Blood Red City (33 page)

‘Besides,' Brinkman told him, ‘I gather they're suspending convoys now until probably December. And I agree with you – time is of the essence.'

The simpler option, if it could be arranged, was to fly to Moscow.

‘The Prime Minister managed, on an American bomber,' Davenport pointed out.

‘You are not the Prime Minister,' Brinkman told him.

‘Hmmm, but are you sure?' Davenport asked in a passable Churchillian voice.

Brinkman stifled a smile. The last thing Davenport needed was any encouragement. It was with reluctance that Brinkman had agreed that Guy should go to Stalingrad. He was even less persuaded that Davenport should accompany him. But it was hard to argue with Leo, who contended that if anything happened to Guy he was the only one that Hoffman knew and would trust.

‘But you don't speak Russian,' Brinkman had told him, exasperated.

‘I didn't speak German but you sent me to Wewelsburg. And anyway, Hoffman speaks pretty good English.'

So it was decided. Brinkman would do his utmost to arrange air transport for Guy and Leo to Moscow, and from there they would make their way to Stalingrad.

‘And hope the Germans haven't completely overrun the place by the time you get there,' Brinkman said. ‘Ismay won't agree to send a plane just for you, so let's hope there's a delegation going anyway and you can hitch a ride.'

‘I'll get on to Chivers at the Foreign Office,' Guy said.

‘He the chap you used to work for?' Leo asked.

‘That's right. He may have some diplomatic contacts out in Moscow who can help us travel on from there.'

‘I should think he'll have something to say about being asked for directions from Moscow to Stalingrad,' Leo said with a smile.

Guy laughed. ‘I expect he will. But it'll be what he always says: “Rather you than me”.'

It turned out there was a flight in a few days that they could get on. After the meticulous and frustratingly slow research of previous weeks everything was now happening very fast, Guy thought. He would have liked to spend more time with Sarah before he left, but she was preoccupied with Jane Roylston.

‘It's like she's sort of gone into her shell,' Sarah told him over a quick drink after they left the Station Z offices the evening before his flight to Moscow. ‘I don't like to leave her on her own for too long. God knows what those monsters did to her. She hardly speaks. Never smiles.' Sarah reached across the table to put her hand against Guy's cheek. ‘I'd like to spend more time with you, really I would.'

He put his hand over hers. ‘It's all right. I understand. I hope I shan't be gone long.'

‘Come back safe.'

He smiled. ‘With Leo looking after me, what can possibly go wrong?'

They kissed long and hard outside the pub, ignoring the looks of passers-by. Then they walked hand in hand to the nearest tube, and went their separate ways, not knowing when or if they'd meet again.

*   *   *

In fact, they met again the next morning, much to Guy's surprise. He had agreed to meet Leo not at the offices but at the British Museum. Elizabeth Archer was already at her desk. And sitting beside her was Sarah.

‘Come to see us off?' Guy asked.

‘Not exactly.' She glanced at Elizabeth, who stifled a smile. ‘I'm coming with you.'

Guy couldn't disguise his surprise. ‘To Stalingrad?'

‘Just as far as Moscow.'

‘But – why? Not that I'm unhappy about it,' he added quickly.

‘Blame Elizabeth.'

‘I had a word with Colonel Brinkman,' Elizabeth confessed. ‘Did you know that the Kremlin has a hidden Archive, rather like this one though on a much smaller scale. Well,' she added, ‘I suppose you wouldn't, as very few people do. But I was lucky enough to visit it once, long ago…' Her voice tailed off and she stared into the distance through watery eyes.

‘Elizabeth thinks they might have some information about the Vril that could be useful,' Sarah said.

‘The problem is, I don't know if Vasilov is still the curator. It was a long time ago.'

‘You're still here,' Guy pointed out.

‘True enough.'

‘So my job is to try to find Vasilov and persuade him to show me anything they have on the Vril.' Sarah picked up an envelope from the desk. ‘Elizabeth's written me a letter of introduction.'

‘Even so, you'll have to be careful,' Elizabeth warned. ‘Trust no one except Vasilov. Since Stalin's rise to power, most of the old guard have been removed. Executed. Knowledge about the Archive was severely restricted even before Stalin arrived. Now…'

‘I get the idea,' Sarah said.

