Department 19: Battle Lines (60 page)

“Yes, sir,” replied Matt.

“Because of the correlation between the age of a vampire and the power of the men and women they turn. Am I understanding correctly?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m assuming that this isn’t in any way your fault?”

Matt frowned. “No, sir.”

“Then don’t apologise. You’re the bearer of bad news, not the cause of it.” Holmwood dragged his hands through his hair, then slammed them down on the surface of his desk, causing Matt to flinch. “Goddammit,” he said. “You’re sure about this? There’s no chance you could be wrong?”

Matt considered this. He had come straight up to the Interim Director’s quarters from the Science Division labs, his heart pounding in his chest, his palms clammy with sweat. He had examined his theory from every angle as he made his way up through the Loop, looking for a flaw in his logic, looking for an assumption that couldn’t be supported.

He had found nothing.

“I could be, sir,” he said. “But I don’t think I am. It fits with the evidence we’ve seen of the power of the escapees, and it solidifies the connection between age and power, including from vampire to victim. The accepted wisdom has always been that older vampires just got stronger over time, like humans get stronger the more they exercise. And I think that
is
the case. But I now think that the virus in a vampire’s system changes too.
It
becomes more powerful.”

“Meaning that when an old vampire turns someone, that someone will be stronger than if they’d been turned by a younger vampire?”

“Yes. For instance, Valentin would create very strong vampires.”

“Like Lamberton.”

Matt nodded.

“But how could we not know this before?” asked Holmwood. “With all our research?”

“I don’t know,” said Matt. “But I have a theory.”

“Go on.”

“We never saw the connection because I don’t think old vampires turn people very often. They feed and they kill. Which is logical – anyone they turned would be powerful. A potential threat. Look at Larissa; she’s so strong, even though she’s only been turned for a few years. Which makes sense because she was turned by Grey, who’s supposed to be the oldest vampire in Britain. But according to her, he never meant to turn her. He
intended
to kill her.”

“Jesus,” said Holmwood.

“I hope I’m wrong, sir. Nobody will be more pleased than me if I am.”

“I will be,” said Holmwood, and forced a smile. “But I’d also be very surprised. Why do you think it’s Dracula?”

Matt shrugged. “Theoretically, it could be any old vampire – Valeri, or someone else we don’t know about. But if it’s Dracula, then it fits, doesn’t it? The graffiti we’ve been seeing doesn’t say, ‘He will rise.’ It says, ‘He rises.’ Let’s say we’re right, and Dracula himself has not returned to full power; he can still send his servants out with syringes full of his plasma and infect all these prisoners. It takes up our time, when we could be looking for him, and it puts him out there in the world, causing chaos. It just… it feels like something he would do.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” said Holmwood, and sighed deeply. “So what do you want me to do about this?”

“I’ve no idea, sir,” said Matt. “I just thought you should know.”

“So should the rest of the Departments,” said Holmwood. “Is there any way we can prove your theory? I mean, prove it beyond any doubt?”

“We could prove that the virus evolves if Larissa was here,” said Matt. “There should be similarities between the virus in her plasma and in that of the escapees.”

“Larissa’s in Nevada,” said Holmwood.

“I know, sir.”

“I could bring her home,” said the Interim Director. “If it would help?”

“It would help,” said Matt. “But that’s not my decision, sir.”

“OK. What about proving that Dracula was involved in all this?”

“That’s possible too, sir,” said Matt. “If we had a sample of his DNA. Even a partial one. I don’t think we’d get a one hundred per cent match, because the vampire virus alters the victim’s DNA rather than replacing it. But I would expect to see enough similarities between his DNA and that of the Science Division’s prisoners for us to be pretty sure.”

“All right,” said Holmwood. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m assuming I don’t need to tell you that this goes no further than this room?”

“No, sir,” said Matt. “I understand.”

“OK. Good work, Mr Browning. Exceptionally good work. Dismissed.”

Matt nodded, crossed the Interim Director’s quarters and pulled open the heavy door. He stepped through it and was on his way back down to the Lazarus Project when his phone buzzed into life.

