Blood Red City (3 page)

Some of the Vril's technology apparently relied on a form of science that humanity did not yet understand – closer to the occult or psychic and paranormal than conventional science. Their communications could be picked up not only by the listening Y Stations around the British Empire where enemy radio signals were intercepted, but also by more arcane means. Which was why they were here, talking to Crowley. Or rather, listening to him.

‘We held a ceremony – a form of séance – as I promised,' Crowley was saying. ‘A connection was formed, though whether directly with the Vril I cannot say.'

‘Were you able to discern their intentions?' Guy asked. He didn't add ‘sir'.

Crowley fixed him with his dark, deep-set eyes. ‘The Vril are the benefactors of humanity. The Coming Race, the bringers of power and enlightenment. If our enemies crave their secrets, then the Vril and we are of one mind, one purpose.'

Guy was aware of Brinkman's warning glance. ‘But did you discover anything that might help that purpose?' he said, careful not to contradict anything Crowley had said.

In answer, Crowley turned slightly to address Rutherford. It was an awkward movement, as Crowley's neck was almost as thick as his head. ‘See if Miss Roylston has recovered enough to see us, would you, Ralph?'

Rutherford pushed himself away from the bookcase. ‘She should have tidied herself up a bit by now,' he said as he strode from the room.

‘I'm afraid Ralph is not convinced we should be helping you,' Crowley said as they waited.

‘We're very grateful that you are,' Brinkman said.

Crowley's lips curled into a thin bloodless smile. ‘We all do what little we can. I imagine life under the Reich would be a rather tedious proposition.'

‘I thought Hitler was a devotee of the occult and all that sort of thing,' Guy countered.

‘He surrounds himself with people who have some knowledge and vision, but no – the Fuhrer himself believes only in the tangible aspects of power. Only in himself. I gather he is one of those unimaginative people who has to see to believe. What about you, Major Pentecross?' Crowley asked, smile still fixed in place. ‘Can you believe in things you cannot prove? Are you a churchgoer?' He made it sound like an insult.

Guy was saved from answering by the return of Rutherford, accompanied by a slim young woman with short, black hair. She wore a simple grey dress that seemed plain and ordinary in contrast to Crowley's robes. Guy recognised Jane Roylston from a previous meeting.

‘Miss Roylston is our most sensitive colleague,' Crowley said, gesturing for her to sit.

Jane perched nervously on the edge of an upright chair. Rutherford returned to his position at the bookcase, watching her with ill-disguised loathing as she spoke.

‘I established a connection,' she said, voice trembling slightly. ‘But what I saw…'

She paused, glancing at Crowley. He nodded for her to go on, but Guy sensed there was more to it than simple encouragement.

‘Just snatches, images, I'm afraid. I don't think it was anything useful.'

‘Tell us anyway,' Brinkman said gently. ‘Let us decide.'

‘I had no sense of place,' she said. ‘A wooded area, but it could have been anywhere. Trees, undergrowth…' She waved her hand. ‘I'm sorry, does anyone have a cigarette?'

Crowley snapped his fingers impatiently at Rutherford, who scowled and produced a packet of Pall Mall. Jane took one, and Rutherford held his lighter awkwardly for her, so she had to twist uncomfortably to light the cigarette.

She seemed calmer after inhaling the smoke. ‘Sorry. As I said, just images really. A fight – with a dog, I think, But it seemed very big. Then a man, in a car. Or maybe a lorry.'

‘Were you with him, or did he drive past you?' Guy asked.

‘I was with him. We drove to a house. Hardly more than a wooden shack. We went inside, and there was a woman.' She blew out a long stream of smoke and looked away. ‘That's all.' She glanced again at Crowley. ‘That's all.'

Crowley nodded. ‘Thank you, Jane. That is most helpful.'

*   *   *

Guy and Brinkman did not linger. Rutherford showed them out, all but slamming the door of the house in Jermyn Street behind them.

The evening was drawing in, a chill in the late February air. Further down the street, a car flashed its lights, their beams mitigated by dark hoods that allowed only a thin slit of light through.

