Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

“Credentials,” said Carpenter. “Slowly,” he added, as the man moved his hands to his pockets.

  Willis drew a leather billfold from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and held it out to Carpenter, who lifted it carefully from the man’s fingers and flipped it open.

  Inside were three documents; the first was a passport in the name of Bertrand Willis, of Saddle River, New Jersey; the second was a telegram containing Carpenter’s travel itinerary and likeness; the third was a memorandum from the Attorney General of the State of New York, authorising Willis to take whatever measures he deemed appropriate to assist a Mr John Carpenter of London, England, in the resolution of his duties, without fear of legal recourse.

  He closed the wallet and passed it back to Willis. “Everything appears to be in order,” he said. “Apologies for my caution, but one can never...”

  Willis waved a hand that suggested that if any offence had been taken, it was already forgotten. “I understand perfectly, sir,” he said “Especially in such trying times. In fact, I would venture that such caution is what led the founders to entrust you with such a valuable task as your first solo assignment, no?”

  Carpenter looked at Willis for signs of mockery, saw none, and smiled instead.

  There is steel in this fellow, beneath the smiles and good cheer.

  He stepped forward and extended his hand. “John Carpenter,” he said. “At your service.”

  “Bertrand Willis,” the man repeated, accepting the hand. “At yours. It is very fine to meet you, John, very fine indeed. Are you hungry? Shall we repair for supper?”

  Carpenter’s stomach rumbled. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he replied.

  Willis beamed from ear to ear. “I know a fine place, not five blocks from here. The chef does a belly pork that will simply melt in your mouth. This way!”

  Willis turned and headed off along West Thirty-Fourth Street, at a pace that was surprising for a fellow of his stature.

  *

  The two men walked briskly across the junctions of Eleventh and Tenth Avenues. Willis talked incessantly, about everything and nothing; the snow, the architecture, the baseball results, the relentless rise of the Wall Street banks. Carpenter’s head spun as he attempted to keep up with the endlessly diverging topics of conversation, but he found the man engaging company; his enthusiasm and boundless good cheer were infectious.

  At the corner of Eighth Avenue Willis made a right turn, and halfway down the block between Thirty-Fourth and Thirty-Third he ducked under a red and white awning stencilled with the words Chelsea Bar and Grill.

  The room beyond the door was dark, lit only by tall red candles that were placed on the clustered tables, with the heady scents of garlic and rosemary filling the air. Nearly all the tables were occupied; well-heeled men and women, dressed for the theatre, sat alongside dockworkers in battered oilskins fresh from the yards and jazz girls in feather boas and veils, fuelling themselves for the late-night exertions of the city’s dancehalls.

  Willis weaved past the waiters to a small table at the rear of the room. A disarmingly handsome olive-skinned waiter appeared next to their table, flicking a long curl of black hair away from his forehead, and Willis ordered tea and bread. They sat in companionable silence until the young man returned with a basket of focaccia, a large teapot and two china cups, and asked if they were ready to order. Carpenter ordered the belly pork, noting a small nod of approval from Willis as he did so, with roast potatoes and green beans. Willis ordered the same, then lifted the teapot and poured dark red wine into the cups.

  “I’m sorry that we cannot drink from glasses like civilised men,” said Willis. “Prohibition has reduced us to this. However, the quality of the wine should not be impaired by the vessel.”

  Carpenter raised his cup, took a long sip, then told Willis that he would like to hear everything that he knew about the man he had pursued across the Atlantic. The American took a long pull from his own cup, settled himself comfortably into his chair, and began to talk.

  “Jeremiah Haslett. Born 1871, in Marlborough, England, to a schoolteacher and a civil servant. Educated at Charter House and Cambridge. Made his fortune during the war, selling munitions to the Kaiser.”

  He took another sip.

  “Invested in property after the war, in London and New York. Unmarried, with no children. Ran with a fast London set, and started to pursue somewhat – let’s call them unusual – interests. Satanism, black magic, demonology. Although I’m given to understand this doesn’t make him particularly unique in post-war Britain, at least as far as the upper classes are concerned?”

