Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  “Why did you let him go?” asked Jamie. “You could have killed him before he had time to trigger the explosives. I’ve seen how fast you are.”

  “You might be right,” replied Valentin. His voice was soft, and his eyes were slightly glazed, as though his mind was no longer in the cell with Jamie, but in a ballroom many miles and years away.

  “But I couldn’t know that for certain. His thumb was on the trigger of the detonator; even if I had killed him, he might have pressed it involuntarily. I had no more wish to be blown to pieces then than I do now, to say nothing of the damage that would have been done to my home. And even in the 1920s, an explosion of that size on Central Park West would have drawn questions that would have been tedious to answer. But more than any of that, what I told him was the truth; I admired his conviction, his apparently genuine willingness to die to accomplish his mission, if that was what it took.”

  “So you let him go,” said Jamie. “And he took Frankenstein with him?”

  Valentin nodded. “He wouldn’t go without the monster, so I let him take him. A friend of mine was very disappointed; she had plans for him. But yes, I let them both go.”

  “When did you see him next?”

  The vampire didn’t answer immediately; a small smile crept on to his face, as he cast back through memory.

  “We met for the second time in 1938,” he said, eventually. “In Berlin.”

  John Carpenter was sitting outside a café on Potsdamer Platz when one of the three most dangerous vampires in the world lowered himself into the seat opposite him.

  He had just finished a hearty supper of schnitzel and potatoes and an equally hearty bottle of Riesling, and was enjoying an aromatic Turkish cigarette, letting the perfumed smoke billow fragrantly around his head before floating away on the warm evening breeze. The London newspapers were reporting that Germany was heading back into a state of deprivation, that wages were tumbling and unemployment was rising once more, that the economic recovery the National Socialists trumpeted endlessly via their propaganda ministry was little more than a sham.

  Carpenter had seen and heard a number of disquieting things in his three days in the German capital – the absence of a political opposition, the whispered rumours of camps in the east where dissidents and undesirables were allegedly being shipped on trains that ran at night, the aggressive, almost comically blustering anger of Chancellor Hitler as he held forth on the many, many enemies he perceived Germany to be facing – but deprivation had not been one of them. The capital was awash with luxury, with food, cars, fine clothes and equally fine wine, although he had heard that the same could not be said away from Berlin.

  The previous evening an earnest socialist poet had told him that as near as Potsdam, the city twenty-five miles to the south for which the square he was sitting in was named, the citizens were quite literally starving. The farms are failing, she had said, and what is produced is brought to Berlin. The rest of the country is being left to die.

  The National Socialists were far from John Carpenter’s idea of how a political party should conduct itself, let alone one in a western European state as culturally advanced as Germany; he found Hitler somewhat ridiculous, a rabble-rouser of moderate intellect, and he thought even less of the Chancellor’s chief lieutenants, Himmler and Goebbels, whom he thought the sort of men who should have been kept in positions where their obvious personal shortcomings could cause no harm.

  But he had met Field Marshal Göring and Admiral Dönitz on several occasions, and found them to be men of substance, while Prime Minister Chamberlain himself had returned from Germany earlier in the year with the clear message that Hitler was no threat to Britain. John had met the Prime Minister too, on more than a few occasions, and was inclined to believe his assessment of the situation.

  Carpenter had been sent by Quincey Harker, the Blacklight Director, to brief Obergruppenführer Heydrich, the head of the SD, the internal security service of the SS, on the supernatural situation in Europe. The request had come from Hitler himself, whom Harker had briefed in 1934, as Heydrich was about to be placed in charge of all the German security apparatus under a new organisation called the Reich Main Security Office.

  Carpenter had delivered the briefing in the new Department’s headquarters on Prince-Albrecht-Straße, then taken tea and black bread with the charming, strikingly blond officer in his rooms on the third floor.