He pulled it out of his pocket and saw Kate Randall’s name on the small screen. If he had been at his desk, he would not have answered it. But for once, her timing was perfect; he pressed the green ANSWER button and held the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Kate,” he said. “I was just—”

“Matt, listen to me,” interrupted Kate. “We’ve got trouble. Meet me in the hangar in five minutes.”

Matt paused. Kate’s tone was even and businesslike, but beneath it he could hear something that sounded horribly close to panic. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Kate, what’s the matter?”

“My dad,” she said. “And yours, Matt. Your dad. We got an Echelon intercept from someone calling himself Kevin McKenna. He said he was being held hostage by Albert Harker, with Pete Randall and Greg Browning.”

For a long moment, Matt didn’t respond; terror had struck him completely dumb.

My dad? With Kate’s dad? And Albert Harker? How can that be possible?

“Are you sure?” he heard himself say.

“I’m not sure of anything,” replied Kate. “But I can’t take the chance. I’m going, Matt. I’m going now. Will you come with me?”

Fear crashed through Matt in a great, freezing wave. This was close to the worst thing he could imagine: his father, the man he had loved and hated in equal measure, in need of help. An opportunity for him to fail his father, to let him down yet again. Yet another chance to be the old, useless Matt he had started to believe he had left behind forever.

“Kate…” he said, helplessly.

“I won’t think any less of you,” she said. “I promise I won’t. But I need to know right now, Matt. Are you coming with me or not?”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Wimp. Failure. Disappointment. Mummy’s boy. Coward.

“I’ll see you in the hangar,” he said.

Cal Holmwood watched Matt Browning pull the door to his quarters shut behind him and sat back in his chair. He had no doubt that the brilliant, nervous teenager’s theory was correct; in less than three months, he had come to trust him completely.

Just under three hundred escaped patients effectively turned by Dracula himself
, he thought, a chill running up his spine.
Thousands more around the world. So much worse than any of us thought.

He sat forward and pressed a series of keys on his desktop terminal. The wall screen opposite lit up, displaying the Blacklight network. Holmwood opened the secure video messaging program and scrolled through his contacts list.

Matt’s word is good enough for me. But the others are going to need proof.

He highlighted Aleksandr Ovechkin’s name and clicked CALL. A few seconds later a young SPC Operator appeared on the screen, wearing an expression of surprise.

“Director Holmwood,” said the man. “I am Yevgeny Alimov, Colonel Ovechkin’s assistant. I’m very sorry, I do not have your call on my schedule.”

“Don’t worry, Operator Alimov,” said Holmwood. “This isn’t a scheduled call. I need to speak to the Director.”

Alimov looked relieved. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I will see if he is available. Excuse me.”

The young man got up from his chair and disappeared from the frame. Holmwood waited as patiently as he was able; he was on the verge of shouting in frustration at the screen when the large grey-clad figure of Aleksandr Ovechkin settled into the empty chair and smiled at him.

“Cal,” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

“I’m well, Aleksandr,” he replied. “Yourself?”

“I cannot complain. Each night we destroy vampires, each night more are turned. Such things do not change.”

“How are you doing with the Black Dolphin break?”

Ovechkin shrugged. “Half have been destroyed, although every single one of them has fought hard. We have surveillance on half of the remainder. The rest are gone. You?”

“Similar,” said Holmwood. “The breakouts are why I’m calling you, Aleksandr. I’ve come into some information. It’s only a theory at the moment, but I can prove it with your help.”

“Where did it come from?” asked Ovechkin.

“From one of my Lieutenants. He works in the Lazarus Project, alongside the girl you sent us.”

“Natalia Lenski,” said Ovechkin. “Is she doing well? It was hard to part with her.”

“Extremely well, according to Professor Karlsson. She was involved in an incident two days ago, which caused her some minor injuries, but nothing for you to worry about.”

“That is good. So what is the information?”

Cal took a deep breath and began to explain Matt Browning’s theory to the SPC Director. It took him several minutes; the concepts were neither as easy or as familiar to him as they were to Matt, so he forced himself to go slowly, to paint as clear and convincing a picture as possible for his Russian counterpart. When he was finished, Ovechkin fell silent for a long moment.

