by Will Hill
Turner frowned and opened the folder. He read the summary of Andrew Jarvis’s report, feeling a chill rise up his spine as he did so.
“Why didn’t I know about this?” he asked.
“Excuse me, Major?”
“I’m the Security Officer, Cal. I should have seen this as soon as it was written.”
“This may be hard for you to hear, Paul,” said Holmwood, “but you are not actually in charge of this Department. I am. And when it comes to sensitive information, I decide who sees what. Is that clear?”
“Of course, sir,” said Turner, his voice low and tight. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Paul,” said Cal. “I only got in a couple of hours ago. You haven’t seen it because until Surveillance finds them, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Read what I gave you, Cal. The situation has changed.”
Holmwood opened the folder and scanned it quickly. When he looked back up at Turner, his face was pale.
“What’s Intelligence’s take on this?” he asked. “Is it genuine?”
“They’re still assessing credibility,” replied Turner. “I suggest we operate under the assumption that it is.”
“Jesus,” said Holmwood. “What the hell is going on?”
“We don’t know for certain, sir,” said Turner. “But the fathers of two Operators of this Department, a journalist and the only descendant of our founders ever to be turned in a modern printing press represent a potential disaster, sir. The risk of public exposure alone is enormous.”
“Thanks, Paul,” said Holmwood, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I hadn’t realised that. Christ.” The Interim Director pulled his console from his belt, typed rapidly on its touch screen, then looked at his Security Officer. “I’ve ordered Jack Williams’ squad to the Ops Room in ten minutes for briefing. Is there anything I need to tell him apart from what you’ve given me?”
“No, sir,” replied Turner. “That’s all we know.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
This was the moment that Turner had been dreading: the moment that he knew, hyperbole aside, could signal the end of his Blacklight career. On his way up from ISAT he had considered lying to his friend, letting him find out once it was all over, but had decided against doing so. It would not be fair to let Jack Williams and his squad depart with incomplete intelligence; beyond that, it was simply not in his nature. He had made a decision, one whose consequences he would have to live with, and he would not lie to his commanding officer when he was asked a direct question.
“Yes, sir,” he said, his voice as steady as he could manage. “Kate Randall and Matt Browning are already en route. Colonel Frankenstein is with them, sir.”
For a long moment, Cal Holmwood didn’t so much as blink. When he eventually spoke, his voice was little more than a growl. “Why would you do that, Paul?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” replied Turner. “Lieutenant Randall was with me when I received the intercept. She would have gone with or without my permission, and she would have taken Browning with her. I thought it was pointless to delay them.”
“She’s a seventeen-year-old girl, Paul,” said Holmwood, each word as heavy and dangerous as an avalanche. “Are you saying you couldn’t have prevented her from going? Are you seriously asking me to believe that?”
“No, sir,” said Turner.
“Lieutenant Browning was in here barely twenty minutes ago. He’s a scientist, Paul. Not a soldier. I’m struggling to understand why you of all people would do something so utterly, criminally reckless.”
“It’s their families,” said Turner, simply. “I had to. I would have done the same if I was them.”
“Then you’re just as stupid as they are,” said Holmwood, his voice rising with anger. “You’ve let them put themselves in harm’s way because you would have done the same thing? I don’t know if it’s slipped your mind, but when you were their age, you’d already been to Afghanistan twice with 2 Para. Browning isn’t even an Operator, for Christ’s sake, and Randall has only been one for a few months. I should bloody court-martial you for this!”
Turner stared into the rapidly reddening face of the Interim Director.
He’s right, he thought. Everything he’s saying is true. If Kate gets hurt, it’s on you. Matt too, and Frankenstein for that matter. All on you.
“I understand, sir,” he said. “Give me an order.”
Holmwood stared at him, his eyes blazing. He looked as angry as Turner had ever seen him, as though he was about to burst.
“Why didn’t you go with her?” he asked.
Turner frowned. “Sir?”
“This is about you and Kate, Paul, and don’t pretend otherwise. You and Kate and Shaun. If anyone else’s father appeared in an intercept, you wouldn’t even consider letting them go out there on their own, and we both know it. So why didn’t you go and protect her? Why send Victor? Why the hell are you still here, Paul?”
“I wanted to go, sir,” said Turner. “But I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know who planted the bombs, sir. I was on my way here to tell you when the intercept came in.”
Holmwood stared for a long moment. “Who was it?” he asked, eventually.
“It was Valentin’s servant,” said Turner. “It was Lamberton, sir.”
“How do we know? Are we sure?”
Turner nodded. “Yes, sir. Security confirmed the presence of a vampire in Kate’s room about two hours ago. Valentin passed ISAT and we’ve just interviewed Marie Carpenter. She told us that Lamberton has been using one of our consoles in his room.”
“What good would a console do him?” asked Holmwood, frowning.