  They had talked amiably for half an hour or so, in which time Heydrich had quizzed Carpenter about his experiences in Blacklight, and asked his advice on the establishment of an equivalent German organisation. Carpenter had been glad to offer the advice; it was one of the objectives that Harker had set for him before he left London. Then they had parted ways, and Carpenter had strolled down through central Berlin to the café where he was now sitting, no longer alone.

  “Good evening, Mr Carpenter,” said Valentin. “Please don’t be alarmed. I’m not here to fight.”

  Carpenter had instinctively grabbed for the stake that hung from his belt, hidden behind a leather pistol holster, and the vampire had seen him do so. He slowly drew his hand back, and replaced it in his lap.

  They sat in silence for several minutes, as Valentin ordered coffee and waited for it to arrive. When the waiter placed it in front of him and departed, the vampire took a sip, sighed with pleasure, then smiled broadly at John Carpenter.

  “I told you our paths would cross again,” he said. “This is mere coincidence, but I am always happy to be proven correct. How are you?”

  “I’m well,” replied Carpenter, cautiously. He felt as though he was drunk; the situation he found himself in was almost too surreal for his mind to process. “How about you?”

  “Oh, perfectly fine,” said Valentin. “A little bored, waiting for this all to get under way, but apart from that, I can’t complain.”

  “All what to get under way?” asked Carpenter.

  “Why, the war, obviously,” said Valentin, studying Carpenter carefully for any sign of mockery. “Surely you feel it too?”

  “There won’t be any war,” said Carpenter. “Hitler has promised that the return of the Sudetenland is the limit of his territorial ambition.”

  “And you believe him?” asked Valentin, smiling widely. “Oh my. You do, don’t you?”

  “Do you have any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “John, men who seek to acquire power as desperately as Hitler are never satisfied. They never wake up one morning and say ‘I have achieved everything I set out to do, I am now replete.’ They are always looking for whatever is next; the next target, the next quarrel, the next victory. Hitler is an angry, violent little man, desperate to leave his mark on this world, and your plucky little island will take arms against him soon enough. I can assure you of that.”

  “What’s your interest in this matter, Valentin?” asked Carpenter.

  “Entertainment, Mr Carpenter,” replied Valentin, with a smile. “I consider myself a student of the human condition, and nowhere does that condition more clearly reveal itself than during war. You can see the very best and very worst of humanity, at the same time, in the same place. I find it fascinating. And, of course, I was a General once, so I have the remnants of professional curiosity.”

  “You were a General?” asked Carpenter. He didn’t want to engage the creature sitting opposite him, but nor did he want to provoke it. “Of which army?”

  “The Wallachian armies of Prince Vlad Tepes,” replied Valentin. “A long time ago.”

  “The armies of Count Dracula?”

  “As he later came to call himself, yes. My brothers and I were his loyal subjects. We waged war across eastern Europe, for more than two decades.”

  “With success?”

  “Sometimes,” replied Valentin, his eyes haunted by memory. “Other times, less so. Such is the nature of war; it is a shifting continuum. All any player can do is try to remain upright for as long as possible, then try to minimise the fall when it comes. Which it alway
s does, eventually.”

  The man and the vampire sat in what both were oddly aware had become a reasonably agreeable silence for several minutes, drinking their coffee and watching the men and women laughing and strolling and carousing through Potsdamer Platz. Eventually, Valentin spoke again.

  “I have a proposal for you, Mr Carpenter. Would you hear it?”

  “I would,” replied Carpenter, lighting another cigarette. There was an awkward moment of pause, and then he extended his silver case towards Valentin, who took a cigarette with a nod of his head.

  “Thank you,” said the vampire. “Turkish, I believe?”

  Carpenter nodded, sliding his book of matches across the table. Valentin struck one, and raised the flame to the end of his cigarette. He drew deeply, then exhaled smoke into the air.

  “You and I are not natural enemies, Mr Carpenter,” said the vampire. “I am not what your Department was founded to destroy.”

