The War in the Dark

by Nick Setchfield

  ‘Malcolm’s dead,’ said Winter, bluntly.

  Griggs lifted his left eye from the microdot reader. ‘What?’

  ‘Malcolm’s dead. He was murdered. In London. I don’t know who by. Not yet.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Not really my sense of humour. Bit bleak.’

  Griggs stood up, pushing the chair away. He was clearly winded by the news. Finally, he exhaled. ‘The poor old sod. No wonder he’s gone dark since Monday.’

  He gestured at the microdot reader. ‘So why did he give you this? What’s the deal, mate? This is proper defence of the realm stuff.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Winter. ‘He didn’t have a chance to brief me. I’m piecing all this together as I go. I imagine it’s some kind of bargaining chip. And if Harzner’s holding one of his intelligence auctions in Vienna then this might just be our bid. Do you have a photograph of him?’

  ‘Harzner?’ said Griggs, distractedly. ‘I’ve got better than a photograph.’

  He tugged on a cord that hung from the ceiling. A canvas screen unfurled in the corner, blank and square. With the blinds drawn tight to remove any remaining trace of light, Griggs positioned himself behind the projector. There was a chuckling rattle of parts as the machine was switched on. The wheel of film began to spin. Dust specks swirled in the beam.

  ‘Take a look. I shot this yesterday.’

  The film hit the canvas. It was black and white and the silent footage had a stuttering quality, as if random frames were missing. Winter instantly recognised the street outside, the sturdy building opposite. This was Blutgasse, filmed from this very room. As he watched, the main door to the building opened and a young woman emerged. She had blonde hair and her strong, angular Slavic features had a hunting bird aspect to them.

  ‘Who’s the woman?’

  ‘Harzner’s private secretary. They’re inseparable, those two. Lucky sod that he is.’

  A man followed her out of the building. For a moment his face was obscured by an awning, allowing Winter to focus on his clothes. The shoes gleamed in the monochrome film. He wore a faultlessly tailored suit in dark check and there was an unorthodox number of rings coiled around his fingers. The hands were large, like hams bursting from the cuffs of his shirt. He carried a cane.

  ‘Emil Harzner?’

  ‘That’s the feller. And he’s ready for his close-up.’

  The lens tightened on the man’s face, the speckled image coming into focus. Winter estimated that Harzner had to be in his late fifties. He was heavily built, with a slab of a head. A grey, spade-shaped beard framed his face. He had the look of a prosperous pilgrim or a Victorian botanist.

  ‘He’s got star quality,’ said Griggs. ‘I’ll give the bugger that.’

  As the footage flickered Harzner and the woman were met by a uniformed chauffeur who fussed them into a waiting Opel Kapitän saloon. Moments later the car pulled away and exited the frame. The camera kept focus on the empty street and then the image dissolved. An almost subliminal scrawl of numbers chased across the screen.

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Griggs. ‘Malcolm won’t be giving the orders now. Do I keep this little surveillance operation going or what?’

  A new strip of film began to thread through the projector. It was grainier and less distinct than the previous footage – clearly it had been snatched at night – but Winter knew this street, too. It was the one he was staying on. There was his hired Daimler, parked close to the hotel. It was obviously yesterday evening. Griggs must have been positioned close by, quite invisible. As a voyeur, he had talent.

  ‘I mean,’ said Griggs, ‘who do we report to? Who’s calling the shots now? Faulkner?’

  Winter watched, distracted, as he saw himself on screen, opening the driver’s door and easing out of the Daimler. It was unnerving to see himself so oblivious, so vulnerable. How had he not realised he was being watched? His professional instincts had failed him.

  ‘I take it Malcolm did keep Faulkner in the loop on this?’ asked Griggs. ‘I know he was always a law unto himself…’

  Winter saw himself turn to face the concealed lens. And his blood chilled.

  The man on the screen, the man who wore his clothes, the man who had driven his car… That man had no face. He was eyeless, featureless, blank.

  ‘I just want to know the chain of command,’ continued Griggs. ‘That’s all. Keep it straight.’

