Department 19: Battle Lines (64 page)

“Lamberton.”

The vampire froze, his arm raised. Then, ever so slowly, he lowered it, and turned to face his master.

Valentin Rusmanov was staring at his servant with the most terrible look of disappointment that Paul Turner had ever seen. His eyes burned a pale, melancholy red and his mouth was curled downwards, as though he had just tasted something unpleasant.

“Did you do these things?” he asked. “Do not lie to me, old friend. Not now.”

Lamberton stared wretchedly at Valentin. His throat was working furiously, as though he was searching for some combination of words that would mean he could avoid lying to his master. In the end, what emerged was almost a shriek of misery.

“I did, my lord,” he cried. “I’m sorry, forgive me, oh, forgive me, my lord. I did it for you.”

Turner raised his T-Bone without realising he was doing so and levelled it at Valentin Rusmanov. Cal Holmwood, who had been watching the scene play out with a look of grim determination on his lined face, did the same, as Operator Nelson levelled her Daybreaker.

“For me?” asked Valentin. He ignored the arsenal of weaponry pointing at him; his focus was entirely on his servant. “What do you mean?”

“He came to me, my lord,” said Lamberton. He had begun to cry, great sobs that shuddered through his narrow frame. “One of
them
, he came to me while you slept and told me what he wanted me to do. He gave me the materials to make the devices and the console, and told me to hide them until it was time. He would have destroyed you, my lord, he said he would destroy you in your sleep. I had no choice, my lord. I had to.”

“Who came to you?” asked Valentin. His eyes were darkening, becoming the colour of molten lava. “Who told you?”

“I don’t know his name, my lord. He was here when we arrived. He stood with these men, the first time they came to talk to you.”

Oh Christ
, thought Turner, his heart stopping in his chest.
The Zero Hour Task Force. We came down here together, the morning after they arrived. The morning I started the interrogation.

“What did he look like?” asked Cal Holmwood. The ashen look on his face told Turner that the Interim Director had come to the same realisation as him.

“Tall,” said Lamberton, between sobs. “Black hair. Stood at the back, near Mr Carpenter. That’s all I know, I swear it.”

“That’s Brennan,” said Turner, his voice little more than a whisper. “He’s been in Zero Hour since the beginning, Cal. He knows everything.”

Holmwood stared. “Has he been through ISAT?”

“No.”

“Find him. Run his chip.”

The Security Officer pulled his console from his belt and searched for Richard Brennan. The system returned a result almost immediately.

“He’s here,” said Turner, relief flooding through him. “On the grounds. Out by the runway.”

An alarm rang out from Holmwood’s console; he swore and grabbed it from his belt. “I have to brief Jack,” he said. “Finish this, then find Brennan. Don’t let anyone else do it. You find him, Paul, and you bring him to me.”

He turned and strode away down the cellblock without waiting for his Security Officer to answer. Turner watched him go, then pointed his T-Bone at Valentin’s butler’s chest.

“Lamberton,” he said. “You are hereby sentenced to immediate destruction, for the attempted murders of members of this Department.”

The vampire’s sobbing intensified, and he threw a pleading look at his master. “My lord, I beg you. I did it for you, to protect you. I could not let anything happen to you, my lord, after all our time together. I beg you, my lord, don’t let them kill me.”

“You thought that I could not protect myself?” asked Valentin, his voice low. “You thought so little of me? You did not even think to tell me after you were approached?”

“I dealt with it, my lord,” babbled Lamberton. “I did not want to trouble you, my lord, to bother you with something so trivial. I looked after you, my lord, like I always have, like I always will. What are two dead humans, my lord, what difference would they make? They are nothing, my lord, but you,
you
are my whole life, my lord, my everything. I could not take the risk, my lord. Forgive me, oh, forgive me.”

“You were played,” said Valentin. “Your loyalty to me was taken advantage of and so, so easily. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am, my lord,” sobbed Lamberton. “I truly am.”

“Stand clear, Valentin,” said Turner, sighting along the barrel of his T-Bone. “I have a sentence to carry out.”

