Department 19: Zero Hour (49 page)

“Six,” said Ovechkin. “I am sorry, Cal.”

For a seemingly endless moment, Holmwood didn’t respond; he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t collect the thoughts that were rushing through the filters in his mind.

Six. Six of our Operators, reporting our every move to the SPC. For how many years? And why the hell didn’t ISAT pick the rest of them up?

He glanced over at Paul Turner. The Security Officer’s face was paler than ever, and the Interim Director guessed that he was asking himself the same questions.

“Who?” managed Holmwood. “Tell me their names.”

“I have a list, as well as every report they ever submitted. I am sending it all to you now, as a gesture of the friendship between our Departments that we greatly value, especially during these troubled times. I do not know whether it will make you feel better or worse, but I can tell you that the other five names on the list are all deceased. Brennan was the last.”

Holmwood considered this, but all he felt was numb. He had devoted the vast majority of his adult life to Blacklight, and had spent most of those years as a dyed-in-the-wool true believer, as a proud soldier of the forces for good. Now that view of the world, which had once been so clear, so sharp and solid, was mired in endless shades of grey. The very fabric of what his Department and its equivalents did felt as though it was unravelling; lie piled upon lie, secret upon secret, horror upon horror. If they somehow managed to prevent the rise of Dracula, he was no longer sure that there remained a future for Blacklight, or for NS9, the SPC, or any of the others. There had been so much blood, so much death, and the cracks were finally beginning to show.

We’re no longer the good guys,
he thought, with a sadness that stabbed at his heart.
Maybe we were once, but those days are gone. Now we’re the lesser of two evils.

And that’s all.

Matt Browning’s report appeared in his mind, and he winced. “It wasn’t just us, was it?” he said.

“I am sorry?” said Aleksandr.

“It wasn’t only Blacklight that Demidov and Zellev infiltrated. Major Simmons of NS9 took one of my Lieutenants hostage this morning, at gunpoint. He tried to leave a live operation with him and a set of specimens that might prove vital to the work of the Lazarus Project, but my Operator managed to kill him.
Safeguard
was his last word. This was barely eight hours ago.”

“That is … regrettable,” said Ovechkin.

Why?
wondered Holmwood.
Because Matt Browning almost died, or because you’re going to have to explain all this to Bob Allen?

“I’m assuming his intention was to take the specimens to Russia?” said Turner.

“I do not know,” said Ovechkin. “We are still analysing Demidov’s preliminary data. Our conclusion is that the Safeguards were intended as observers, rather than saboteurs. But there is much we do not yet understand.”

“It’s quite a coincidence,” said Turner. “Brennan goes rogue to avoid detection, then Simmons tries to steal invaluable information, and they die within twenty-four hours of each other.”

“Our investigation is ongoing,” said Ovechkin, his face pale. “As I told you.”

“What about everywhere else?” asked Holmwood. “Not just NS9, but the FTB, PBS6, all the other Departments. How many of their Operators did you send back to them as traitors?”

Ovechkin flinched. It was a tiny gesture, but Holmwood saw it; a momentary flicker of pain, or shame, or both.

“Many,” he said. “A great many, over the years.”

“Are they all dead as well?”

“Many of them are,” said Ovechkin. “But no. Not all of them.”

“Christ,” said Holmwood. “This is going to cause chaos.”

“Maybe not,” said Turner. “If the Departments can get to them before they realise they’ve been identified, maybe they can be removed.”

“Maybe,” said Ovechkin. “Although, as you said, Major Turner, the timing of Major Simmons’ actions does seem highly coincidental. Unless he perceived some threat to his cover that we are not aware of.”

“Tell the rest of the Departments to exercise extreme caution when you inform them, Aleksandr,” said Holmwood. “The Safeguards are clearly prepared to use force to evade capture.”

“The data suggests that was an element of their programming,” said Ovechkin.

“What Brennan did was more than just using force,” said Turner. “It was a carefully planned strategy. He manipulated Valentin Rusmanov’s servant into planting the bombs that were meant for myself and Lieutenant Randall, then wrote HE RISES where he left the tracking chip he’d cut out of his own arm. There’s no other way to view his behaviour than as a calculated attempt to make it appear he betrayed us to Dracula, knowing full well that’s the assumption we’d be likely to make.”

“But he didn’t,” said Holmwood, his voice low. “He was working for our friends.”

Which means we’ve lost our best lead to Dracula’s location,
he thought.
All our hopes now lie with Valentin. God help us.

“I am sorry, Cal,” said Ovechkin. “There are only so many different ways I can say so.”

“Fine,” said Holmwood. He gave his head a quick shake, trying to clear some of the fog that had settled into it. “Send through everything you have on our Department, and don’t make the mistake of assuming this matter is closed. But there are other calls you need to make right now, Aleksandr, and if I were you I’d put Bob Allen at the top of your list. One of his men just held a gun to a Blacklight Operator’s head and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be keen to know why. Let’s speak again when the rest of the Departments are up to speed.”

“Agreed,” said Ovechkin. “I wish this had not happened, Cal. I hope you can believe me.”

“I believe you,” replied Holmwood. “Start putting it right.”

Valentin Rusmanov floated in the cold night air, the smell of the sprawling pine forest below him filling his nostrils. His eyes glowed steadily in the darkness as he stared at his target: the squat, distant shape of Château Dauncy.

As he had suspected, finding it had not been difficult.

After saying goodbye to Anderson in San Sebastián the previous evening, he had walked down on to the dark, deserted beach and risen silently into the air, disappearing instantly from view. Using cold, damp banks of low-lying cloud as cover, Valentin had accelerated north-east, soaring and gliding over rising thermals and between shifting areas of pressure, the air fluttering his jacket like wings, his travel bag hanging below him like a bomb about to be released from its housing, until the illuminated spread of Bordeaux appeared and he dropped unnoticed into its maze of dark streets.

