guns did he realise what was strange.

They were speaking not Greek, but German.

 

CHAPTER 22

The large desk seemed tiny in such a vast space. It took Nachten a long time to cross the room. Long enough for his nerves to pique, which was no doubt the intention.

Himmler had demanded a report as soon as he returned to Wewelsburg. He did not look up as Nachten approached his desk, though he must have heard the man's boots ringing on the stone floor. Another technique for putting people at their unease.

Eventually, the Reichsfuhrer-SS glanced up. He switched on a thin smile that did not reach much further than his thin lips. ‘You have made progress?'

Nachten clicked his heels and gave a formal nod. ‘The research progresses, sir.'

Himmler leaned back, pressing the tips of his fingers together. ‘I am pleased to hear it.'

‘It seems the axe in the United States was indeed stolen. We did wonder if it was a ploy by the Allies to mask the fact that they have it. But the story seems genuine.'

‘And have you traced the others?'

‘Not yet. Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman is following a lead on the second axe, the one linked to the Black Forest.'

‘What lead?'

Nachten shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I'm afraid I do not know. He mentioned to Kruger that he had found a clue to its current whereabouts, and he left here a few days ago. He did not say where he was going.'

Himmler considered. ‘Hoffman is clever and Hoffman is efficient. But he is also a cautious man. He will report as soon as he has something tangible to tell us. And what of your own researches? You suggested that the third axe might be connected to ancient Greek myths.' Himmler leaned forward, his eyes glinting behind his spectacles. ‘But, of course, Greece is a large country.'

‘I am narrowing down the possibilities. I do have a theory…' His voice tailed away. Perhaps Hoffman was wise not giving away how much he had actually discovered.

But Nachten was not to be given the chance to keep his idea to himself. Himmler's smile was still fixed in place. ‘And would you care to elaborate on that theory?'

‘It is, you understand, only a theory. But the axe is important in particular to Minoan society. The Minoans lived in ancient—'

‘Crete. I know.' The smile seemed more genuine now. ‘The birthplace of civilisation, older even than the Greeks. According to Sir Arthur Evans, anyway. Yes … Yes,' Himmler decided. ‘Crete is most certainly a possibility. Perhaps you should go there.'

‘Perhaps, Herr Reichsfuhrer.' As soon as he said it, he realised his mistake. ‘Of course,' he went on quickly. ‘An excellent suggestion. I shall make arrangements immediately.'

As soon as he was out of the huge office, Nachten wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and took a deep breath. So he was going to Crete. Well, he consoled himself, Himmler was probably right, he could continue his researches more easily there than stuck here in the castle. It would be useful to talk to Hoffman before he left, but he had no idea when the man would be back.

There might be some clue in Hoffman's room as to where he had gone, Nachten thought. Of course it was hardly ethical to enter the man's quarters uninvited. But he should leave Hoffman a note, telling him of these latest developments and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible so they could compare their progress.

Hoffman's room was as impersonal and tidy as Nachten had expected. There were several books piled up on the side of a small desk. A notebook and pen. Little else, apart from the soap and towel by the washstand, to suggest the room was even inhabited.

Nachten picked up the pen and opened the notebook, riffling through to find a blank page. There were notes and sketches of the axe-head and its runic symbols. What Nachten could decipher was hardly useful. Mainly questions, but if Hoffman had discovered the answers he had not committed them to paper.

The last used page was a diagram or drawing. A complicated matrix of spiralling lines inside a circular boundary. Nachten turned past it, and wrote a brief note to Hoffman. When he was finished, he tore out the page and placed it prominently in the centre of the desk. Before replacing the notebook, he turned back a page to the circular diagram.

There was something about it that seemed vaguely familiar. He traced his finger along the lines as he thought. ‘Of course,' he murmured as he realised what he was looking at. ‘I was right. It has to be Crete.'

He tore the page from the notebook, folded it carefully, and put it in his jacket pocket.

*   *   *

There was a truck parked on a narrow track at the bottom of the hill. Guy and Brinkman were pushed roughly in front of it, so that the headlights dazzled them.

‘Your papers,' one of the soldiers demanded in German.

Guy and Brinkman both feigned ignorance, shrugging.

‘Papers,' the soldier said again, this time in passable, but accented Greek.

It seemed best for the moment to pretend they just didn't understand what was happening. It looked to Guy as if they'd been spotted on the skyline by a passing patrol – rotten luck that meant their mission was probably over before they'd even begun. If they were lucky they were off to rot in some POW camp for the duration. If not, they were off to rot in a shallow grave.

Confident that their prisoners didn't understand them, the soldiers debated what to do.

‘Just shoot the idiots and be done with it,' one of them suggested.

Guy and Brinkman exchanged glances. Guy tensed, ready to run if he had to. There wasn't much chance either of them would get far, but that was better than just standing and waiting for the bullet.

‘No,' the corporal in charge decided. ‘We'll take them back to headquarters, and let someone else decide what to do. Then at least it's not our fault.'

Resigned to a long, arduous and most likely painful interrogation, Guy and Brinkman followed the mimed instructions to climb into the back of the truck. But before they reached the tailgate, there was a shout from further down the track. The Germans turned, weapons raised, as another figure appeared out of the gloom of the evening.

It was a tall man with wild, dark hair and several days of stubble. He was dressed like Guy and Brinkman in a crudely-stitched sheepskin jacket and shapeless trousers.

‘Thank God you found them,' he exclaimed in Greek. Without further explanation he enfolded first Brinkman and then Guy in an enormous bear-hug.

‘Stand back,' the German who spoke some Greek ordered. ‘These men have no papers. We are taking them to headquarters.'

‘No papers?' the Greek was outraged. ‘Look at them – they're wet through. Half drowned. Who worries about their papers at times like this? But they don't need papers. They're Dimitry's cousins.' His eyes widened in sudden anxiety. ‘But – where is Dimitry? What's happened?'

‘I'm sorry,' Guy said, doing his best to match the man's rural accent. ‘The storm – Dimitry was swept overboard when the boat hit the rocks. We were both lucky to escape with our lives, though of course we lost our papers. We managed to climb the cliff, and then the soldiers found us.'

‘And thank heavens they did.' The Greek grabbed the nearest German's hand and shook it. He hugged another, tears in his eyes. ‘You have saved them. Poor, poor Dimitry. But at least his cousins are safe.'

‘Dimitry the fisherman?' the Greek-speaking soldier asked.

‘Of course.'

‘I didn't know he had cousins.'

‘Everyone has cousins.'

‘We help with the fishing sometimes,' Guy explained.

‘You know Dimitry?' the Greek demanded. ‘Because if you do, perhaps you can tell his wife what has happened? While I get these two into the dry and warm before the rain starts again.'

‘Not me,' the German said quickly. ‘I only knew him by sight. Better that it comes from a friend.' He glanced at Guy. ‘Or a relative.'

The Greek sighed and nodded. ‘I'm sure you are right. Thank you again. I'll make sure they apply for replacement papers as soon as they have recovered from their ordeal.'

The German nodded. ‘See that you do. Or they really will be in trouble.' He turned to Guy and Brinkman. ‘This is your last warning.'

‘Yes,' Guy muttered. ‘Thank you, sir.'

Brinkman made a vaguely appreciative sound.

As the lights of the truck disappeared into the distance, the Greek man started to laugh.

‘You haven't changed a bit,' Brinkman told him. ‘Though your dress sense has improved.'