Blood Red City (38 page)

Dark shapes approached out of the night. Davenport brought up his gun, then sighed with relief as he saw it was Hoffman and Guy coming back. He knelt down beside the girl.

‘Are you all right? He shot you – let's see how bad the wound is.'

With any luck, the shot had gone right through, leaving only a flesh wound. Once the adrenalin wore off, she'd feel the pain. He didn't envy her that.

Gently, Davenport turned her so that what light there was illuminated the shoulder where she'd been hit. He could see the ragged hole torn in her clothes, the skin exposed beneath. And the orange tendrils flickering out of the wound as they repaired the damage.

‘Good God,' he murmured. He turned to call out to Guy and Hoffman.

Just as the girl grabbed his legs, pulling them away from beneath him. Her hands curled into claws, stabbing towards Davenport's face.

 

CHAPTER 38

The Thames was boiling. Several minutes after Jane Roylston had disappeared beneath the surface, the whole middle area of the river erupted. Bubbles burst to the surface. A sudden, impossible wave curled upwards close to Westminster Bridge, between Miss Manners and the Houses of Parliament.

‘What the hell?' Alban said. ‘Did your friend do this?'

Miss Manners shook her head in disbelief. She had no answer.

People paused on the Embankment, staring out incredulously as the waters churned, turning from muddy brown to foaming white. A dark shape forced its way to the surface. Water cascaded from the huge, bulbous craft as it broke the surface. It rose slowly, ponderously, water sluicing off it as it came clear of the river. Boats were tossed about like wooden toys, their crews struggling to keep control and avoid being washed overboard.

The shouts and cries of the people watching were lost in the roar of the massive engines glowing beneath the craft. It climbed higher into the air, pausing for a moment before turning slowly on its axis. It was slightly elliptical, short, stubby fins jutting up from the back end, as big as a double-decker bus. Then suddenly a light so bright it hurt the eyes flashed out from the back of the craft. In moments it was screaming away across the river, climbing over the Palace of Westminster.

‘They've got the axe,' Miss Manners said, staring after it. ‘Jane gave them the axe.'

‘Is it important?' Alban could see the answer in her expression. ‘I'll get on to the RAF. Maybe they can intercept it.' He was already running back towards Charing Cross to find a phone.

‘It might be quicker to run to the Air Ministry,' Miss Manners murmured. But Alban was probably right. He'd have more success phoning MI5 to put in an urgent, formal request than trying to get past the front entrance to the Air Ministry without the requisite clearance.

For the moment, there was nothing Miss Manners could do except wait for Alban, assuming he came back. She stared out across the Thames. The surface was still choppy from the Vril craft's emergence. If nothing else, she now knew what a UDT looked like. It matched the descriptions she'd taken from pilots who'd seen one – including Sarah Diamond. There were quite a few more people who'd seen one now, though of course they'd have no idea what they had really seen.

She was about to turn away and follow Alban when she saw something in the water. At first she thought it was just a piece of driftwood or rubbish. But as she watched, it was drawn closer by the flow of the river – a shape emerged. A body. Lying face down in the water, just the head and shoulders breaking the surface. She could make out the short dark hair, plastered to the back of the neck. Jane.

The current was taking Jane's body towards Westminster Bridge. She ran along the Embankment, trying to keep the body in sight. Could she have survived – was it possible?

She was almost at the bridge when the body seemed to come to life. Jane's head lifted. Water gushed from her open mouth as she looked round. Then she struck out for the bank, swimming strongly with even, almost mechanical strokes.

Miss Manners increased her speed. But she wasn't going to get there in time. Already Jane was hauling herself up a slipway, then on to the Embankment. Apparently oblivious to her appearance, she headed off towards Westminster Bridge. People glanced at her curiously, taking in the sight of a young woman drenched from head to toe hurrying barefoot along the pavement. But most had seen more improbable sights.

Turning onto the bridge to follow, Miss Manners lost sight of Jane for a second. Was she crossing the bridge, or had she turned the other way? Miss Manners looked round, trying desperately to spot her. Instead she saw another familiar and distinctive figure – Alban's red hair meant he stood out easily in the crowd.

