Department 19: The Rising

by Will Hill

  Admiral Seward glanced round as Jamie approached, and nodded.

  “Good morning,” he said, formally.

  “Morning, sir,” replied Jamie, then quickly greeted the rest of the Task Force. Jack Williams gave him one of his usual grins, Cal Holmwood and Professor Talbot threw genial nods in his direction; Marlow, Brennan and the Communications Operator whose name Jamie had now learnt was Jarvis, gave no indication that they were even aware of his presence. Paul Turner, whose job it would be to interrogate the ancient vampire, surprised Jamie by giving him a brief nod of acknowledgement before he addressed the group.

  “Shall we get started?” Turner asked. “I see no reason to wait any longer.”

  “Lead the way, Paul,” replied Seward.

  Turner did as he was ordered, turning on his heels and striding away down the cellblock, with the rest of the Zero Hour Task Force following behind him. He drew to a halt at a cell halfway down the corridor on the right-hand side; the rest of the group lined up alongside him and looked through the shimmering ultraviolet wall.

  It was empty.

  “What the hell?” said Cal Holmwood, turning to look at Admiral Seward.

  The Director’s face drained of all colour. He scrambled the radio from his belt, keyed in a nine-digit code and held it to his ear.

  “Code seven,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Unauthorised supernatural presence in the facility. Scramble all—”

  “That’s really not necessary,” said a smooth voice. “I’m right here.”

  Seward froze, then muttered “Stand by” into the radio. The voice had come from the next cell down the block, and the eight men stepped slowly round the dividing wall.

  Valentin Rusmanov was sitting in a chair in the middle of the cell with a towel around his shoulders, and shaving foam covering one side of his face. Lamberton, the old vampire’s butler, glanced briefly up at the black-clad figures as they appeared on the other side of the ultraviolet barrier, then returned to his task. With three smooth strokes of a beautiful, pearl-handled straight razor, he finished Valentin’s morning shave, and retreated to the sink at the rear of the cell to wash the blade. Valentin stood up, using the towel to dry his face. When he turned back to face the line of Operators, his expression was warm and friendly.

  “Oh, don’t be annoyed, for heaven’s sake,” he said, seeing the looks of outrage on the faces before him. “This barrier may be all well and good for a vampire who was turned the day before yesterday, but when you’ve been around as long as I have, it’s little more than decoration.”

  There was a blur of movement, too fast for the eye to follow, and Valentin was standing outside the cell, in the corridor beside them. He extended a hand towards Operator Brennan, who instinctively took a step backwards.

  “Valentin Rusmanov,” said the old vampire. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Brennan, suddenly incredibly aware that the rest of the group were watching him, struggled for composure, found it and stepped forward.

  “Brennan,” he said, shaking the vampire’s hand cautiously. “Operator Brennan.”

  “Operator?” asked Valentin, rolling the word around his mouth as though it was some delicious morsel. “That’s marvellous. What’s your Christian name, Operator Brennan?”

  “No names,” said Admiral Seward, sharply, before Brennan had a chance to answer. “Mr Rusmanov,” he continued, turning square to face the vampire. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I’d rather my men don’t give you their personal details. And while your ability to pass through our barrier unharmed is certainly very impressive, I’m going to ask you to step back into Mr Lamberton’s cell, at least for the time being. Providing you have no objections?”

  Valentin looked at the Director for a long moment, then smiled.

  “Of course not, Mr Seward,” he said. “No objections whatsoever.”

  The old vampire blurred a second time, and was back inside the cell. He flopped lazily into the chair, facing the men on the other side of the redundant wall of light.

  “Are we to talk like this?” asked Valentin. “You on your side, me on mine? Hardly civilised.”

  “We’re not here to talk, Mr Rusmanov,” said Paul Turner, stepping forward. “We’re here to ask questions, that we expect you to answer. If you’d rather I asked you them from inside the cell, that’s fine with me. I am not afraid of you.”

  “Then by all means, join me,” replied Valentin. “Although do me the courtesy of your rank and your surname at least. I don’t think I will be able to use those small pieces of information for nefarious means.”

