Blood Red City (20 page)

‘The legend of Theseus and the Minotaur?'

‘That's right,' Leo told her. ‘The Palace of Knossos on Crete where the Labyrinth was supposedly built was also known as “The House of the Double Axe”.'

‘So there's a connection.'

Leo sighed. ‘Well, sort of. It may not be as clear cut as it seems, because actually any Cretan palace was known as a house of the double-axe. That said, it keeps us in Crete. We, by which I mean archaeologists and classical academics, tend to associate the island with the bull.'

‘They had paintings and statues of bulls everywhere,' Miss Manners added. ‘They sacrificed bulls, and of course there's the Minotaur.'

‘Half man, half bull. However that happened,' Sarah said, mainly to show she knew what they were talking about.

Leo had stood up from the desk and was pacing back and forth as he explained. ‘Well, keeping it brief, King Minos of Crete asked the god Poseidon to send him a snow-white bull from the sea as a symbol of support for his reign. Minos was supposed to sacrifice it, but the bull was so impressive he kept it and sacrificed a different one instead. As a punishment, the king's wife was made to fall in love with the bull and, well, the result of this relationship was the Minotaur.'

‘That's…' Sarah struggled to find a word. ‘Disgusting,' she decided.

‘Yes, well, there's a lot of that sort of thing in Greek myth, I'm afraid. But anyway, apart from the prevalence of bulls in Minoan – Cretan – history, axes are also important.'

‘The Cretans sacrificed bulls,' Miss Manners said, ‘using double-headed axes like the one we're interested in, though rather larger of course. And remember the Thor legend?'

Sarah nodded. ‘Wasn't the third axe supposed to belong to Thor?'

‘That's right. Well, the Greek god Zeus used an axe to create storms, so there's another similarity.'

‘And he's often depicted holding an axe,' Leo explained. ‘In fact,' he went on, ‘the Greek for “lightning” literally translates as “star axe”.'

Miss Manners cleared her throat. ‘But getting back specifically to Crete, Minoan priestesses carried these double-headed axes on ceremonial occasions.'

‘So,' Sarah said, ‘lots of connections.'

‘Too many for it to be a coincidence, now we've looked at it,' Leo agreed. ‘Or so we believe.'

‘So, what next?'

‘Since we talked to Dr Wiles at Bletchley,' Miss Manners told her, ‘he has managed to trace several UDT sightings and transmissions in the Mediterranean back to Crete. Of course there are a lot of other places on those same trajectories. But there are also suggested Ley lines that meet in Crete. All that taken together…'

‘Adds up to something worth investigating,' Sarah agreed. ‘What about your friend Jane Roylston? Can she confirm or help with any of this, do you think?'

‘I wondered that,' Miss Manners said. She was frowning behind her severe spectacles. ‘But I've not been able to contact her. She's been out of touch for a while now. So long, in fact, that Guy and Colonel Brinkman are going to see Crowley. If nothing else, he may know something about occult connections to Crete which might help.'

*   *   *

The resentment was growing in him by the day. Ralph Rutherford felt he was being kept on a leash, like a dog. Crowley insisted he couldn't even leave the house, and he felt like every moment he was being watched. He had never really liked Crowley. He certainly didn't trust the man. And now, at any moment, he might decide to follow the advice of MI5 and stick a knife into Rutherford's back.

A knife … Like the one now in Rutherford's hand …

It was all Jane Roylston's fault. Since the bizarre ritual down in the cellar with the grotesque creature, Rutherford hadn't seen her. Jane was confined to her room – recovering, according to Crowley, though the way he said it made Rutherford sure the man was keeping something from him. He couldn't get back at Crowley, not easily, not yet. But Jane …

There was no answer when he knocked on the door. So he opened it and went in. She was sitting on the side of her bed, staring out of the small window. She didn't turn when he spoke.

‘Jane.'

He walked round to stand in front of her, holding the knife where she could see it. ‘Stand up,' he ordered.

She looked up at him, but made no effort to stand. Her expression was blank. Her eyes showed none of the fear and loathing he was used to seeing in them. She turned back towards the window.

‘I said stand up!' he yelled, suddenly angry.