“It wouldn’t do him any good, sir,” replied Turner. “But it would be very useful for whoever is giving him orders.”
“One of us?”
“Has to be, sir. No one else would be able to get the console to him, and only an Operator would be at risk from ISAT.”
“Do we know who?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Jesus Christ, Henry,” whispered Holmwood, dropping his gaze to his desk. “You never told me this was what being Director was like.”
“Excuse me, sir?” said Turner.
“Nothing,” said Holmwood. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He got up from his desk. “Let’s find out who was holding Lamberton’s reins,” he said, and headed for the door.
The two veteran Operators stood silently in the lift as it descended.
They had fought alongside each other more times than either could remember, had seen and done things that both of them wished they could forget, had suffered losses that would hurt until they stopped breathing in and out. But even as everything appeared to be collapsing around them, as revelation piled upon revelation and the pressure upon their shoulders weighed as heavily as it ever had, neither man would have changed a thing. They had lived lives of great wonder, lives that were varied and full, and they were proud to be what they were: soldiers of the light, descending into the darkness yet again.
“What if Valentin knew?” said Holmwood. “That could be a real problem.”
“I know,” replied Turner. “Can you see him taking orders from one of us?”
“No,” said Holmwood. “But I don’t know if I believe a word he’s said since he’s been here. Nothing he did would surprise me.”
“I agree with the second part,” said Turner. “But I believe he’s here for the reasons he gave. I don’t trust him, but I don’t think he’s trying to hurt us.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Holmwood. “Because I can’t see him being thrilled when we stake his servant.”
There was a long pause.
“There’s something else, sir,” said Turner.
Holmwood laughed. “What else could there possibly be?” he asked. “Is an alien battle fleet about to enter the earth’s orbit?”
“Not as far as I’m aware,” said Turner. “It
’s Jamie’s rookie.”
“Morton?”
Turner nodded. “He’s gone after the vamp their squad was chasing on his own. Kate told me. Jamie and his other rookie have gone after him.”
“I gave Jamie permission to put him on the inactive list.”
“Apparently, he was going to,” said Turner. “Morton went before he got the chance.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” said Holmwood. “Jamie’s a good Operator. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lift slowed to a halt. Its doors slid open, revealing the airlock that controlled access to the cellblock. On the other side of it was the long corridor of cells, one of which, the ninth on the right, was the home of Lamberton, Valentin Rusmanov’s oldest companion.
Cal’s right, thought Turner, as they approached the airlock. If Valentin stands by Lamberton, this could get ugly. Very ugly.
Holmwood pressed his ID against the black panel on the wall. A green light appeared and he quickly tapped a series of numbers into its touch screen. The light changed to a bright purple, then both the inner and outer doors of the airlock slid open at the same time, in direct contradiction of the principle that governed them.
“There’s no time,” said Holmwood, noticing Turner’s expression of surprise. “I have to be in the Ops Room in five minutes so I can send Jack Williams to clean up your mess.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Turner, and followed his commanding officer through the open airlock. The duty Operator, a member of the Security Division named Jess Nelson, had left her guard post when the airlock had hissed open and was staring at it with unease. Her face brightened as she saw the two men who stepped through it and on to the block.
“Who are you here—” she began, but Turner cut her off.
“Grab a Daybreaker and come with us, Operator.”
Nelson’s eyes widened; the Russian-made launcher was used in only the most dangerous of circumstances, and kept only in the hangar armoury and the cellblock guard post. But she did as she was told; she ran back inside and came out with the heavy black weapon settled against her shoulder, its wide barrel pointing at the ceiling.
“Ready, sir,” she said.
He nodded. “Good. Follow us.”
Holmwood strode down the corridor and Turner fell in beside him. Nelson walked on the other side of the Interim Director, her eyes fixed on the cell that was home to Valentin Rusmanov.
Almost, thought Turner, following her gaze. But not quite. Wrong vampire.
The three Operators passed Valentin’s cell without slowing. The ancient vampire was lying on his bed, reading a page of sheet music; he looked up and frowned as the three black-clad figures disappeared from his view.
They stopped outside Lamberton’s cell and looked inside. The vampire was at the rear of the square room, shining a pair of his master’s shoes with a pale cloth; his hands moved at such supernatural speed that the cloth was barely visible as it blurred back and forth over the leather.
“Lamberton,” said Cal Holmwood.
The valet looked up and stopped what he was doing. He placed the shoes and the cloth aside, then approached the ultraviolet barrier that was intended to keep him inside.
It evidently poses him no more problems than it does his master, thought Turner. Although I’m looking forward to hearing how he got out of this block.
“Mr Holmwood, Mr Turner,” said Lamberton, smoothly. “And I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Miss. How can I be of assistance?”