  Winter stepped closer to the screen. He extended his right hand and touched the image, the film playing on his flesh.

  ‘Why do I have no face?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The film. I don’t have a face. Rewind it.’ And then he said it again, more urgently, ‘Rewind the film!’

  Griggs did as he was asked, freezing the frame of Winter emerging from the car. And then he, too, approached the screen, his brow creasing as he peered at the image. He gave a considered snort.

  ‘You’re right. You don’t have a face. Well, don’t take it personally, mate. Probably just phosphor burn.’

  Winter pressed the tips of his fingers to the canvas, tracing the void where his face should have been. ‘I’ve seen this,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘I’ve seen this before.’

  ‘All right,’ said Griggs, bemused. ‘You’ve seen it before. Now, I’m dying for a slash. Try not to get any weirder when I’m gone, all right?’

  Winter barely registered the man’s absence from the room. His gaze stayed fixed on the frozen image.

  And then he turned away. He walked to the desk and picked up the Polaroid camera. This time he held it directly in front of his face. He stared down into the wide circular lens, seeing his head reflected dimly in the glass, the size of a toy soldier. He pressed the button that summoned an instant photograph. There was a high electric whine. The camera ejected a rectangular print, wet and empty.

  Winter gripped the edge of the print between thumb and forefinger, willing the image to develop. It did so, killingly slowly, its vague, blurred shapes finally forming into a picture.

  The nicotine-stained ceiling was captured perfectly. So were his clothes: the houndstooth coat and the thin knitted tie. But where his features should have been there was only a milky smear of emulsion. It was as if the chemicals themselves had refused to give him a face.

  Sensing Griggs’s return Winter crushed the print and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

  ‘How’s the existential crisis?’ asked Griggs, irritatingly upbeat as he entered the room, the smell of carbolic soap on his hands.

  ‘I’m coping with it,’ said Winter.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Now I’m going to knock on Emil Harzner’s door.’

  Griggs beamed, imagining he was sharing the joke. And then the grin died on his face as he realised Winter was serious.

  ‘It’ll compromise this entire operation!’

  ‘Let’s see how he copes with provocation. You stay here. Wait for my orders.’

  Winter walked out of the room. As he did so he heard Griggs mutter beneath his breath. He caught the words. ‘Public-school prick…’

  Winter closed the door. He plucked the crumpled Polaroid from his pocket and tossed it to the floor.

  8

  Winter strode across the cobbles of Blutgasse, his pace brisk and purposeful. The throng of old houses reared over him, their shadows clustering on the pavement. He imagined that Griggs would be watching, still concealed in that vigilant little room with its slatted window. He wondered who else was observing him today on this hushed Viennese street.

  Surveillance had its place, of course. But sometimes you had to punch the surface of the rock pool, just to watch the ripples. You never knew which of its hidden occupants might scurry into view.

  It was the kind of move Winter favoured. A risk, of course, but he was prepared to ride the consequences.

  He approached the door of Harzner’s building. A polished plaque declared the man’s name and occupatio
n in neat black letters. EMIL HARZNER. PLASTICS. There was a curious decoration below it – a weather-worn knocker sculpted in the shape of a spider. The creature’s legs cradled the brass ring that stabbed its bloated abdomen. A queasy thing to have on a door, thought Winter.

  He was about to rap the knocker when he spotted the intercom on the wall. He jabbed the buzzer and heard it sound behind the door, shrill and insistent. A moment later a voice crackled through the grille. ‘Ja?’

  Winter leaned close to the intercom. ‘I’d like to see Herr Harzner, please.’

  ‘You have an appointment?’

  It was a woman’s voice. He couldn’t quite place the accent. Eastern European, he felt sure.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then this will not be possible. I am sorry.’

  Possibly Baltic.

  ‘I promise I won’t take up too much of his time.’

  ‘This will not be possible. If you wish to make an appointment you must call the office.’

  ‘I imagine you are the office.’

  When the voice came again it contained a needle of irritation. ‘Herr Harzner is not available this morning. You must make an appointment. Thank you and good day.’

