“I got soul? What does that mean?” I demanded.
Schwarzkrötre shook his head sadly. “I cannot say. Once the undertaker had collected Sebastian, I searched his house from top to bottom, but I found no trace of the Atman. I visited the undertaker’s and searched his body, but again, I found no trace. As Sebastian’s only surviving sibling, I inherited all of his worldly possessions, and I hoped that within them I would discover some clue to the Atman’s whereabouts, but there was none, only my brothers dying words; I got soul.”
Urban-Smith stood and paced to and fro, rubbing his brow anxiously. “What of the microfilm? Could it contain the answer?”
“I have examined it thoroughly, but I do not pretend to possess your legendary powers, Mr Urban-Smith. Perhaps you can make something of it?”
Urban-Smith ceased his pacing. “You have it with you?”
Schwarzkröte fumbled in his trouser pocket and withdrew a key on a ring. “I had all of Sebastian’s possessions moved to a lock-up garage in Cambridge town centre. This is the key. You will find the address written on the key fob.”
He leaned forward to pass the key to Urban-Smith, but froze mid-movement, his arm outstretched. I turned to see what had captured his attention, and an involuntary gasp escaped my lips.
Two sturdy gentlemen dressed in dark suits had entered the room, and I immediately recognised them as being in the employ of Colonel Maksim Smirnitsky, Military Attaché to the Russian Embassy in London. Prior experience had taught me that both men were highly trained, well-armed and utterly ruthless, and I had no desire to become reacquainted.
“It’s Smirnitsky’s goons,” I hissed. Urban-Smith quietly collected and pocketed Schwarzkröte’s keys before turning his attention to the new arrivals, one of whom had posted himself at the room’s entrance while the other made his way to the far side of the room, eyes fixed upon our trio with each ponderous step.
“It is the FSB,” gasped Schwarzkröte. “How did they find me?”
“I believe that it is Rupert and I that they seek. They must have followed us here.”
“Then perhaps all hope is not lost.” Schwarzkröte dragged himself from his seat with a groan and began pulling on his overcoat. “I must be away while there is still time. Please do not attempt to follow me, gentlemen. I have a Luger in my inside pocket, and I am still an excellent shot.”
I noticed the suited sentry at the door stand a little straighter, his hand hovering ready at his chest.
“Fairfax,” I cooed nervously. “Things may be about to become rather fraught.”
“We need to defuse the situation, Rupert. I shall approach our Russian friend over yonder and endeavour to de-escalate the situation before matters overtake us.” Urban-Smith fixed a benign smile on his face, raised his hands to show he was unarmed, and slowly strode towards Smirnitsky’s man on the far side of the room.
The conversation seemed to proceed amiably enough; Urban-Smith was nodding and gesturing, and the suited giant reciprocated in kind. For a moment, it seemed as if providence was on our side, until Urban-Smith’s companion abruptly held up a palm to silence the conversation, and reached into his jacket pocket.
“He’s going for his gun,” cried Konrad Schwarzkröte, and with a bellow of anger, he pulled the Luger from his pocket and opened fire.
◆◆◆
18. Gunfight at The Blue Whale Corral
I was aware of a sudden movement to my left, and then a deafening roar caused me to leap sideways like a disorientated salmon. The Luger roared again, and I saw Urban-Smith dive for cover as the suited FSB man pulled his own weapon and returned fire. The display cabinets behind me exploded inwards, and I threw myself to the floor while terrified museum patrons scattered in all directions.
Schwarzkröte’s gun barked twice more. “Get up, get up!” he demanded, jabbing at me with his foot. He grabbed my collar, and I rose to my feet with my arms raised above my head.
“Steady on,” I protested.
“Move!”
Slowly I edged towards the door with Schwarzkröte crouched behind me, the barrel of his Luger hot against my side. The FSB man across the room sought cover behind the enormous blue whale, and his colleague ducked just outside the doorway as the gallery emptied of its patrons. Within a minute or two, just the five of us remained.