An expression of naked despair rose on to Lamberton’s face; he cast a final desperate glance at his master, who looked back impassively. Turner breathed out and squeezed the trigger of his weapon. The bang of exploding gas was deafening in the confined space of the cell, an echoing thunderclap that rang through his ears. The stake exploded from the T-Bone’s barrel and rocketed towards the vampire butler. A millisecond later, the wire that trailed behind it went slack as Valentin plucked the projectile out of the air.

Oh shit
, thought Turner.

Valentin turned the stake over in his hand. “I cannot allow you to destroy my servant, Major Turner,” he said, without so much as glancing in the Security Officer’s direction.

Lamberton breathed out a great bubbling mess of relief. “Thank you, my lord,” he sobbed. “Oh, thank—”

Valentin moved.

The ancient vampire threw the metal stake aside, stepped forward and thrust his hand into Lamberton’s chest. The servant’s eyes flew open as it disappeared up to the wrist; from inside him came the sickening crunch of breaking bone. Lamberton threw back his head to scream, but no sound came out; instead, an enormous jet of dark red blood erupted from his gaping mouth, spraying against the ceiling before falling to the floor. With a grunt of effort, Valentin pulled his hand out of his servant’s chest and held Lamberton’s beating heart up before his staring, stricken face.

“You have disgraced yourself,” he said, staring into his valet’s wide, outraged eyes. “And, by extension, me. I am extremely disappointed.”

Lamberton made a series of awful, strangled noises, as blood poured out of the gaping hole in his chest. Valentin held his gaze for a long moment, then crushed the slowing heart in his fist. The heavy muscle burst under the pressure and a millisecond later the rest of Lamberton did likewise; he exploded with a huge, wet bang, splattering across his cell and the pale face of his master.

For several seconds, the soft patter of falling blood was the only sound in the cell. Then Valentin turned to face Turner, soaked in the blood of his oldest friend.

“I’m afraid that was something I could only have allowed myself to do,” he said. “I hope you can understand. And that you will accept my sincere apologies for the things he did in my name.”

Turner stared at the gore-streaked figure before him and nodded slowly. He pressed the button that wound his stake back into his T-Bone and holstered it, his eyes never leaving Valentin’s.

“This Brennan,” continued Valentin. “The man my servant was in league with. He is still in the grounds of this facility?”

“Yes,” said Turner. He was still attempting to process what had just happened before him. “Probably running for the fence.”

“You are going to collect him?”

“That’s right,” said Turner. He could feel his equilibrium starting to return, feel his mind beginning to regain its sharpness.

“Major Turner,” said Valentin. “I would very much like to accompany you. I feel that I must make amends for the crimes of my servant.”

Turner opened his mouth to say no, then reconsidered.

He’s here
, he thought.
And he’s just destroyed his oldest friend. We’re going to have to start trusting him at some point. There’s nothing we can do to him if he’s lying, so we may as well start using him.

“Nelson,” he said. “Call for a Security Division Section and stay here until they relieve you.”

The young Operator nodded, and he turned his attention back to the remaining occupant of the cell. “Come on then,” he said. “Before he gets away.

Valentin blurred through the ultraviolet wall. Turner stared, marvelling again at the old vampire’s astonishing speed.

“Ready when you are, Major Turner,” said the vampire, and smiled.

Paul Turner looked at Valentin Rusmanov as the lift they were standing in ascended; the vampire appeared supernaturally calm considering what he had just done, and who he had done it to.

This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever don
e
, he thought.
Which is really saying something after today.

The lift slowed to a halt, before the doors opened on the long Level 0 corridor. Turner set off at a flat sprint, pulling his console from his belt as he ran. Valentin flew effortlessly alongside him, peering down at the small rectangular screen.

“Where is he?” asked the vampire. “Is he gone?”

“No,” said Turner. “He’s still out by the runway. It doesn’t look like he’s moving.”

They reached the wide double doors that led into the hangar. The Security Officer dipped his shoulder and burst through them without slowing; Valentin swooped gracefully through behind him.