  “Far from it,” replied Carpenter.

  “Indeed. He spent time with Aleister Crowley at the Abbey of Thelema in Sicily, and stayed in Italy after Crowley and the rest of his followers were expelled in 1923. I assume his connections to the Fascists spared him the indignity that befell his companions. Then around the same time, Haslett became obsessed with the legend of Dracula, and in 1925 he made a pilgrimage to the ruins of the castle in Transylvania. When he returned to London, he was no longer human.”

  “We don’t know exactly what happened to him in the East,” said Carpenter. “I have come to believe that his conversion was arranged in advance, and paid for, although who carried it out is unknown.”

  “That would seem to fit,” agreed Willis. “I’m sure his money is capable of turning heads in any circle. It certainly allowed him to return to London and indulge his appetites without sanction.”

  “So it appears.”

  “His townhouse in Knightsbridge became notorious. Apparently, God-fearing men and women would cross the road to avoid it. There were stories of terrible gatherings, of torture and sacrifice, of rituals in the basement and garden. Then six months ago the daughter of a prominent Member of Parliament was found running naked and bloody through the woods near his country estate, on the morning after the Winter Solstice. Haslett fled the country the following day, as the authorities finally opened their eyes to the monster in their midst. Once abroad, he spent time in Paris and Bucharest, then arrived here in New York two weeks ago. He has taken rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria, on Fifth Avenue.”

  Willis refilled his cup and took a deep slug of the crimson liquid.

  “Did I miss anything?” he asked, smiling at Carpenter.

  “No.”

  “Good,” said Willis. “I should have been disappointed to have failed the test.”

  Carpenter studied the man’s round face for insult, but again saw nothing.

  “Have you seen him? In the flesh, so to speak?”

  “Mr Carpenter, it should not surprise you to know that I have followed him every night since he arrived. And before you ask, no, he has done nothing that could be classed as suspicious. He has taken dinner with a number of ladies, he has gone dancing on several occasions, and he has spent a great deal of time in his rooms.”

  Haslett paused as the waiter reappeared, placing two plates on the table. The belly pork glistened in dark gravy, nestled between crisp golden mountains of roast potatoes.

  “Please,” Willis said, motioning to the plates. Carpenter dug into his food as Willis continued to talk.

  “I saw a note,” he continued. “I have an arrangement with one of the chamber maids at Haslett’s hotel, and it was handed to me yesterday. It was from someone who signed themselves only with a V, and was apparently accompanied by invitations to a New Year’s Eve event. I thought that it would perhaps provide our best opportunity to apprehend Haslett – a public gathering with many people around, where his defences may be lowered. There were no details on the note though – location, time and such.”

  Carpenter swallowed a sliver of meat that was every bit as good as Willis had promised. “Can we not just follow him on the night in question?”

  “We can, and I would certainly suggest that we do. However, if the event is invitation-only, we may have difficulty in gaining entrance. I had a journalist friend look into the notable New Year’s Eve
balls, and he found none hosted by anyone whose name began with V. Which means that uninvited guests are unlikely to be welcome.”

  John considered this as he and Willis finished their food. He had spent long hours on the crossing considering how best to gain access to Haslett, and he believed the American was right; a social situation was the most likely place to find him with his guard down. And after all, Carpenter’s orders would not take more than a moment to carry out, especially if he was able to surprise his quarry.

  The waiter reappeared beside their table and enquired whether they wanted coffee. Willis told him they didn’t.

  “I hope that’s all right,” he said. “I thought we might take a nightcap elsewhere, if that’s agreeable? Your hotel is on the way, so you can leave your luggage at the reception.”

  Carpenter told him that sounded fine.