“What’s going on?” One of the museum security staff had arrived to see what the commotion was, but a quick flourish of the FSB man’s Makarov was enough for him to think better of intervening, and he scuttled away, jabbering into his walkie-talkie.
The FSB man across from us had made his way around the side of the blue whale, keeping low and using the vast mammal as cover, whilst the other retreated slowly backwards, his weapon aimed squarely at my chest.
Schwarzkröte manoeuvred me through the doorway and down the hall, the pair of us sidling crablike, in order for my captor to watch both ends of the corridor as we moved towards the main entrance hall.
I became aware of two things; firstly the sound of sirens from the direction in which we were moving, and secondly that I could no longer see either the FSB men or Urban-Smith. I decided that the sound of sirens must have induced them to hurry away through the rear of the museum.
By this time, the building had emptied of patrons, and our progress was unimpeded as we scuttled doorwards.
“I say,” I said as casually as I was able, “they seem to have backed off. I think it would be alright for you to lower your firearm. In fact why don’t you just leave me here? I’m going to take a wander around the reptile section, but…. ouch!”
Schwarzkröte cut short my monologue by means of a sharp jab to the ribs with the barrel of his Luger. “Quiet!”
Nothing is more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing to lose. Schwarzkröte had spent his whole life changing his name, covering his tracks, watching as one by one his comrades were picked off by Nazi hunters, Mossad agents and Interpol; always wondering when the knock on the door would come that would mean capture or death.
His breathing was rapid and loud in my ear, and the barrel of his Luger shook against my side. I knew that any sudden or unexpected movement might provoke him, and I tried to moderate my own breathing, even though my blood surged in my temples and my heart thrummed in my chest like an outboard motor. As we edged through the main hall, past the replica diplodocus skeleton and towards the exit, the sirens reached a crescendo then ceased.
Schwarzkröte shoved me through the main door of the museum, and I stumbled down the concrete steps, coming to an abrupt halt before three police cars which had formed a cordon across the pavement. Two marksmen crouched behind the cordon, rifles trained.
“Lower your weapon and let the hostage go!” The order was barked through a megaphone.
I looked left and right. The road had been closed in both directions, and there were armed police about fifty yards away at both flanks.
“Give it up,” shouted the officer. “There’s nowhere for you to go.”
“Back, back!” hissed Schwarzkröte, pulling me back through the museum entrance, but we were surrounded. At the far end of the hall lurked two more armed officers clad in flak jackets and crouched behind black ballistic shields.
“This is where we part company, Doctor.” Schwarzkröte loosed his grip on my jacket. “Find the Atman. Remember; I got soul.”
The Luger roared, and I stumbled away clutching my ears. I saw movement, but my hearing was awash with shrieking and roaring as if I were falling from an aeroplane, and it was several seconds before I realised what had happened.
Schwarzkröte had placed the gun’s barrel beneath his chin and pulled the trigger. Although his face was intact, there was a ragged hole at the top of his skull, and blood and tissue were spread several feet across the floor. He lay crumpled on his side, his knees pulled up to his stomach in an involuntary spasm. I noticed a faint twitching of his jaw as his shattered nervous system coughed out a last gasp of activity.
A firm hand graspe
d me by the shoulder and manoeuvred me to the side as a police officer kicked the Luger safely out of reach and poked at Schwarzkröte’s corpse with the barrel of his rifle.
“Are you okay?” somebody shouted in my ear.
“I’m fine. I’m a doctor. Let me help him.”
“A bit late for that, Doc. He’s eaten a bullet.”
I allowed myself to be led outside, past the assembled police officers, all talking into radios and waving their arms at one another. I was steered towards one of the patrol cars, and an officer held the door open for me.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“We need a statement, Sir. We’re taking you to Kensington Police Station. Do you want to call anyone?”
I briefly considered calling Urban-Smith, but thought better of it. I shook my head and climbed into the back of the car. I was shaking quite alarmingly, and I felt nauseated and frightened.
