“Do you know where this leads?”
“I have only ever entered through the other doorway,” Hoffman said.
Himmler nodded. “You were right, of course. A live Vril creature is of infinitely more value than a dead one. But we cannot take the risk that it might escape from here. Never mind how many it might kill on its way out, there is always the possibility—the very real and very frightening possibility—that it might come back.”
Himmler regarded the doorway thoughtfully as he went on: “We controlled the Ubermensch through threats. You train an animal by teaching it to fear you and rely on you. With fire and food. More intelligent creatures you have to tame in other ways. Your threats must be more sophisticated. You agree?”
“Absolutely, Reichsfuhrer.” Hoffman had no idea where this was leading.
“You threaten its comrades, its friends, its family. But if they escape, or if you simply push it too far … Well, the cornered tiger is as nothing to the man who seeks revenge and believes he has nothing left to lose. That he has already lost everything. Yes, please—open it.”
Hoffman turned the locking wheel, and swung the heavy door open. He moved aside to allow Himmler to step into the darkness beyond.
“But what that creature did not know, what you do not know, is that it had not lost everything. Not yet. And neither have we. What you killed,” he said as he pulled the lever to turn on the lights, “is easily replaced.”
The overhead lights thunked on in sequence down the long, narrow chamber. Hoffman gasped in astonishment. It was like a wide corridor, with windows down both sides. Except that each window was covered by shutters just like the tank in the main chamber.
Himmler turned another switch, and with a grind of gears and motors, the shutters all slid slowly back. Revealing the tanks behind them—each one filled with pale green liquid. The dark, hate-filled eyes of the Vril stared out from each tank, watching Hoffman as he followed Himmler through the chamber. The muffled thump of tentacles hammering against the glass echoed in Hoffman’s ears as he saw there was another identical metal door at the other end of the chamber.
CHAPTER 41
Still in his SS uniform, with Davenport standing silently nearby, Guy had little trouble commandeering a Kubelwagon. They drove from the castle as fast as they dared, leaving the small vehicle hidden at the side of the road at the edge of the woods. Despite being only a two-wheel drive, it was surprisingly maneuverable.
“Ugly-looking things though,” Davenport remarked as they continued on foot.
“Kubelwagon translates as ‘tub truck,’” Guy told him, “because it looks like an iron bathtub on wheels.”
“German humor?” Davenport gave a snort of disapproval.
Once back at the hut, they collected their civilian clothes and fake papers, but stayed in the uniforms. It took a few minutes to lift the boards and find the radio that Hoffman had told them was concealed in the sand under floor. Davenport had a one-time code sheet printed on silk rolled up inside the hollowed-out shell of a pencil. Guy was impressed at how proficient the man was at sending Morse code.
“Though whether anyone will pick it up and pass it on remains to be seen,” Davenport said as he packed the radio set away again beneath the floorboards.
“There are Y Stations monitoring radio traffic throughout the Empire,” Guy told him, sounding more confident than he felt. “You can bet one of them heard us.”
They made their way back to the Kubelwagon, and drove off into the gathering gloom of the afternoon.
* * *
The deciphered message was delivered to Station Z less than two hours later. Miss Manners read it through, her frown deepening with every word. She passed it to Sergeant Green whose eyes widened. He handed it back.
“You’ll have to tell him. And he’s not in a good mood.”
Miss Manners knew that. Brinkman was about to leave for the last of a series of meetings discussing special operations funding.
The colonel read the flimsy message paper in silence. He refolded it, tapping the paper against his palm as he thought. “Well, we can’t just leave them there. It would be useful to know what it is they’ve discovered.”
“Something they couldn’t trust to a radio message.”
“Well, it may not matter anyway after today. By the time we get them back here this place may well be shut down and cleared out.”
“You really think that’s a possibility?”
Brinkman nodded. “The Prime Minister is too occupied with the Americans to be giving us the support we need. Pug Ismay is just as unreachable right now. At the last session, SOE and MI5 were both after our blood—or rather our funding. If they remain adamant that we’re a costly irrelevance then it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks.”
“But—our work,” Miss Manners protested.
“We can’t tell them what we do. You saw how Alban reacted to your séance room. We’ve still got precious little we can show them.” He checked his watch. “I have to go.”
“And this other matter? Guy and Leo?”
Brinkman handed her back the message. “Sort it out. Do whatever it takes to get them back.”
Miss Manners nodded. “I shall have to send—”
Brinkman raised his hand. “I don’t want to know. Not until after it’s done. Because I suspect I can’t agree to it.”
“Where’s Diamond?” Miss Manners asked Sergeant Green as soon as the office door had closed behind Brinkman.
“She went off in a huff. Demanded the colonel bring the Yanks in on things.”
“That’s all we need,” Miss Manners muttered. “Is she coming back?”
“God knows.”
“Well, call the ATA and see if she’s gone there. Send someone to try her flat.”
Green got the chance to do neither. The door slammed open and Sarah Diamond came in. She was limping, disheveled, her clothes and face spattered with dust and blood.
“Good God, what happened to you?” Green said. “I’ll get some tea. Universal remedy. Hot, strong and sweet—if we have any sugar.”