  His luggage safely deposited with the receptionist at the hotel on West Twenty-Third Street, Carpenter followed Willis at a brisk pace down Eighth Avenue and on to Hudson Street. They turned left on Grove Street then right on to Bedford, and came to a halt in front of a plain brown door. Willis rapped on it, and stood back. After several moments a panel slid aside, and a pair of eyes peered out at the two men.

  “Good evening, Jack,” said Willis.

  “Bert,” replied a voice from behind the door. There was a series of creaks and thuds as a number of locks were withdrawn, then the door opened. Smoke, laughter and jazz music spilled out on to the cold street, and Willis led Carpenter inside.

  A girl in a cocktail dress and a feather boa took their coats and led them through a pair of double wooden doors into a large room crammed with tables and booths. A man in a tuxedo was hammering out a jazz standard on a piano in one corner, and waitresses glided between the table, carrying trays of drinks. Smoke hung thickly in the air, and the room was alive with conversation and laughter.

  “What is this place?” asked Carpenter.

  “It’s called Chumley’s,” replied Willis. “It’s a little oasis in the dry desert of temperance. What’ll you have?”

  “I’m happy to be led by you,” Carpenter replied.

  The American led them to the long bar that ran the length of one wall of the speakeasy where they squeezed into a narrow space, Willis’s elbow striking a neat man in a scarf and coat waiting to be served. The man turned at once, and regarded Willis with red, alcohol-soaked eyes.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said, his upper-class accent mildly slurred. “Allow me to furnish you and your companion with a libation.”

  “No need, sir, but thank you,” replied Willis.

  “Sadly, I must insist,” said the man. “Will you tell me your preference, or must I guess?”

  “Guesswork won’t be necessary. Two scotches on the rocks will be most appreciated.”

  “Educated palates,” exclaimed the man. “How delightful.”

  The barman, a thick red-faced fellow wearing a white apron and drying his hands on a black towel, appeared in front of the man.

  “Two scotches on the rocks, a gin and bitters and a vodka tonic, if you would be so kind.”

  As the barman set about preparing the drinks, the man turned to Carpenter and Willis. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, with his hair neatly parted on the right-hand side and a dark red tie beneath the white scarf he had draped around his shoulders.

  “Scott Fitzgerald,” he said, offering a hand towards them. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  The two men took his hand in turn, and introduced themselves. The barman delivered their drinks to the wooden counter and Fitzgerald withdrew a small sheaf of bills from a tan leather wallet. As he did so, he looked over at his new acquaintances. “Would you care to join me and my companion at our table?” he asked, depositing a handful of notes on the bar.

  After a moment’s hesitation, in which a glance that was mostly bemusement passed between them, Carpenter and Willis agreed, and followed Fitzgerald towards the corner of the tavern.

  The three men weaved through the thick fog of smoke and men and women in various states of inebriation. In the corner of the speakeasy was a small round table, at which was sat a huge figure. The man was awkwardly perched on a three-legged wooden stool and such was his size that the seat looked as though it had been procured from a doll’s house. He looked up as the three men approached, and grunted.

  “Took your time.”

  “Sorry, Henry,” replied Fitzgerald. “The queue was quite significant. I hope you haven’t become too thirsty in my absence?”

  “Thirsty enough.”

  Fitzgerald laughed, as though this was the most delicious witticism he had ever heard, and turned to Carpenter and Willis, who were standing by the table, looking down at the huge man.

  “Do sit down, gentlemen,” Fitzgerald said. “John Carpenter, Bertrand Willis, this is Henry Victor.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Victor,” said Willis, extending a hand. It hung pregnantly above the wooden table for a long second, until the giant slowly reached out and took it. Carpenter followed suit, and sat back, his mind racing.

  Can it be him? The file is so vague, but the description is supposedly reliable.

  A chill raced up his spine.

  Henry Victor was dressed in dark clothes, a heavy overcoat with high collars on top of a thick wool jumper with a turtle neck that reached to his jaw, and a flat leather cap that cast a deep shadow over his face. As Carpenter looked closely, he saw two bulges in the thick material at the sides of the man’s neck.