“You trust this boy?” he asked, eventually. “You think he is correct?”

Holmwood nodded. “I do. I’m going to order my Science Division to fully investigate his theory, but I need something from you first.”

“Tell me and it is done.”

Holmwood took a deep breath. “I need you to send me the DNA profile you extracted from Dracula’s ashes. Matt thinks there should be a sufficient match with the DNA of our captive escapees to be sure.”

Ovechkin stared at him. The Russian Colonel’s face was monolithic, and not prone to displaying emotion; Holmwood was therefore surprised and relieved when a smile curled on to the SPC Director’s face.

“You know, Cal,” said Ovechkin. “If you had asked me that three months ago, I would have denied that we had ever been able to extract a profile from the ashes.”

“And now?” asked Holmwood.

“I will have my geneticists send it over to you,” said Ovechkin, the smile still wide on his face. “Providing that you share your results with us as soon as you have them?”

“Of course,” said Holmwood. “Thank you, Aleksandr.”

“It is not a problem. We are all on the same side now, are we not?”

I hope so
, thought Holmwood.

“We are,” he said. “I’ll send you the results as soon as we have them.”

“All right.
Do svidaniya
, Cal.”

“Goodbye, Aleksandr.”

Holmwood reached out, cut the connection, and released a long sigh of relief. A new spirit of cooperation had settled over the supernatural Departments of the world in the wake of the furious, damning speech he had made after Admiral Henry Seward was taken by Valeri Rusmanov. It had been a painful process, as historical rivalries and decades-old layers of mistrust were put aside in the service of a common goal, and Holmwood was far from naïve enough to believe that no secrets remained among them, but it was a vast improvement on the situation that had been the status quo.

He got up and walked across to his small kitchen. He pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge, carried it back to his desk, and scrolled up through his contacts. When he reached Bob Allen’s name, he highlighted it and hovered his finger over the button.

She’s going to hate you for doing this to her
, he thought.

Holmwood hesitated, giving himself a moment to think through his decision. Matt said that having Larissa home would help, and he had no reason to doubt the young Lieutenant. But there was more to it than that; the darkness was gathering around his Department and Cal had a sudden desire to close ranks, to bring his people home.

She’ll understand. It was never meant to be a holiday.

Then guilt flooded through him, as he remembered the man who was locked in the cell beneath Dreamland, the man he realised he had not thought about in a very long time. He had set Julian Carpenter aside, as there were far more important things happening; now, perhaps, it was time to deal with the man he had once called his friend.

Holmwood clicked CALL and waited for the connection to be established.

Two birds with one stone
, he thought.
I hope they can both forgive me.

Kate put her phone back in her pocket and shut her eyes for a long moment.

She was trying to think clearly, trying to sort out what she needed to be aware of and prepare for, but she could not stop picturing her father, her poor, dear father who had never hurt a fly, in the clutches of Albert Harker. How the vampire had found him, or Matt’s dad, didn’t matter now. All that mattered was destroying him and making sure her father was safe. Explanations, recriminations: they could all wait.

She grabbed her console from her belt and tapped rapidly on its screen. The message was short; it ordered the on-duty pilot to meet her in the hangar in five minutes, on Zero Hour authorisation. The high level of classification would ensure their departure was not challenged.

And to be honest
, thought Kate, as she stowed her console and ran for the hangar,
I’m not even lying. This is the definition of Zero Hour business.

She bolted through the open-plan desks of the Intelligence Division, oblivious to the curious looks she attracted from the staff. Kate pushed through the main door without slowing, cut right, and accelerated towards the double doors that opened on to the Blacklight hangar; they slammed open with a loud thud. She ran across the hangar, her boots cracking on the tarmac floor, and hauled open the door to the armoury. There was no time to go down to her quarters and retrieve her own gear, so the guns and equipment on the stainless-steel racks would have to do.

Thankfully, there was a locker at the end of the room that contained a number of spare uniforms. She stripped off her clothes, not caring in the slightest whether anyone was watching through the plastic window behind her, and pulled on the familiar black bodysuit. She zipped it up, and was attaching weapons and kit to her belt when Matt burst into the room, his face pale, his breathing hard and shallow.