  Winter’s gaze fell on the brass spider. Repellent thing.

  ‘My name is Malcolm Hands.’

  This time the grille remained silent. Winter tilted an ear, hunting for sounds. He felt sure he could hear the bassier tone of a man’s voice, engaged in conversation with the woman. He imagined he was the subject for discussion. Moments later the intercom crackled again, the woman’s voice returning with its familiar metallic edge.

  ‘Please wait by the door.’

  Winter smiled. God bless Malcolm. A name that could open doors, even in death. He heard the sound of someone descending the stairs. Brisk heels tapped across the entrance hall, striking the wooden floor. A latch was unchained, a bolt drawn.

  Presently the door opened.

  ‘Herr Hands.’

  It was the woman he had seen in the footage. Harzner’s personal secretary. In person she was unexpectedly striking, her sleek features matched by fierce blue eyes that regarded him with a chill of suspicion. There was a long, fine scar on her left cheek, trailing below the eye. For a moment he wondered if it was a duelling scar.

  She was tall, too, and her lean frame seemed coiled, as if the skin itself was restraining some inner strength. Winter recognised this quality. She could fight. Maybe she was more than an assistant. A bodyguard, perhaps? It was not unknown.

  She gave a curt, obligatory smile. ‘If you will follow me, please.’

  She led him up the stairs, her movements compact and contained. She carried herself like a blade.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  There was a fractional hesitation before she replied. ‘Sabīne.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sabīne. Where are you from?’

  Again the information felt extracted, not offered. ‘Latvia.’

  ‘Splendid place.’

  The building was smarter than the one Griggs was holed up in but it felt smaller and narrower too. The walls seemed to pinch the staircase. Conversation abandoned, Winter and the woman passed through a clattering succession of glass-fronted doors and finally arrived at a sombre, windowless office, lit by an electric lamp. There was a fug of coffee and cigars – sweetened with the sickly aroma of lilacs – that made Winter very much aware of the lack of air in the room.

  Harzner was at his desk, his eyes down as he studied some papers. He was a dapper whale of a man, not entirely accommodated by the width of his leather chair. Winter noted something else about him, too. For all his imposing physical presence he had a disquieting air of stillness.

  He glanced up. Something flashed in his eyes. Was it recognition?

  ‘Herr Hands,’ said Harzner, a rising inflection hinting at surprise. ‘You are a younger man than I always imagined. Perhaps war promotes us all beyond our years.’

  ‘Herr Harzner. It’s good to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise. Please, do sit down.’

  Winter did so, sensing the woman positioning herself against the wall behind him. He was aware that he had his back to the door.

  ‘Do excuse the Viennese weather. It is capricious in autumn.’

  There was an elegant apple pastry in front of the German, generously christened with icing sugar. Harzner was picking raisins out of it, his huge fingers surprisingly nimble.

  ‘Would you care for some apfelstrudel? It’s fresh. And especially fine.’

  Winter waved the offer away. ‘Thank you. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘It is your loss.’ Harzner plucked another raisin from the pastry. ‘I imagine you find this a little… oh, what word do you have? Fussy? Fastidious? Is that it? I lose count of your marvellous words.’

  He pinched the raisin between his thumb and his forefinger, regarding it with amused distaste. It left a tiny dark stain on the whorls of his skin.

  ‘I was raised in poverty, I confess. And once a child has seen dead flies in his daily bread then the raisin is perhaps not so appealing.’

  He added the unwanted raisin to a pile on an antique china dish. ‘And now, do tell me, how may I help my dear friends in British Intelligence?’

  Winter knew that this was a poker game. He had no idea how much Malcolm had known of Harzner’s activities. Equally he had no idea how informed Harzner was about Malcolm. Had the two already communicated? All that he had was the microfilm. A nerve gas formula. It had to be a bargaining chip. But if it wasn’t? What if Malcolm had wanted him to take possession of it for some other reason? It was a bastard of a thing to gamble.

  ‘I have our bid,’ said Winter, softly.