  “You are a vampire, are you not?” asked Carpenter.

  “I am,” replied Valentin. “But I flatter myself that I am somewhat different from the rest, from the savage creatures you and your comrades hunt down and destroy like rabid dogs. My life is carried out with discretion, without any cause for alarming the general public. I am invisible, as are my crimes, as you would no doubt choose to view them.”

  “You still take innocent lives,” said Carpenter. “Whether you do so in the privacy of your home or on the streets of London is irrelevant to me.”

  “Really?” asked Valentin, narrowing his eyes as he looked at John Carpenter. “I’m not so sure that it is. But it doesn’t matter, in truth. What I hope remains relevant to you is the fact that I spared your life, and that of the monster who accompanied you to my home.”

  “I remain grateful,” said Carpenter, choosing his words carefully. “I know that events that evening could have played out differently, had you wanted them to.”

  “I’m grateful for your gratitude,” said Valentin, his eyes once more wide and friendly. “It is the sign of a true gentleman, the willingness to admit such a sentiment, and it is fine to see. But admitting your debt is one thing; repaying it is quite another.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Carpenter.

  “A simple truce,” said Valentin. “An agreement between two gentlemen that neither will pursue the other, that we will permit each other to live out our lives as we see fit.”

  “I do not speak for Blacklight,” said Carpenter. “Such a truce is not for me to agree to.”

  “If I wished to negotiate with Blacklight, I would pay a visit to Quincey Harker,” said Valentin. “This would be an agreement between you and me, sealed with a shake of the hand. You would agree not to pursue me, and to not overtly assist Blacklight in doing so. I, in turn, would agree to leave you in peace. I would not seek the revenge that so many of my friends have urged me to.”

  “You’re asking me to let you murder with impunity?”

  “I am,” agreed Valentin. “But think of what I’m offering you in return; the burial of a grudge that you must have known would one day make itself apparent to you again. I don’t wish to lower the tone of our conversation, but you must also be aware that if I chose to do so, I could kill you before you had time to even reach again for that little splinter of wood on your thigh. And I’m asking so little in return, merely that you not shed too many tears over the deaths of a handful of people that you have never met, and never would have met.”

  Carpenter looked at Valentin, fear rising in his chest. He knew the vampire was right; he was hopelessly outmatched if their conversation turned physical. And there was something extremely tempting about the offer that was being presented to him: safe passage, in essence, from one of the three most dangerous vampires in the world. But the cost was huge; the acceptance, however tacit, of murder.

  “Why would you make this offer?” he asked, slowly. “Why would you not just kill me now, and render the need for a truce between us redundant?”

  “Mr Carpenter, the world is far more interesting with you in it,” replied Valentin. “I am neither of my brothers; I have no wish to spend my life at war, under constant threat of attack. I am a man of peace, as hard as that may be for you to believe. I think my offer would be mutually beneficial, and is somewhat generous. Do you not agree?”

  John was silent for a moment, as he considered what the vampire was saying. On the one hand, a truce with one of the most dangerous vampires in the world was a betrayal of everything Blacklight stood for. On the other, the chance to guarantee his safety from Valentin, for the rest of his life, was extremely tempting. And there was a third thing to consider: the very real possibility that refusing Valentin’s offer could very well be the last thing he ever did.

  “My family,” he said, carefully. “Extend your truce to cover my family, and we have a deal.”

  “Of course I include your wife in my offer,” replied Valentin, looking hurt. “I think the former Miss Westenra has suffered more than enough at the hands of my kind, don’t you?”

  “She has,” said Carpenter. “But I’m not just referring to her. I mean everyone who bears the name Carpenter, for as long as you live. I mean my children, and their children.”

  Valentin paused, his head tilted slightly to one side as he looked at John. Then he smiled, and nodded his head.

  “Done,” he replied, and extended a pale, delicate hand across the table. John reached out slowly, and shook it, once.