“Come and sit down.” Miss Manners helped Sarah to the nearest chair. “Tell us what’s happened.”
“I found the Ubermensch,” Sarah said. “It damned near killed me.”
* * *
The representative from MI5 was biding his time. After a few sarcastic comments early on in the meeting, the man sat back and folded his arms. Brinkman didn’t know him, but he knew the type—young, impetuous, confident, and full of himself. He was also overweight and sweaty, constantly dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. His dark hair was slicked back but looked forever in danger of flopping forward again, out of control.
SOE was going for the jugular. Their man had already laid into Brinkman for “poaching—yes poaching—one of our most valuable agents.” He meant Davenport, of course. Now he was itemizing the daring and invaluable missions that SOE could fund with their share of Station Z’s budget if Brinkman’s “jokers” were closed down.
The man from the Secret Intelligence Service—also known as MI6—said nothing, content to let matters take their inevitable course as he watched and smoked his pipe. Occasionally he nodded, never speaking and almost invisible in a fog of his own making—appropriately enough. If it came to a vote, Brinkman couldn’t predict which way SIS would go—they might support Brinkman just to spite SOE, who they regarded as a bunch of amateurs encroaching on their own territory.
Brinkman was hampered by the fact he had been ordered not to tell any of these people what Station Z actually did. But as he’d already mentioned to Penelope Manners, telling them might make things worse—they’d never believe it.
The meeting was drawing to a close, and the chairman—Sir John Rampton from the Treasury—was beginning his summing up, when the door opened and another figure entered the room. David Alban caught Brinkman’s eye before walking up to the MI5 representative and tapping the man on his substantial shoulder.
; Come to gloat, no doubt, Brinkman thought angrily as the MI5 rep reluctantly relinquished his chair to Alban and left the room.
“Have you quite finished, Mr. Alban?” the chairman asked. “It’s good of you to grace us with your presence. I assume you’ve come to hear the summing up and conclusions.”
Alban smiled, his eyes fixed on Brinkman. “Thank you, Sir John. If I’m not too late, there was one small thing…”
“Yes?”
So not just gloating, but hoping to stick the knife in and deliver the coup de grâce. Brinkman clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened.
“I’m not sure that our man made the Security Services” position quite clear. I’ve just come from the head of SIS…” He paused to look for approval to the pipe-smoking MI6 man. There was a nod of acknowledgment from within the smoke. “The heads of both our services are of the same opinion and have asked me to communicate that opinion to this meeting.”
Again his eyes were fixed on Brinkman. “Get on with it,” Brinkman muttered.
“It is our belief,” Alban said slowly and clearly, “that the work Station Z is doing under the command of Colonel Brinkman is absolutely vital to the defense of this country and our allies.”
Brinkman felt the blood drain from his face. Sir John Rampton frowned. The SOE man spluttered incoherently.
But Alban wasn’t finished. “We know that given the clandestine nature of the work of Station Z that this committee may feel it has insufficient information to continue with the unit’s funding. We believe that would be a mistake of the worst kind and are prepared to support Colonel Brinkman in any way he deems useful in making his case. For the record, and please do minute this, personally I would recommend that the Station Z budget be increased.”
The man from SOE was staring in horror, his face turning a shade of puce.
The MI6 man wafted his pipe smoke away with his hand. “Perhaps under the circumstances, we should agree to leave the current funding levels in place,” he said. “For all departments. Anyone against?” He didn’t wait for an answer but stood up, knocking his pipe out in an ashtray on the table in front of him. “Good. Because I have another meeting to get to. You’ll circulate minutes and confirm our decision, Sir John?”
Again, he didn’t wait for a reply, but strode from the room.
In something of a state of shock, Brinkman gathered his papers together. When he looked up again, the room was emptying. Alban still sat opposite, watching Brinkman across the table.
“I think you and I need to have a few words,” Alban said.
* * *
Fire cleansed everything, scalding its way down through the rubble, finding the smallest gaps and rushing through in orange and red fury. Green supervised the two soldiers as they made their way methodically across the bomb site behind the American embassy, flamethrowers spitting out liquid fire.
Sarah had shown them where the Ubermensch was buried, and there was no sign of it digging its way out. But Green was taking no chances. When they had scorched the whole area, he ordered one of the soldiers to help him shift the top layer of rubble while the other stood ready with his flamethrower. When the next layer was exposed, the process was repeated—fire eating down into the ground.
Green was surprised to see Colonel Brinkman watching from beside one of the ruined buildings. He was even more astonished to see that David Alban was with him.
“Is Miss Diamond all right?” Alban asked as soon as Green approached. “I was with her.”
“She didn’t mention that, sir.” Green glanced at Brinkman, who nodded for him to continue. “But yes, she’s fine. Just working out a flight plan. Says being in the air will calm her down.”
“Not the air she’s flying into,” Brinkman said, but he didn’t elaborate. “Have you found anything?”
Green shook his head. “I’m hoping we won’t to be honest. If the flamethrowers do their job, there’ll be precious little left of it.”
* * *
They spoke in the back of Alban’s car, screened from the driver by a glass shutter.