She stood. Slowly, almost dreamily. Her eyebrows raised slightly, but otherwise she did not react to the outburst.

‘I can make life very difficult for you,' he said. Still no reaction. ‘Difficult and painful.' Nothing. Feeling the tension and resentment building inside him, he reached out with the knife, tracing the point of it down her cheek. She turned slightly to look at him.

‘Yes, that got your attention, didn't it,' he whispered. ‘You're nothing, you understand. Crowley can do anything he likes to you. You know that. Well, so can I.'

He pressed harder with the knife, until it bit into the skin below her eye, producing a tiny bead of blood.

‘I'm going to teach you to show me respect.'

A thin line of colour followed the blade as he drew it slowly down her face. She didn't flinch. That angered him even more, and he pressed harder. The skin parted beneath the blade. Rutherford smiled, looking for the pain and fear in her face.

But there was nothing.

And hardly any blood.

Instead, pale orange tendrils licked out from the cut – probing, feeling, gently pulling the skin back together. Rutherford felt his own skin begin to crawl at the sight. He took a step back, raising the knife again. But Jane's hand whipped out, grabbing his wrist in an impossibly firm grasp. He felt the bones compress and shatter. The knife fell to the floor.

Her other hand was round his neck, squeezing tight as Rutherford gasped for the air he needed to cry out. His vision blurred. But before it faded completely he saw that now at last her face was showing some reaction, some emotion.

She was smiling.

Then everything was darkness and silence as he crashed lifeless to the floor.

 

CHAPTER 18

‘I did telephone Mr Alban a few days ago,' Crowley said. ‘He said he couldn't speak as he had to go and look after a Mr Brown.'

They were sat in Crowley's study. Brinkman glanced at Guy Pentecross. He happened to know from a recent high-level briefing that Alban was at Chequers, the Prime Minister's country house, and ‘Mr Brown' was in fact the Russian foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov, who was meeting Churchill there.

‘What did you want to talk to Alban about?'

Crowley shrugged. ‘Nothing important. He asked me to do something for him a little while ago. I merely wished to confirm that I had done it. But,' he went on quickly, ‘what can I do for you? It seems that our arrangement is all rather one-way at the moment, doesn't it?'

‘How do you mean?' Guy asked.

‘I scratch your back. And that's it. Although my own back does occasionally itch too, you know.'

‘I'm sure there are many people who would happily scratch it,' Brinkman told him. ‘But if there is anything specific?'

‘Oh please.' Crowley's smile was almost predatory. ‘You first.'

‘Nothing too taxing,' Brinkman said. ‘We just wanted a quick word with Jane Roylston.'

Crowley's smile hardened into a frown. ‘May I ask what about?'

Brinkman considered for a moment before answering. ‘We wondered if she knew of any connection between the Vril and Greece. Crete in particular.'

Crowley sat back in his chair. ‘Well, you've answered one of my questions already, then.'

‘Oh?'

‘I'm afraid Jane isn't here. She disappeared, just upped and left about, oh, a couple of weeks ago, I should think. I did wonder if she had come to join your people. Obviously not, if you're asking me about her.'

‘You've no idea where she went?' Brinkman asked. It seemed unlikely, but it was possible.

Guy voiced his next thought:

‘That man Rutherford – could he have anything to do with her disappearance?'

‘No.'

‘You seem very sure,' Brinkman said.

‘I am. Ralph is no longer with us either, you see.'

‘Then perhaps—' Guy started.

But Crowley cut him off. ‘There is no connection between the two, I can assure you. If you need confirmation, then ask your friend Alban. He knows what happened to poor Ralph, and if I tell you that Ralph, er, absented himself from us, shall we say, before Jane left then you will understand that the two are not connected.'

‘I see,' Brinkman said, though in truth he didn't. He would leave a message for Alban and hope the MI5 man could clarify things. ‘Then it seems we've had a wasted journey.'

‘I'm sorry,' Crowley said. ‘But I'm sure Miss Roylston will return to us soon. She probably just needs a little time to herself. But I must apologise that she isn't here to help you now.'

‘Unless you can help us,' Guy said. ‘Do you know of any connection between the Vril and Crete?'