  “Done,” Carpenter agreed.

  “In which case, let us speak of less gloomy matters,” said Valentin, leaning back in his chair. “I hear that Jonathan Harker’s son is doing quite wonderful things in his role as head of your little group. I’d love to hear the latest news.”

  Jamie stared at Valentin for a long moment after the vampire finished speaking. There remained no hint of mischief on his handsome, ancient face, no telltale signs in his eyes or the curve of his mouth that he was toying with Jamie.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said, slowly. “My grandfather would never have made a deal with you.”

  “On what basis can you make that statement?” asked Valentin. “By your own admission, you never met the man, or knew anything of him.”

  “Exactly,” replied Jamie, fiercely. “You know I never met him, so you can tell me whatever you want and think I’ll have to believe it.”

  “What would be the point of that, Jamie?”

  “I don’t know,” spat Jamie. “To hurt me, and my family. To get a little bit of revenge for the fact that my granddad beat you in 1928.”

  Valentin’s eyes flared red.

  “Why do you think that what I’m telling you is negative?” asked the vampire. “Your grandfather made a deal with me, just as you and your colleagues have done. Why does what he did make you so upset?”

  “Because they’re different,” said Jamie. “We made a deal with you to try and protect the world from a monster. He made a deal that only helped himself.”

  “And your father,” said Valentin, softly. “And your mother. And you. You’re right, the deals are different. My deal with you will hopefully protect millions of men and women that neither you nor I will ever meet. Your grandfather’s deal made sure that the people he loved, the people he cared most about, were a little bit safer as they went about their lives. Are you going to sit there and tell me what he did was wrong? Honestly?”

  “It’s cowardly,” said Jamie, his face red with anger. “It’s weak.”

  Valentin looked at him with an expression of disappointment. “To put aside your own morals to protect the people you love is far from weak, Jamie. If anything, it is the exact opposite. He took the choice he made to the grave, carried the burden of it with him his entire life, and never told a soul, never begged for forgiveness or absolution. He did what he did, and he carried on. You cannot afford to continue to look at the world in such absolutes, such black and white. There is no good and evil, no heroes and villains. There are only people, wit
h all their flaws; the sooner you understand that, the less the world can hurt you.”

  “The sooner I can be a monster like you?” asked Jamie. “Never.”

  Valentin sighed, his eyes returning to their usual dazzling pale green.

  “Jamie, your grandfather was a good man, who saved hundreds of lives, who made the world a better place by having lived in it. But was he perfect? Was he some paragon of virtue? Of course he wasn’t. Neither is Admiral Seward, or Major Turner, neither was the monster that you miss so much. Neither was your father.”

  “Don’t. Talk. About. My. Dad,” hissed Jamie, his voice as cold as ice.

  “I wouldn’t presume to,” replied Valentin. “I never met the man. But without knowing him, I can still promise you, with one hundred per cent certainty, that he wasn’t perfect. Because no one is. That’s what I’m trying to make you understand.”

  Jamie’s head was spinning as he tried to stay calm, to think through what he was being told rationally. Then something the vampire had said came back to him, and he gasped.

  “You still honour the deal, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low. “I was never in any danger from you, was I?”

  Valentin shook his head. “No, Jamie,” he said. “You were not. But only I knew that, and I didn’t want to tell you until it was necessary to do so.”

  “Why not?” asked Jamie. “This could have been so much easier if you had.”

  “If I had what?” asked Valentin, smiling. “Told Seward and the others about a seventy-year-old deal with a man who died several decades ago? Why would they have believed me?”

  “Why should I then?”

  “Because it’s the truth. And because you killed my brother, yet you’re sitting in front of me breathing in and out. Surely that is sufficient?”

  “You told me you didn’t like Alexandru,” said Jamie, slowly.

  “And I told you the truth,” said Valentin. “But in matters of family, especially in families as old as mine, honour outweighs personal feelings. Or is supposed to.”