He took a room in a grand, slightly faded hotel on the northern bank of the Garonne that he was sure he had stayed in before, paying for two nights even though he only intended to stay for one. It was one of the annoyances of being a vampire, as hotel checkout times were invariably long before the sun went down, and thus impossible for the supernatural to accommodate.

Valentin, whose personal wealth was so vast as to be essentially incalculable, didn’t notice such things, however; he merely handed over an emerald-green card embossed with the name of a bank in Zurich that the vast majority of the world’s very richest men and women had never heard of, took a map of the Gironde from a shelf beside the reception desk, and retired to his room. There, he unfolded the map on the bed, and immediately found what he was looking for: Château Dauncy, twenty miles to the south-west, in the middle of a pine forest that spread almost all the way to the Atlantic coast.

I probably flew over it on my way here,
thought Valentin, and allowed himself a small smile.

He ordered oysters and
magret de canard
from room service, opened one of the bottles he had filled with the blood of a boy he had turned in Rome, and lay back on the bed.

Tomorrow
, he thought.
Tomorrow I will keep the promise I made.

Now that time had come.

Even from a distance of ten miles or more, Valentin’s supernaturally sharp eyes could pick out the bright squares of the château’s windows, could hear snatches of conversation as they floated on air that felt thick and full of electricity. As if on cue, a clap of thunder rolled in the distance, reverberating in his ears and through his bones. Lightning flashed to the north, and it began to rain; a light drizzle of cold, salt-edged water that quickly became first a steady downpour, then a hammering torrent. Thunder boomed again, closer this time, and Valentin smiled as the wind picked up speed and water fell from the heavens.

He had considered flying straight back to Blacklight with the information he had gleaned from Anderson, but had quickly decided against it; he could not be entirely certain the intelligence was accurate without visiting the château himself. He didn’t believe for a moment that Anderson would intentionally lie to him, as he was certain that deception was beyond his abilities. It was, however, quite possible that the huge, child-like vampire was wrong.

When I see them,
he thought,
that’s when I’ll know. When I see Dracula and my brother with my own eyes.

Valentin took a deep breath and flew slowly towards the château, a dark shadow passing silently above the vast, churning forest.

In the study on the top floor of Château Dauncy, Dracula’s eyes flared a deep, oily crimson; he threw his head back, the scent of the past filling his nostrils, his body trembling with sensation.

Valeri rose instantly from his chair and flew to his master’s side. “My lord,” he said, his voice full of concern. “What is it?”

Dracula slowly brought his head level, his eyes blazing, and the eldest Rusmanov frowned as a thin smile broke across the face of his master.

“Your brother,” said the first vampire, rolling the words round his mouth as though they tasted delicious. “He is coming.”

Valeri’s frown deepened. He took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of the château and the forest, and narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure, my lord?”

“You cannot smell his treacherous stench?” asked Dracula.

“No, my lord. I cannot.”

“I can,” said Dracula, his smile widening into a grin. “It seems my power has finally overtaken yours, my old friend. Perhaps order is finally returning to the world.”

“Perhaps so, my lord,” said Valeri, trying not to let the rebuke register on his weathered face. “Where is my brother?”

Dracula rose to his feet and crossed to his desk. The wooden box containing the item that Valeri had dutifully acquired stood on top, its lid open. The first vampire lifted it out, smiled, then fastened it to his belt and flew across the study. Valeri followed his master as he pulled open the door to the balcony and floated through it. Wind and rain gusted into the room, and a shiver ran up Valeri’s spine; he told himself it was the cold air of the storm, but wasn’t able to entirely convince himself. There was a nagging voice in the back of his head, a voice that sounded maddeningly like Henry Seward’s, that insisted it was something else.

Fear.

Not of Dracula, or what his rise was going to mean for a world that Valeri had long held in contempt; fear over what role there would be for him in the new world, if his master no longer needed him to provide comfort and counsel.

Where will that leave you?
the voice asked.
What will you do then?

“Out there,” said Dracula, pointing at the dark expanse of the forest. “Above the trees. He is almost here.”

“I will deal with him, my lord,” said Valeri.

Dracula shook his head, sending rainwater spraying from his long hair. “I asked you to do so some time ago, Valeri. You failed. I will handle this myself.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Valeri, shame burning in his chest. “What would you have me do?”

“Gather everyone and meet me in the courtyard,” said Dracula, returning his gaze to the roiling horizon. “Bring our guest too.”

“My lord,” said Valeri. “Surely there is no need to—”

Dracula’s hand closed round his neck and the rest of his suggestion died in his throat. The first vampire’s face was suddenly twisted fury, his eyes flaming with blackened red, a thunderous growl rising from deep within him; he lifted Valeri effortlessly into the air and drove him backwards against the stone wall of the balcony with terrible, almost casual force. Valeri felt the skin on the back of his head split like tissue paper, felt warm blood cascade down his neck as pain arrived in the centre of his skull, sharp and huge.

“Need?” growled Dracula. His face was mere millimetres from Valeri’s, steam rising in clouds from where rainwater was running into the heat of his eyes. “You speak to me of need? There is no
need
for you to concern yourself with anything other than doing exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Your usefulness is at an end, Valeri. I no longer need
you
. Is that clear?”

Valeri’s eyes widened with shock as the air in his lungs ran out. He forced a tiny nod, the motion sending nauseating pain through his head, and felt his master’s grip loosen, enough for a whistling current of air to make its way down his throat.