  Harzner’s eyes glimmered across the desk. ‘Excellent. I trust it is of considerable value?’

  ‘It is. Defence of the realm. We’re reluctant to trade but we must.’

  ‘Of course. The item for which you are bidding has, as you know, significant rarity value. There is much demand for it. From your nation’s enemies. And your imagined allies.’

  Winter took care to keep his expression neutral. ‘It’s absolutely genuine?’

  Harzner visibly bristled, his great stillness momentarily broken. Winter caught the cloying perfume of lilacs again. This time he realised Harzner was doused with the scent.

  ‘I have no wish to be insulted by Her Majesty’s drudges.’

  ‘I apologise, Herr Harzner. As you can imagine, we need to be sure.’

  ‘And as you can imagine my reputation is above reproach. Perhaps I shall remove the British from the bidding.’

  Winter gave a conciliatory smile. ‘Again, apologies. Your reputation is beyond question. If I offended you, I’m sorry.’

  Harzner’s mouth curled beneath the thatch of beard, his lips parting to reveal gleaming veneers. ‘Forgive me. I never tire of making British Intelligence crawl. Now, let me show you something. Sabīne, fetch the box.’

  The silent woman detached herself from the wall and walked to a waist-high shelf behind Harzner. She took hold of a small rectangular casket and placed it on the desk. It was a thing of exquisite craftsmanship, its silver frame inlaid with intricate dragonfly swirls of blue, green and red enamel.

  Harzner opened a drawer and removed a tiny silver key. He placed it next to the casket, aligning it just so.

  ‘I fear I am misunderstood by the intelligence community. I have no desire to know your secrets. I simply provide a service. I am a facilitator. To me mystery itself has a beauty. This casket is beautiful, yes?’

  Winter nodded. The woman was standing behind him again.

  ‘Sixteenth-century,’ continued Harzner. ‘You know, I convince myself that plastic is the future but I can only jealously admire the past. This casket originally belonged to a clockmaker. I acquired it from an acquaintance of mine. It was locked when I obtained it and it has remained locked ever since. I have never even placed the key in the lock. I have no idea what hides inside. It
could be something as magnificent as a Romanov egg. Or as terrible as the stolen heart of a child.’

  He pushed the casket across the desk. He nudged the key too.

  ‘Each day I fight the urge to open it. And each day its secret becomes keener and sweeter. This is why you can trust me with your secrets. Are you that strong, Herr Hands?’

  Winter picked up the key. It glinted tantalisingly in the light, as finely wrought as the box. And then he took the casket in his hand, feeling its solid, silvered weight on his palm. Was that something rattling inside?

  He threaded the key into the lock.

  Harzner observed him. The man’s breathing had subtly changed. His sweat carried the scent of lilacs again, filling the office.

  Winter turned the key. He heard a faint spindling inside the lock. There was a palpable escape of pressure beneath the lid. The casket was unlocked.

  Winter pushed it back across the desk to Harzner. ‘There you go. You’re even closer to knowing now.’

  For a moment Harzner stared at the casket. And then he gave a bark of a laugh. ‘How mischievous you British are. You have made it all the more delicious. Thank you.’

  He rose to his feet. It was like a continent shifting in the room.

  ‘The auction is tomorrow night. Come to my residence, perhaps at seven? It is das Krabbehaus in the Vienna Woods, just west of Lainzer Tiergarten. It shall be a pleasure to welcome you.’

  He extended an immense hand. Winter clasped it, and they shook. The woman was there at his side again, still silent, still watchful.

  ‘Your hand is so cold,’ noted the German. ‘You’re like a dead man.’

  ‘I’ve had terrible circulation for as long as I can remember,’ smiled Winter, concentrating on concealing his dislike of Harzner. He wanted to leave this fuggy, oppressive room, breathe some morning air. ‘The English weather doesn’t help.’

  ‘A kingdom of rain, I’m told.’

  Winter nodded, mutely.

  Harzner released Winter’s hand. ‘Tomorrow, then. I wish you luck in my auction. As you say, the best of British.’