“You can stand back,” said Turner, raising his T-Bone and pointing it at the vampire’s heart. “That will be a good start.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Lamberton’s face, but he stepped back, staring at the three Operators.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked a smooth, friendly voice from the corridor beside them. Nelson spun round, saw Valentin Rusmanov leaning casually against the wall between Lamberton’s cell and his own, and gasped in shock. Paul Turner merely glanced in his direction. “This doesn’t concern you, Valentin,” he said. “Go back to your cell.”
“Oh, I hardly think so,” smiled Valentin. “Not when you’re pointing your little gun at my companion.”
Turner glanced at Cal Holmwood, who nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Go and stand with your man. You should hear what we have to say to him.”
“I’m all ears, my dear Major Turner,” said Valentin, and slipped effortlessly through the UV barrier and into his servant’s cell.
“My lord,” began Lamberton, instantly. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Be calm, old friend,” said Valentin, fixing his gaze on Paul Turner. “I’m sure our hosts will explain the meaning of this. Quickly.”
Cal Holmwood cleared his throat. “Your associate is guilty of the attempted murder of Operators of this Department, Valentin. That’s why we are here.”
“I see,” said Valentin, narrowing his eyes. “You have proof, I presume? I’m sure you do not expect us to take your word for such serious allegations?”
“The proof is in this cell,” said Turner. Beside him, Nelson lowered her Daybreaker by a few degrees; it was not pointing at either of the vampires in the cell, but it was no longer pointing at the ceiling.
Valentin looked round the sparse room. “I must confess that I fail to see it, Major Turner.”
“Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough,” replied Turner, and stepped towards the ultraviolet barrier.
A snarl emerged from Lamberton’s throat.
Valentin looked at his valet, who was staring at the Security Officer with eyes that were now glowing the colour of old coals, and a tiny frown creased his forehead. “Present your evidence, Major Turner,” he said, softly. “I would see it, if indeed it exists.”
“By all means,” said Turner, and stepped through the barrier. The shimmering wall of light tingled his skin as he passed through it and made his way towards Lamberton’s impeccably made bed. He knelt down, thrust his hands beneath the mattress, and instantly found what he was looking for.
A hard rectangle, its size immediately familiar to his gloved hands.
Thank God for that.
Turner felt along the edges of the mattress, searching for the opening. Behind him, Lamberton was emitting a steady growl, like the noise made by a cornered dog. Just before they reached the corner, Turner’s fingers slipped through a neat slit and into the mattress itself; he shoved his arm in up to the elbow and felt his fingers close round the rectangle. He pulled it out, dragging strands of stuffing with it, then stood up and faced the two vampires, holding it out in his hand.
“What is that?” asked Valentin.
“It’s a portable console,” said Turner. He tried to suppress the elation he was feeling, tried not to let it show on his face. “They’re issued to every Operator. But not to vampire prisoners.”
“What does that prove, Major Turner?” asked Valentin. “If my associate has stolen one of your little machines, then by all means slap his wrist, with my full blessing. I fail to see how it is proof of attempted murder.”
“The Security investigation into the explosion on Level B was concluded this afternoon,” said Turner. “The results were unequivocal. A vampire spent approximately four minutes in the room in question, two hours before the device was detonated. There are only three vampires in this base at the moment. Valentin, you and I had a charming conversation yesterday morning, which cleared you of any involvement. And this afternoon, we interviewed Marie Carpenter, who was also cleared. She did tell us something interesting, though. She told us that on several occasions she had heard you, Lamberton, tapping on something that sounded as though it was made of plastic. She had also heard a beep that she didn’t recognise. I played her the new message tone on my console and she confirmed that it was the noise she heard.”
Turner thumbed open the console and entered the messages folder. There were two, both read, both from an unknown sender; a string of
numbers and letters filled the space where a name was usually displayed.
“You planted the bombs,” he said, staring evenly at Lamberton. The vampire returned his gaze, his eyes boiling with crimson. Behind him, Valentin Rusmanov’s face had become even paler than usual; he was looking at his servant with an entirely unreadable expression. “You left your cell, left this block – although I must confess I have no idea how you managed that – and you planted two bombs. Bombs that were intended to kill Lieutenant Randall and myself. I challenge you to deny it.”
Lamberton snarled again, but said nothing. Turner opened the console again and read the messages. One had been sent the previous morning:
TODAY/B261/A86
Mine and Kate’s room numbers, he thought. We’ve got you.
The final one had been sent yesterday afternoon:
YOU FAILED
Damn right. Goddamn right you did.
Turner threw the console across the cell towards Cal Holmwood. It had barely left his fingertips when Lamberton moved, a guttural howl erupting from his throat, and snatched it out of the air. He raised it above his head, his face contorted with hate, and was about to smash it to pieces on the hard floor of his cell when a voice as old and cold as death spoke a single word.
“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.”