‘I'm afraid you may have a wasted journey.'

‘We won't know unless we try, though,' Guy pointed out. ‘What sort of thing is Sarah looking for?'

‘Oh, Elizabeth's given me all sorts of clues and pointers,' Sarah said. ‘But I'd better get home and pack. I didn't know I was going anywhere until Brinkman called me in this morning and sent me over here.'

‘I assume you can write in Russian as well as speak it?' Elizabeth said to Guy.

‘I'm not sure I do it quite as well, but passably.'

‘Good, then you can make yourself useful and address Sarah's envelope.'

She handed Guy a pen, and Sarah gave him the blank envelope.

‘What do you want me to put?'

‘Address it to the Senior Archivist of the Kremlin Library.'

Guy did as he was told. ‘But the letter inside, I assume, is in English.'

‘Vasilov can speak and read English,' Elizabeth told them. ‘And if the letter doesn't go to Vasilov, then it probably doesn't matter if it can't be read.'

Guy blew on the ink to make sure it was dry, then handed the envelope back to Sarah.

‘Make sure she's safe,' Elizabeth said to Guy when Sarah had gone. ‘It may not be as straightforward as she seems to think.'

‘I'll look after her,' Guy promised.

‘And yourself too.'

Their eyes met for a moment, and just for a second Guy could imagine her as a young woman – perhaps the same age as Sarah. Then she returned her attention to the ancient manuscript laid out on her desk. It seemed to be written in a language consisting entirely of interconnected lines and a few dots. It looked like a cross between Chinese and a child's scribbles. At the side of the desk rested the stone axe-head. She seemed to be using it as a paperweight to hold down a pile of meticulous sketches of the artefact and the symbols carved into it.

‘Ancient Morse code?' Guy suggested.

‘Linear A,' she said without looking up. ‘It's an ancient language only found on Crete.'

‘Ancient?'

‘Prior to 1500
BC
.'

‘So when were you in Russia?' he asked.

‘Oh, a long time ago. Before all that nasty revolutionary business.'

‘And you think this Vasilov might still be there?

‘I hope so.' She leaned back. ‘He was a good man. Extremely learned and well read. Clever, good at his job. It would be sensible to keep him in charge as long as possible. But,' she went on, ‘there's precious little sense in what has happened in Russia. So who knows? We can but hope.'

Leo Davenport joined them a few minutes later. ‘You got my souvenir ready?' he asked.

‘I thought a souvenir was something you brought back from a trip,' Guy said.

‘Pedant,' Leo accused.

‘I've got it here,' Elizabeth said, opening a drawer in her desk. She brought out a heavy metal bracelet and handed it to Davenport.

‘You're never going to put that on?' Guy said. He knew these bracelets could fix themselves to a wrist, burrowing into the flesh.

‘It's all right,' Elizabeth said. ‘That's the one you recovered from the Vril base in North Africa. It's useless, inert. Just for show.'

‘Which is why I want it, of course,' Davenport said, snapping it closed on his wrist. He held his hand up. ‘Rather fetching, don't you think?'

‘Very,' Guy said. ‘But why bother?'

‘It just struck me that we don't know what we'll find in Russia. But run into an Ubermensch, and this might just convince it I'm on its side. At least for a while. Call it insurance.'

Guy nodded. That made sense. ‘Just so long as I'm covered as well.'

‘I'd offer to help,' Leo said, looking over the papers spread out across Elizabeth's desk, ‘but sadly we have to be going.'

‘That's all right. Penelope Manners said she'd spend the afternoon here with me. She's a bit more tidy and a lot more responsible than you are, Leo.'

‘And rather more clued up about all things pertaining to the occult,' Leo agreed.

‘Why not ask her if her friend Jane can help too?' Guy said. ‘Sarah says the woman's at a loose end, a bit withdrawn. Doing something useful might help.'

Elizabeth nodded. ‘I'll suggest it. Now be on your way, you two. I don't want you missing your plane and blaming me.'

*   *   *

‘You're sure you'll be OK?' Sarah asked, pulling on her coat. She had to hurry to make it to the plane.