“What’s your name, Doc?” The officer in the passenger seat had turned around to face me.
“Rupert Harker.”
“Date of birth?”
“Seventh of March 1976.”
The driver cautiously reversed away from the cordon and onto the Cromwell Road, then headed west.
“Dispatch, this is November-Oscar-Bravo. We’re bringing in a witness, Doctor Rupert Harker, seven-three-seventy six for questioning, over.”
“Roger, November-Oscar-Bravo.”
“How did you arrive so quickly with all those guns?” I asked.
“Since the seventh of July bombings, we’ve been on high alert.”
The radio crackled again. “Please repeat witness details.”
“Doctor Rupert Harker, date of birth, seven-three-seventy six.”
“There’s a red flag against that name. Any activity is to be reported to Detective Chief Inspector Gadget at Wandsworth Police Station.”
The driver issued a short bark of laughter. “Have we been a naughty boy then, Doc?”
I had assumed that things could get no worse, but this came as something of a blow.
“Dear Lord,” I groaned, “deliver me from Inspector Gadget.”
*
Within five minutes, we arrived at Kensington Station, but regretfully, the Lord did not deliver me from Inspector Gadget. I was shown to interview room four, where I paced to and fro for forty minutes until the door was flung open, and the man himself strode in, a malignant leer plastered upon his face and his grim moustache twitching upon his lip like a salted slug in the death throes.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Doctor Halfwit. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Not at all,” I replied with a curtsey. “The pleasure is all mine, Inspector Gadget.”
He flushed scarlet and bared his teeth. “Not Gadget, you ****ing mullet. Gad-jay.” He prowled across to tower over me; a most irritating habit of the habitual bully. “And it’s Chief Inspector now.”
“How in God’s name did that come about?” I grumbled, taking a step backwards.
“It seems,” he replied, brushing some imaginary dust from his lapel, “that my efforts in apprehending the Gorshkovs and ending the scourge of the LOL curse were too much to ignore.”
“Ha!” I spat. “You would still be floundering in the doldrums had it not been for the intervention of legendary detective, author and paranormal researcher and investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith.”
I have to give the man credit; considering his large physique, he had exceptional speed. Barely had the last syllable left my lips when a heavy blow against my chest forced the air from my lungs. I was hoisted bodily into the air and slammed against the wall.
DCI Gadget’s eyes were wide, his nostrils flared and his moustache fluttered like a crisp packet in a typhoon.
“Say that again, pygmy, and I will fold you up and keep you in my pocket until tonight, when I will use you as a contraceptive. Go on; I dare you.”
In response, I clamped my mouth closed and shook my head. Despite Gadget’s goading to repeat myself, it would have required a car jack to force my mouth open, and ultimately he relented and deposited me back on the floor, shaking and mute.
“Sit down,” he growled.
I took a seat at the interview room table, and Gadget parked himself across from me. There was a tape recorder on the table. Gadget opened a new tape, inserted it into the recorder and began it running.
“Witness interview, Doctor Rupert Harker, Tuesday the ninth of January 2007, four-thirteen p.m, interviewer Detective Chief Inspector Dominic Gad-jay.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned nastily at me. “Alright then, Doctor. Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing at the Museum? Was it just a day out, or had you gone to meet someone?”
I had no choice but to disgorge the legumes; as witness to a man’s death, any attempt to withhold the truth could see me charged with perverting the course of justice.
“Fairfax received a call at lunchtime. Some fellow had information which he wanted to pass on in person relating to a case that Fairfax is working on.”
“Oh, really?” sneered DCI Gadget. “What case might that be?”
“This chap had information relating to the attacks on the three football stadia.”
“Go on.”
And so I related the tale, starting with our arrival at St Pancras and culminating with Schwarzkröte’s demise. I explained the existence of the Apple of Eden, and its current resting place beneath the terraces of Wottenham Town Football Ground. Gadget listened dispassionately and allowed me to complete my narrative uninterrupted.