The huge doors stood open to the night sky; the rippling underside of the vast hologram that shielded the base from enemy satellites and reconnaissance planes loomed overhead, blocking out all but the brightest stars. Turner banked like a sprinter entering the final bend and accelerated towards the wide grounds of the Loop, his console in one hand.

“How far?” asked Valentin.

“Six hundred metres,” replied Turner. “Straight ahead.”

“Forgive me, Major Turner,” said Valentin, then he disappeared from Turner’s view. The Security Officer skidded to a halt, shock barrelling through him.

No no no. You treacherous bastard.

He was reaching for his T-Bone when impossibly strong hands gripped him beneath his arms and lifted him effortlessly into the air.

Valentin Rusmanov rocketed forward like a bullet from a gun, sweeping Paul Turner along mere centimetres above grass and tarmac that were little more than a blur; the speed of the vampire was absolutely dizzying, impossible and unnatural. Less than two seconds later Valentin pirouetted upwards and spun back down to the ground, landing as gracefully as a butterfly. He released his grip on Turner, who staggered like a drunk.

“Where is he?” asked the vampire. “I can’t see him. Or smell him.”

With some difficulty, Turner focused his attention on his console. According to the map on the screen, they were less than fifteen metres away from Operator Brennan. In front of him, a wide black shape sat in the flickering darkness beneath the hologram.

“What’s that?” asked Valentin. “It smells remarkable.”

“It’s a garden,” replied Turner, pulling his MP5 from its holster. “A rose garden. It’s a memorial to two Operators who died out here.”

“Is he in there? This man we’re looking for?”

“So my map says,” replied Turner. He stowed his console and drew his torch from his belt.

“Come on then,” said Valentin, and floated across the grass towards the garden. Turner strode alongside him, until they reached the opening in the stone walls that served as the entrance to the garden. He stepped up on to the wooden boards that ran between the huge rose beds, turned on his torch, and shone it round the dark garden, already certain of what he was going see.

Nothing.

There was no sign of Richard Brennan.

His torch beam picked out a splash of colour at the rear of the garden and he walked towards it. Valentin floated silently alongside him, having clearly also realised that their pursuit had been in vain. In front of them stood the wooden bench that had been dedicated to the memories of John and George Harker; their names were engraved on a bronze plaque bolted to the centre of the backrest. Turner shone his torch slowly across it and saw what his map had led him to.

A pool of blood lay on the wooden seat of the bench. It was almost dry, but it had run when it was fresh, spilling between the boards and dripping on to the ground. In the middle of the dark liquid, a small square of metal gleamed in the white beam of Turner’s torch.

“He cut his chip out,” said Turner, softly. “Cut it out of his own arm. He could be anywhere.”

Valentin stood beside him, looking down at the gory present Brennan had left for whoever came looking for him. “There’s something written on the bench,” he said. “I can smell the paint.”

Turner widened the beam of his torch, knowing what he was going to see.

Two words had been scrawled across the back rest, desecrating the bronze plaque with bright green spray paint.

HE RISES

For a long moment, neither man nor vampire said a word.

Paul Turner suddenly felt more tired than he could remember feeling at any point in his long, full life. There was a limit to how much any man could handle, could absorb and still continue to put one foot in front of the other, and he felt, for the first time, as though he was on the verge of reaching his. Everything seemed dark, a tunnel in which the light at the end was slipping further and further away. Brennan was gone and with him, presumably, every discussion they had ever had about Dracula: their theories, assumptions, and the beginnings of their strategy to attempt to deal with him.

This did not put them back to square one; it put them much further back than that.

“I can find them, you know,” said Valentin. His voice was full of quiet fire. “Dracula. My brother. If you let me, I can find them. I can return and tell you where they are.”

Turner shrugged. “If you decide to leave,” he said, “I think we both know that I can’t stop you.”

“I suspect you would give it quite the try,” said Valentin, a smile rising on his face. “But I’d rather I didn’t have to find out. I’d rather go with your blessing.”

Turner studied the ancient vampire’s face for a long moment. “Go,” he said, and smiled. “Go and find them. Then come back. Don’t make me look stupid for trusting you.”

“Count on it,” said Valentin. He looked at Turner for a brief moment, then rose into the sky and was gone.