‘I'll be fine. I'm feeling a lot better,' Jane told her. ‘Really I am. Tell Penelope I'm looking forward to seeing her this evening.'

With Sarah away, Miss Manners had asked Jane to join her for supper.

‘Make yourself at home while I'm away. You're welcome to whatever food you can find, but I'm afraid there's precious little. And I've no idea when I'll be back.'

‘I'll manage,' Jane promised. ‘And thank you.'

Jane watched the door close behind Sarah. Her left hand went unconsciously to her right upper arm, just above the elbow. She could feel the heavy bracelet through the material of her jacket, hidden beneath the sleeve. She waited for several minutes, then she started in Sarah's bedroom.

She emptied each drawer carefully, replacing the contents exactly as they had been once she had looked through them. Once she had searched the drawer thoroughly for any clue as to how much Sarah and her colleagues knew about the Vril, or where the axe-head might be.

*   *   *

Hoffman had long since lost track of time. But it was the evening of 6 September when it found him.

He was working his way through a maze of buildings. They were little more than burned-out shells. The upper floors had collapsed into the basements, leaving the remains of joists and beams like broken ribs above him. There was machine-gun fire from somewhere nearby, the solid crump of explosions from further off.

The axe-head was heavy in his coat pocket as he moved through the buildings – a constant reminder of who he was. He had found no trace of Alina, but she was still uppermost in his thoughts as he searched through the city. Soon he would head for the square and see if the Englishman had arrived yet. It would take him time to get here – if he ever came. But perhaps, just
perhaps
it might be today.

He didn't tire easily, but he stopped to get his bearings, staring out through a shattered hole that used to be a doorway, working out the best route to the Square of Fallen Heroes. He heard they'd renamed it Red Square. He hoped that wasn't true. The fallen heroes of Russia deserved better than that.

A moment longer and he would have been too late. But he turned just as the darkness leaped at him. A black shape coalesced out of the shadows, leaping towards him. Gnarled limbs extended, claws snapping at their ends. A single eye staring hungrily at him. If Hoffman could die, then this was what could kill him. It knew what he was, and what he had.

He lashed out with his arm, out of pure instinct. The sharp spikes down the creature's leg ripped through the sleeve of his heavy coat, but his fist connected with its bloated body and knocked it aside. It landed amongst the dust and rubble, squatting, pulsing, staring back at him, tensing on its limbs ready to leap at him again.

Hoffman grabbed a length of broken, charred wood, maybe a broken floorboard, dragging it out of the rubble. The creature was on him before he could swing it, clamped to his shoulder, its eye staring into his own. A cold, twisted leg clawed and tore at the small rucksack on his back. He dropped the length of wood and dug his fingers into the creature's body, feeling it squelch and squirm as he struggled to tear it away.

It shrieked and squealed as he somehow managed to break its grip. He heard his coat tearing, felt the burning of it lacerating his flesh as he finally dragged the creature off his shoulder and hurled it away.

The creature smacked wetly to the ground, rolling and skidding, legs flexing and skittering as it righted itself. But before it could come at him again, Hoffman had grabbed the wooden strut and slammed it down, sharp end first, like a stake into a vampire's heart.

Its whole body seemed to compress. Then the wood pierced the bulbous, gelatinous flesh, rupturing the creature's body. Dark, viscous liquid squirted out. It shrieked louder, legs drumming desperately on the ground. The eye stared up angrily at Hoffman. As he watched, it clouded over, becoming as dark as the deflated body. The legs stuttered to a halt.

He pulled out the makeshift stake. The creature spasmed once, then seemed to contract, the legs drawn in, curling up like the husk of a dead spider.

Hoffman kicked it out of sight, into a gap in the rubble, tossing the wooden strut after it. He stood for a moment, catching his breath. Then he crouched down and shrugged off the rucksack. He took out the teacup and the pieces of paper, looking for a flat area to spread them out. It was close enough to the right time and this was as good a place as any.

The girl watched from the other side of the building. He saw her as he laid out the paper, weighing each piece down with a stone to stop it blowing away. She realised he had seen her, but she didn't run.

‘You can help me if you like,' he called.