Sarah Diamond got out of the car to open the door for Brinkman. Even in the gathering darkness, Guy saw that she looked immaculate in her dark suit. She closed the door behind Brinkman and smiled at Guy.

‘You can open your own door.' Her voice was accented, American. Guy knew her father was English, though he lived in the States, where Sarah had grown up. She and Guy had both started at Station Z at the same time – having worked together to try to find out what Brinkman's team was up to. They would never have guessed the truth. Guy still found it hard to believe.

He had been working at the Foreign Office, after being wounded at the Dunkirk evacuation and invalided out of the army. But Sarah was a ferry pilot with the Air Transport Auxiliary – technically a civilian, responsible for helping to deliver aircraft where they were needed all round Britain. She drove the staff car on sufferance, and almost as fast as she flew planes.

As soon as they were all in the car, Sarah twisted round in the driver's seat. ‘You get anything out of the old goat?'

‘Nothing useful,' Guy confessed.

‘He doesn't trust us,' Brinkman said. ‘He thinks the Vril are coming to save the human race, though I'm not sure what from.'

‘Hitler, maybe?' Sarah suggested.

Brinkman shrugged. ‘Whatever he thinks, Crowley will help us against the Germans, but he won't do anything to disadvantage the Vril.'

‘The woman – Jane Roylston,' Guy said. ‘I think she knows more than she was saying.'

‘I think you're right,' Brinkman agreed. ‘But perhaps Miss Manners will get more out of her.'

*   *   *

The room was small, but there was just enough space for a narrow upright chair between the tiny dressing table and the door. This was where Jane Roylston found Miss Manners sitting when she returned to the room. As well as being Brinkman's secretary at Station Z, Miss Manners was well versed in the occult practices of Crowley and his colleagues. For a time, she had been one of his acolytes – which was where she had met Jane. But that life was behind her now, and she never regretted escaping from it.

‘Penny,' Jane exclaimed in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?' She glanced nervously over her shoulder before shutting the door quickly behind her. ‘You shouldn't have come,' she hissed.

‘You shouldn't stay,' Miss Manners countered, peering at her friend over the top of her severe spectacles. ‘We can look after you. Keep you safe.'

‘No one can keep me safe. You know that. Not even Colonel Brinkman or your friend Pentecross. Of course,' she realised, ‘you came with them.'

‘And they're waiting for me outside now. You could come too. You can get away from him, you know.
I
did.'

Jane sat on the narrow bed, hands clasped in front of her. ‘Perhaps you're braver than me. But no, I have to stay. Anyway, while I'm here I can help you. Crowley won't help, you know. Oh, he says he will. I'm sure he seems very cooperative. But he won't help unless he thinks he's getting something in return.'

‘He told us about the ceremony.'

‘Keeping you sweet.'

‘He let you talk to Brinkman.'

‘He told me not to say anything. Or as little as possible. I probably told them more than Crowley wanted. That bastard Ralph would rather I said nothing at all. I'll pay for it later, I'm sure.' She looked away, eyes glistening.

‘All the more reason to come with me now.'

Jane shook her head. ‘I was seeing through the eyes of a cat, but Crowley told me not to tell Brinkman that. And there was an image. I didn't tell Crowley about that, though. It was in my mind when I was … connected. That was the overriding impression – a shape.'

‘What shape?'

‘A bit like a figure of eight on its side, but flattened rather than rounded. Two inward facing triangles, with their tips overlapping. Symmetrical.'

Jane looked round for inspiration. ‘Here, I'll show you.'

The room was so small that the bed itself served as a stool for the dressing table. Leaning forward, she could reach the mirror. She breathed heavily on it, misting the glass, then drew the shape she had described with her finger.

Miss Manners turned in the chair to see. ‘What is it?'

Jane shrugged, wiping her hand across the mirror and smearing away the image. ‘A shape. I don't know. It's tangible, though, not symbolic. Not a letter or a drawing. An actual
thing
. And whatever it is, it's important to
them
. Very important. They want it.' She frowned, struggling to remember. ‘No, more than that – they
need
it.'

‘Do you know why?'