‘Not off hand,' Crowley admitted. ‘There are various sources I can consult. If I do find anything, I shall be sure to let you know.'

‘And is your back no longer itching?' Brinkman asked.

‘It has eased. But there is still one matter you can perhaps help me with.'

‘Which is?'

‘A term I have come across. Perhaps I heard it from one of you, I forget. Tell me, what exactly is an Ubermensch?'

Brinkman glanced at Guy, and found the major was looking back at him for guidance. Brinkman nodded.

‘We don't really know,' Guy said. ‘They are people who are somehow infected by the Vril. They become subservient to the creatures. But they also gain in strength and resilience as the infection or whatever it is spreads through their body.'

‘I see.' Crowley nodded. ‘Hence the name. Could this infection be spread through physical contact?'

‘That is our best theory,' Brinkman agreed. ‘It doesn't seem to be passed on by an Ubermensch to other humans, but direct contact with the Vril themselves could instigate the change.'

‘And how can you spot these Ubermensch? Are there many of them?'

‘To be honest, we don't know how many there are,' Brinkman said. ‘We do know that at least one was working with the Germans, but how the alliance was arrived at or whether there was an element of coercion on either side…' He shrugged.

‘And the only way to spot them,' Guy said, ‘the only way we've found, is that when you kill them, they don't die.'

*   *   *

When he had found her standing over the body of Ralph Rutherford, Crowley had confined Jane to the cellars. He had no idea how dangerous she really was, but Brinkman and Pentecross had said nothing to allay his fears.

For the moment, Jane seemed docile. She lay on the altar table, wrists manacled to the sides as before. Her legs were free, and she was wearing a plain white robe of thin cotton as she did for séances and ceremonies.

Crowley wouldn't say that the young woman was back to herself exactly. But she was far more communicative, far more like the Jane she used to be than she had been when she killed Rutherford. He could only assume this was connected to the degree of infection. Was the restoration of self-will and individuality a stage in whatever process of transformation she was undergoing? Or was it a side effect of her not being directly controlled by the Vril?

Standing on the dais, looking down at her supine body, it occurred to Crowley for the first time that the answer might be obvious.

‘Can I ask you something?' he said. Would she simply tell him what he wanted to know? Could it be that straightforward?

Jane turned her head to look up at him. ‘Unchain me,' she said, her voice devoid of intonation.

‘Perhaps if you answer my questions. But I can make no promises.'

‘You always used to make promises,' she said. ‘Promises you then broke.'

‘I wasn't afraid of you then,' he admitted.

‘If I tell you I could leave here whenever I wish, does that make you more afraid?'

He caught his breath. But she was lying, bluffing. Wasn't she?

‘I see,' she said, turning away. She had her answer.

‘If you can leave, why don't you?' he asked.

‘I have no instructions,' she said simply.

‘Jane? Are you still Jane?'

‘Who else would I be?'

‘You tell me.'

She turned back, staring at him angrily. ‘You did this to me,' she said, her voice suddenly laced with emotion. ‘And now you ask me what is happening? I am Jane – of course I'm Jane. But I'm not alone in here. I can feel them inside my mind. Always there, waiting to tell me what to do. It took a while to get used to it. To deaden their voices. But I've always heard them – in séances and ceremonies. When I wore the bracelet … Now I tell myself they're just talking louder and I can ignore them.' She stared up at the ceiling. ‘I can ignore them,' she insisted through gritted teeth. ‘I can.'

‘Always?'

‘Mostly.'

‘When they speak to you…' Crowley licked his thin lips with a bloodless tongue. ‘Do they ever mention Greece? The island of Crete?'

‘That's not how they speak. I see in my mind what they are thinking. It's like voices, but it's also pictures. Thoughts…' She closed her eyes, the muscles in her face relaxing.

For a while there was silence. Crowley was about to leave when she suddenly opened her eyes again, staring unfocused at the vaulted stone above.

‘I see darkness in the shape of the axe, carved into the living rock. Tunnels where the shadows dance on the rough-hewn walls. Passageways and steps, closing in around me, stale suffocating air that no one has breathed in centuries. In millennia.'