  “Something wrong?” asked Victor.

  “My apologies,” said Carpenter, as smoothly as he was able. “The crossing was tiring, and I must confess I was in a world of my own there for a moment.”

  Henry Victor took a long look at Carpenter, then turned his attention to Fitzgerald, who had enthusiastically engaged Willis in liquor-fuelled conversation.

  “... it went without saying that the reviews would be poor,” he was saying, his face a swollen picture of drunken unhappiness. “If you write a novel about the superficialities of the rich and shallow, then you do not expect them to reward your efforts in the literary supplements. I must confess, I thought some of the notices unnecessarily unkind, but such is the literary game. I met with my editor today, and found the conversation largely fruitless, as he wants what I do not have to offer him; a new novel.”

  He looked around at his companions, suddenly aware that he had become the centre of attention. He beamed an unconvincing smile.

  “But the trip from Wilmington, long though it was, has also brought me to this table, and into the company of you gentlemen. So it cannot be considered anything other than a success. And besides...”

  Fitzgerald reached out and drained his gin and bitters. He lit a highly perfumed cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “She laughs at nothing,” he said, in a small voice. “My wife. She sits surrounded by giant furniture, and laughs at nothing.”

  He looked up. His eyes were red, and tears stood in their corners.

  “But let’s have no more talk of such gloomy matters,” he said. “Tell us of London, Mr Carpenter. I am almost ashamed to say I have never been there.”

  Carpenter did as he was asked, and the conversation resumed. After a time, Willis fought his way to the long bar and refilled their drinks, and the remainder of the night passed agreeably.

  Chapter 21

  THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS

  From the outside, the vehicle was unassuming; a black Ford Transit identical to the thousands that rolled along Britain’s roads every day. But this particular van was different. The engine that was propelling it at a steady ninety miles an hour had been taken from a prototype Piranha VI, a top-secret Swiss armoured personnel carrier that weighed almost twenty tons, and the reactive armour that lay inconspicuously beneath the metal panelling of the van’s body belonged on a Challenger 2 battle tank. The van had been lowered, its chassis strengthened, its suspension stiffened and fitt
ed with computer-controlled roll bars; a titanium safety cage had been threaded through the vehicle, a thick explosive-proof ceramic plate had been attached to the underside, the wheels had been equipped with run-flat tyres and the glass windows had been replaced by bulletproof thermoplastic.

  Inside, the driver was in control of a vast array of communication and geographic positioning technology, encrypted satellite relays that could place the vehicle to within a couple of millimetres anywhere on the planet. The back of the van was both a mobile briefing room and a tactical control centre. Swung down on a bracket across the rear doors was a high-definition touch screen, wirelessly connected to the Blacklight mainframe. Two lines of padded seats faced each other; above each an alcove was set into the wall that would hold a Blacklight helmet securely, and on the floor in front was a black slot from which a smaller touch screen could be raised at the flick of a switch. A narrow wall locker at the right of each seat was divided into compartments that would hold the standard-issue Blacklight weapons. All but two of them were standing empty.

  Jamie and Frankenstein sat facing each other in the two seats nearest the rear doors. They had made their way to the Blacklight motor pool after leaving the infirmary, collecting their driver, a young Private named Hollis, from the enlisted mess on the way. Thomas Morris had asked to come with them, asked more than once, with increasing desperation in his voice, but Frankenstein had told him it would not be necessary. Morris eventually accepted this decision, sulkily, and had promised Jamie he would wait in the lab for the final results of the photo analysis, in case the technicians found something that could help. Jamie didn’t believe they would, but thanked him anyway.

  Private Hollis had seemed slightly in awe of Frankenstein, and had immediately, enthusiastically agreed to drive them. The young Operator was visually cut off from them by a dividing wall behind the van’s cab, but his nervous, enthusiastic voice appeared over an intercom every few minutes, updating their progress.

  Frankenstein said something, and Jamie tore himself away from thoughts of his mother and looked at the huge man.