‘Did you see her?' Miss Manners gasped as she reached Alban.

‘See who?'

‘Jane.'

He just stared at her.

‘She swam to the bank. Climbed out. I lost her.'

‘She got out of the river? And came this way?'

Miss Manners nodded, breathless.

‘Then let's follow her.' Alban pointed at the pavement at their feet. The area closest to the river was wet from the water cascading off the Vril craft. Trails of wet footprints led off in all directions.

‘How does that help?'

‘It might not,' Alban conceded. ‘But if she's been in the river, she'll stay wet longer than most people's shoes. Show me where she was heading and we'll see if she left a trail.'

‘She's barefoot,' Miss Manners said. ‘That will help. And the RAF?' she asked.

‘If they can get a trace, they'll try to intercept. Well, they might get lucky.'

*   *   *

The UDT had reached the English Channel before the Spitfires found it. Three planes from RAF Manston intercepted over the Kent coast. None of the pilots had seen anything like it before, but their orders were clear – the craft was hostile and to be brought down.

‘Some sort of dirigible, maybe,' Bert Tanner, piloting the lead aircraft, thought as he closed in, approaching from ahead of the craft as it raced at him.

The other two Spitfires were close behind and on either side. Tanner opened up with his Browning .303 machine guns. If the bullets impacted on the craft in front of him, they had no effect. He kept firing, but the craft was moving rapidly towards him and he had to bank rapidly to starboard.

As soon as Tanner was out of the way, the other two planes opened up. Their fire had as little effect, and they too had to turn rapidly to avoid collision.

‘Bring it down at all costs' had been the order. Tanner barely gave a thought to what he was doing as he swung the plane round and dived back towards the strange craft. He pushed the throttle to its full extent, the acceleration driving him back into the seat. The Merlin engine's note deepened to a throaty roar as it propelled the plane towards the enemy craft at almost 500 miles per hour.

He closed his eyes at the moment of impact, taking his hands off the controls and breathing out. Only at that moment did he think about what he was doing. About Gracie and the children.

A brilliant white light burned through his eyelids. That was it, he realised, and suddenly he felt calm and relaxed.

Then a deafening thunderclap of sound shocked him back to reality. He opened his eyes and grabbed for the joystick. His plane was still diving, powering through the low clouds. The distinctive elliptical wings of two Spitfires cut through the sky above him as Tanner pulled the plane out of the dive and levelled off.

A streak of white disappearing into the distance was the only sign of the craft he had been attacking.

 

CHAPTER 39

Sarah slept better the second night, not waking until almost eleven. She lay in bed for several minutes thinking back over the events of the previous night.

As he had promised, Tustrum had been waiting in the Embassy dining room when she returned from the Kremlin. He was dozing in a chair, his feet stretched out under the table, an empty whisky glass in front of him.

He jolted awake as Sarah pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. She felt every bit as exhausted as the man looked.

He wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry, what time is it?'

‘Almost two in the morning.'

‘Christ – where have you been?'

‘I probably shouldn't tell you,' Sarah said.

He nodded. ‘Fair enough. So long as you're all right.'

‘The evening had its moments, but yes, I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Sarah and Vasilov had cautiously checked there were no Vril lurking in the shadows or waiting behind the hole they had torn in the wall of the Archive. But it seemed the one that attacked them was alone. Perhaps it had been left on guard, or been sent back to obtain some other item.

‘Or it somehow got separated from the others,' Sarah suggested.

‘I need to tell the Kremlin commandant what has happened,' Vasilov said. ‘We need to block off this opening. Make sure they cannot return.'

‘Do you know what they took?' Sarah asked.

Vasilov nodded. He looked pale. ‘I believe so. I shall have to check to be certain. But first I must alert the commandant. You should go.'

‘I need to know why the Vril were here,' Sarah insisted. ‘What they took.'

Vasilov shook his head. ‘You cannot stay here. I will check what is missing, and get a message to you. Or, no,' he decided, ‘I shall write to Elizabeth. You will see she gets the letter?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then Larisa will bring it to the Embassy. Tomorrow.' He called her over, giving her rapid instructions. ‘But now, she will take you back while I find the commandant.' He glanced at the gaping hole in the wall. ‘The fact that one of them was still here – it could mean that others will return.'