Jane shook her head. ‘I could see details, symbols engraved on it, whatever it is. I'll make a drawing and send it to you.' She glanced nervously at the door. ‘You should go. It's not safe here.'

Miss Manners stood up. ‘I know.' Her voice was tinged with sadness. She reached out and took Jane's hands between her own. ‘Last chance.'

Jane smiled weakly. ‘I've had so many last chances. But I have to stay. And one day I'll get even with Rutherford, even if I never get away from Crowley.'

Miss Manners sighed. ‘You know where to find me.'

*   *   *

He watched her leave from the shadows of a doorway across the landing. Rutherford knew Penelope Manners, of course. The one that got away – that thought fuelled his anger.

He gave her time to get down the stairs. So quiet, so certain she had not been seen. Rutherford doubted that Jane had told her anything. He doubted she had anything useful to tell. But she'd pay for it even so. Without really thinking about it, he had unbuckled his belt. He slid it out of the loops and wrapped it several times round his fist, gripping the buckle and letting the length of leather hang free.

*   *   *

Nearly five and half thousand miles away, a black cat melted into the shadows beside the highway. It paused for a moment, an image fixed firmly in its mind – the thing it was hunting for. It could feel it, getting closer, stronger with every step.

But the cat still had a long way to go. The heavy metal collar round its neck glinted in the sunlight as it emerged from the shadows. It had a long way to go, but it would get there. Soon the hunt would be over.

It stopped for a moment to stretch in the weak winter sunlight, reached out its front paws and scraped at the hard ground beside the road.

*   *   *

The sleepers all had numbers. The nurse doing her rounds spared each of them little more than a glance. Her heels echoed on the stone floor of Wewelsburg Castle, headquarters of the Nazi SS, as she walked between the rows of beds. She stopped at one to adjust the drip feeding into the old man's wrist.

In the next bed was a young woman, perhaps 20 years old. A single sheet draped over her body, her blonde hair splayed over the pillow. Number Seventeen. The nurse glanced, moved on. Unless they were reacting, unless a sleeper was somehow connected to an Ubermensch and could
see
what the creature saw, the nurse wasn't interested. She let them sleep on, oblivious.

If she had passed on the other side of the bed, the nurse might have seen Number Seventeen's hand moving. Lying on top of the sheet, the woman's hand was curled into a fist, shaking. As the nurse moved on, the woman's breathing became ragged, sweat breaking out on her forehead.

Slowly she uncurled her fist, the fingers stretching out and scraping at the cotton. Clawing urgently at the sheet beneath the high vaulted ceiling of the castle room.

 

CHAPTER 3

It was unusual for all of Station Z's main staff to be able to get to a meeting at the same time. But Brinkman was pleased to see that he and Miss Manners were joined not just by Major Guy Pentecross and Sarah Diamond but also by Sergeant Green, recently returned from interviewing a pilot about an Unknown Detected Trace. UDT was the designation given to any aircraft sighted or detected but unidentified.

Many were misreportings or Allied aircraft that were later identified. But some were undoubtedly Vril craft. Sarah Diamond had seen one in her previous job in the ATA ferrying aircraft to where they were needed – that was how she came to the attention of Station Z in the first place. While many UDTs turned out to be conventional planes, barrage balloons, or other easily explained phenomena, some pilots had described similar strange, wingless aircraft. Guy Pentecross and Leo Davenport had seen one hidden in a Vril base beneath the desert of North Africa.

Davenport, a well-known stage and screen actor, had been recruited from the Special Operations Executive – the organisation set up by Winston Churchill to ‘set Europe ablaze' with acts of sabotage and espionage against the Nazi occupying forces.

Given Davenport's continuing acting commitments, always in service of the Allied war effort, he was keen to point out, it was surprising he could spare the time. Brinkman thought that Davenport's frequent absences from briefings were as much down to his low boredom threshold as to his civilian schedule.

‘Just popping in, if that's all right,' Davenport announced as he took his place at the table in the main meeting room. He made a point of checking his watch. ‘I'm on the radio at eight-thirty.' He looked round at everyone, his expression decidedly smug, even for him.

‘It's Thursday today, isn't it?' Green said.

‘Absolutely it is,' Davenport agreed.