There seemed little point in holding back now, so Brinkman told Alban everything they knew. UDTs, Hess, Shingle Bay, everything.
“I imagine you have a lot of questions,” he said as the car reached its destination.
“And I’m guessing you don’t have many answers,” Alban replied, getting out to follow Brinkman. “I wish I could help you find some.”
“You’ve helped already.” It was as close as Brinkman was prepared to get to saying thank you. He led the way up the steps and into the British Museum.
Alban didn’t push it. “Any chance my people can look at Wiles’ UDT data?”
“None.”
“They wouldn’t need to know what it is or where it came from. A few fresh sets of eyes might help, and I have some pretty bright sparks on hand who are trained to spot patterns in information, make deductions.”
It was sensible, Brinkman supposed. “All right, but as few people as possible. Anything they come up with—”
“I shall report back to you, and only to you. Deal.”
Mrs. Archer was waiting for them, leading the way down to the area where the Ubermensch body from Shingle Bay was stored. She slid it out of its refrigerated drawer and uncovered it for Brinkman and Alban, giving a similar brief description to the one she had given Guy Pentecross and Sarah Diamond several months previously.
“This lichen-like stuff,” Alban said, pointing to the orange growth that permeated the limbs.
“Yes?” Brinkman said.
“It looks as though it’s grown there. I mean, like a plant or a fungus. A cancer.”
“I agree,” Elizabeth Archer said. She prodded at it with the end of a pencil. “It must have been very resilient, giving the body strength. From what Green and the others said about the Sussex dig…” She hesitated. “You know about Sussex?”
Alban nodded. “Not the details, but yes.”
“Well, it seems this material heals over wounds. Basically it keeps the human body alive and functioning after death should have occurred by natural causes. The trouble is, there’s no central intelligence so far as I can see. It’s a nervous system rather than a brain.”
“So?” Brinkman asked.
“So how does the infected body know what to do?” she asked.
“How does the Ubermensch get its orders, you mean?” Alban said. “And from where?”
“Exactly.” She prodded experimentally at the orange growth again. It was blackened and charred from the fire that had engulfed the body, but the stunted ends of tendril-like filaments were still visible.
“Here’s another question,” Brinkman said. “You called this an infection. So how is that infection transmitted? What turns someone into an Ubermensch?”
* * *
By the end of the day, his head was pounding—from what he had been through and from what he had seen. Hoffman felt numbed by it all. He was amazed he had survived, and astounded that Himmler now seemed to regard him as even more trustworthy. The things the Reichsfuhrer had shown him …
It was a shame that the British agents were long gone, and Hoffman had no way of contacting them again. He had intended to establish some sort of system of keeping in touch, but their hasty departure had put paid to any hope of that.
Alone in his small room in the barrack block, Hoffman took off his uniform cap and jacket then unbuckled his holster. He slumped down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to think clearly about anything. The pain in his leg had subsided to a dull ache. He probably needed sleep. Tomorrow he would be fine. Tomorrow he would decide what to do. He drifted into sleep …
More than anything, Hoffman realized when he woke the next morning, he wanted to get away from this ungodly place and go home. Surely he knew enough now that his superiors would understand that?
Unthinking, he swung his legs off the bed and got up. He crossed to the corner of the room and levered away a loose tile at the back of the
small washstand. Behind it was a small piece of cloth, the size of a handkerchief. Hoffman unrolled it, and took out the photograph concealed within. It curled up in his hand, and he had to bend it backward to see the image.
A young woman with long dark hair. She was sitting on a stone step outside a small house. Her head was tilted slightly to one side, her hand running through her hair. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, but she had a pretty smile. Was she even still alive, Hoffman wondered. She’d said she would wait for him, but he had no illusions about that.
He rolled the picture back inside the cloth and hid it again, pressing the tile back into place. He didn’t deserve waiting for. He didn’t deserve Alina. He turned on the hot tap and let water run into the sink. It was probably a good idea to bathe his wounded leg.
The wound had crusted over. Frowning, Hoffman ran his fingers over the long, thin scab where the cut had been. It wasn’t like a normal scab of crusted, dried blood sealing the wound. It was spongy and soft. And orange. Tiny filaments rippled under his fingers.
He took a pair of trousers from his wardrobe and put them on. Then he sat down on the bed, staring across at the small desk against the opposite wall. What should he do? His mind was a blank.
After a while, he got up and went over to the desk. He took a pad of paper, tearing sheets into small squares about four inches along each side. On each he wrote a letter or a number. A to Z and 0 to 9. With a sweep of his arm he cleared everything else from the top of the desk, and arranged the squares round the edge. Then he went back to the washstand and removed his toothbrush from where it stood inside a small glass tumbler.
Hoffman placed the upturned tumbler in the center of the desk, surrounded by the letters and numbers. He sat down and watched the glass. Waiting for it to move. Waiting for orders.
CHAPTER 42
They managed to refuel the Kubelwagon at a supplies depot. Intimidated by their SS uniforms, the soldiers manning the facility hurried to obey Guy’s orders while Davenport looked on with studied disdain from the back of the vehicle.
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