“And that’s all there is to tell.” I sighed and sat back in my chair.
“Who were the two other men?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
He arched his eyebrows. “Is that a fact? They just appeared out of thin air?”
“Schwarzkröte said something about the FSB. Just before he pulled his gun.”
“And where was your friend, Irksome-Smith, while you were being menaced by an octogenarian?”
“He went for help. I assume it was he that summoned the emergency services.”
“How very convenient,” said Gadget, drumming his fingers upon the table top. We scowled at one another across the table for a minute or so until the drumming ceased. His scowl faded to be replaced by the type of grin that I fancy a crocodile may sport were it to spy a buffalo at a water hole. I had preferred the scowl.
“You do realise, don’t you, Dr Harker, that you have just confessed to aiding and abetting a war criminal?”
“Aiding and abetting?” I gaped at the man as if he were a lunatic. “He kidnapped me at gunpoint. I’m the victim here.”
The response was silence.
“Am I to be charged, Detective Chief Inspector?”
More silence. I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, but I was the innocent party, and we both recognised the fact.
Gadget looked at his wristwatch. “Interview terminated at four fifty seven.” He switched off the tape recorder and rose from his chair. “**** off out of my interview room, microbe.”
“What about the football ground?” I demanded. “You need to stop the Fervent Fist from securing the Archive.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
I struck the table with my fist. “These people are dangerous, Gad-jay. They cannot be allowed to succeed.”
“I’ll station an officer at the entrance; satisfied?”
“Mark my words, Gad-jay,” I said as I rose from the table and stomped to the door. “You ignore my words at your peril.”
As I reached for the door handle, he stopped me with an, ‘oy!’
I paused but did not turn round. The sight of his wretched moustache had nauseated me, and I could not bear to set eyes upon it again.
“Don’t make me come looking for you,” he cautioned. “Next time you might not find me in such a good mood.”
◆◆◆
19. Seeking Solace at The Blue Belvoir
It was well after eight when I finally crossed the threshold of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews. The house was empty, so I showered, shaved and changed and called for a taxi to my club, The Blue Belvoir on the Spawn.
I requested a table far back in the corner, where I sat brooding until a slim, dark-haired young lady clad only in her undergarments came to take my order.
“Hello, Doctor. How are you this evening?”
“I am both hungry and sober, Lexi; two problems which I hope a large club sandwich and a double vodka and orange will rectify.”
She leaned over to whisper in my ear, affording a fine view of her firm, young cleavage. “Is there anything else that I can help you rectify?” she purred, resting her hand on my upper thigh.
“Not tonight, thank you. I am hoping to drink myself into a state of impotence.”
“Awww.” She pouted sulkily. “I think that Nell is having a bad influence on you.”
Her words jarred against me, and I removed her hand from my thigh. “Make that two double vodka and oranges please, Lexi.”
She slid away across the floor, and I turned my attention to my fellow patrons. Tuesday is not a busy evening at The Blue Belvoir, and the other members were spread liberally across the club, smoking, drinking and exchanging banter, but I was in no mood for such frivolity. The day’s events had vexed me heinously, and I was starting to fear for Urban-Smith’s safety.
Presently, my refreshment arrived, and I devoured the sandwich and both drinks lustily. I was still thirsty and sober, so I ordered a further two drinks, which I made short work of. A warm glow was spreading through my chest and abdomen, so I loosened my collar and rolled my sleeves up, leaning back in my chair to stare at the ceiling awhile. It was shortly after this that the evening’s entertainment commenced, and first to take the stage was none other than Nell’s close associate, Clara.
A pounding disco beat throbbed from the speakers about the room, and Clara took to the stage dressed as a nun, albeit a bare-breasted nun with a whip and clear stilettos. It was my suspicion that Nell and Clara’s relationship was more than Platonic, and as I watched Clara twirl about the pole, slowly unpeeling her latex habit, I had to concede that in the throes of passion, there was neither man nor woman who would be likely to crawl over Clara in order to reach me.
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Page 16