‘It could,' Sarah agreed. ‘We should all get out of here. Let the soldiers sort it out.'

They returned through the white-stone tunnels to the opening into the Arsenal Tower above. Then through the metal gate and up the spiral staircase. At the top, Vasilov left them. He shook Sarah's hand, then leaned forward and kissed her gently on each cheek.

There was a different guard on duty at the exit, but he spared Larisa and Sarah little more than a glance as they left. Outside, it was raining. Larisa shivered, but declined Sarah's coat when she offered it. They walked briskly back to the Embassy, parting company in the same narrow alley where they had met several hours previously.

As Sarah turned to go, Larisa pulled at her sleeve, turning her back. For a moment, the woman stared impassively into Sarah's face. Then she pulled Sarah into a fierce hug. When they separated, Sarah took off her coat, and this time Larisa accepted it.

Vasilov was as good as his word. When Sarah finally emerged from her room the next day and checked with the front desk, there was an envelope waiting for her, addressed to ‘Mrs Elizabeth Archer, care of Miss Sarah Diamond'. She recognised Vasilov's handwriting from his earlier letter. She considered opening it, reading what Vasilov had discovered.

But no, she decided. There was likely to be more than just a note of what the Vril had taken. Whatever friendship Vasilov, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth's husband George had enjoyed was not hers to share. She pushed the envelope into her pocket, and went in search of Tustrum. He might have news of Guy and Leo. But whether he did or not, it was time for her to head home …

*   *   *

The Vril had scratched her as it hid from the soldiers – the same soldiers as moments earlier had shot the girl's mother. She screamed from the pain, the last pain she ever felt. Being so small, the infection spread rapidly through the little girl's body. So young and inexperienced, so innocent and naïve, her mind was easy to control even without a bracelet to focus the Vril influence.

Her instructions were simple: find the rogue Ubermensch, and get the axe from him. Now it was almost within her grasp. The man with the bracelet was a problem. She had thought he was with her, was an Ubermensch. But then he had been injured, so either he was not yet fully absorbed into the Vril, or he was not an Ubermensch at all. Either way, he knew what
she
was, he had seen.

Somehow Davenport managed to grab her wrists, pushing her away from him. But the girl was incredibly strong.

‘Help me!' he yelled. ‘Get her off!'

Guy and Hoffman were running, scrambling over the rubble to get to him. He felt her nails rake down his cheek, the warmth of blood. Then Hoffman was there, one arm round the girl's waist as he dragged her away. Her legs were kicking, arms flailing. He couldn't hold her and she broke free, hammering at Hoffman's chest.

The axe-head he had been holding fell from his grip and landed amongst the other fallen stone. The girl dived for it, grabbing it with both hands, scrambling off across the broken landscape.

Guy threw himself at her, dragging her down. She swung her hand, the heavy axe connecting with his shoulder. His grip weakened, she tore herself free and was off running.

But Davenport was back on his feet and in her way. She didn't try to avoid him, but lowered her shoulder like a diminutive rugby player, crashing into him and sending the bigger man sprawling. He managed to grab hold of her sleeve, pulling her off balance. It slowed her down enough from Hoffman to launch himself at the girl. The axe-head went flying again and the girl wriggled out from Hoffman's grasp and scrambled after it.

It skidded through a doorway, falling over the threshold. The wooden floor had burned away, leaving the blackened spikes of charred timbers jutting from the remaining walls. The girl fell to the ground that was several feet below. The fall should have winded her, perhaps even fractured her leg. But she was unaffected, immediately searching round to see where the axe had fallen. Within the walls, the light from the distant fires was dimmed and the whole place was in near-darkness.

Hoffman jumped after her, Guy and Davenport clambering down more cautiously, Davenport trying not to put weight on his injured leg. The girl eyed them cautiously. Then she caught sight of the axe, the white stone picked out in the grey ash and soot covering the ground. She ran across and picked it up. Holding it in one hand, raised like a weapon, she edged round the walls, inside the broken timbers.