  “My name is Major Paul Turner,” he replied, stepping through the barrier and ignoring the grimace of anger on Admiral Seward’s face. He walked across the cell, to where Lamberton was already holding out the second plastic chair for him to take. He lifted it from the vampire’s hands, and set it down a short distance away from Valentin, who turned his own chair to face the Security Officer.

  “I’m sure it will not surprise you,” Turner continued, “to know that this interview is being recorded. I hope you will also realise I’m telling you this only for reasons of civility. It’s not required that I do so.”

  “Noted,” replied Valentin. “And appreciated.”

  The Security Officer nodded, then looked over at his Director.

  “Proceed, Major Turner,” said Admiral Seward.

  “Valentin Rusmanov,” said Turner, “would you mind repeating the verbal offer you made to Lieutenant Carpenter last night?”

  “Not at all,” said Valentin, stretching his long legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles. “I offered young Mr Carpenter my assistance in defeating my brother, Valeri, and the newly resurrected Count Dracula. In exchange, I requested indefinite immunity from persecution by this organisation, and all others like it.”

  “And you stand by that offer today?”

  “I do.”

  “Before we address the specifics of your proposal,” said Paul Turner, “I have two questions; firstly, why would you do this, and secondly, why would you possibly expect us to be able to trust you?”

  After Valeri left the study on the top floor of the old building on West Eighty-Fifth Street, Valentin continued to stare out of the window for a long time.

  A news helicopter hovered over the north end of Central Park, its spotlight roving among the thick tangles of trees that ringed the reservoir; in the distance, tiny pairs of flashing lights gleamed above the runways of Newark and La Guardia, a constant stream of arrivals and departures. Valentin noticed none of it; his mind was adrift in the past.

  He was remembering the time before the death of Dracula, remembering what it was like to be subordinate, to live at the beck and call of another. He was remembering how it felt to be the youngest, to stand in the shadows cast by his brothers, especially by Valeri, hated, stupid, arrogant Valeri, who never strayed more than a few yards from his master, like a bloodhound panting at his owner’s side. He was remembering how it had felt, and thinking about everything he would be forced to give up if he returned home, when he made a decision that felt immediately right.

  “Never again,” he whispered. “Never again.”

  He turned from the window, summoned Lamberton and told him to cancel the evening’s festivities. Lamberton raised an eyebrow; the Feast of the Souls, the annual black-tie dinner party where the food was a living menu gathered from every continent, was one of his master’s favourite social events. But he immediately did as he was told, and left Valentin in peace.

  The following morning Valentin called for his loyal aide again, and told him he was dismissing him from his service.

  “I see,” said Lamberton, his face a sombre mask of utter professionalism. “Might I ask what aspect of my performance has been unsatisfactory, sir? I would be most grateful to know, so I can attempt to improve it.”

  “You know full well that your performance has never been anything less than exemplary, Lamberton,” replied Valentin.

 
; “I appreciate that, sir,” he replied. “In which case, I must confess I find myself at something of a loss as to the reasons for my dismissal. Sir.”

  Valentin looked at his old friend with enormous warmth in his eyes.

  “I’ve made a decision, Lamberton,” he said, slowly. “A decision that will put me in great peril, peril that I cannot ask you to share. I am not going to return to my brother and his master; I am, in fact, planning to do the exact opposite. I will shortly depart for England, where I intend to offer my services to Blacklight, to help them destroy Valeri and Dracula both.”

  Silence descended on the study, as Lamberton considered the implications of his master’s words. Eventually, he spoke.

  “In which case,” he said, “I refuse your dismissal.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I have never cared for your brother Valeri, sir,” said Lamberton, his eyes flashing momentarily. “I have always considered him a pompous fool, a boot-licker who has spent the last century trying to revive his master because he is incapable of living a life in which there is no one to tell him what to do. Alexandru, if nothing else, was his own man; I shed no tears over his death, but he was, to me, the equal of a thousand Valeris.”

  Passion was rising in the servant’s voice. “I have no wish to spend the rest of my life trailing at the heel of anyone,” he continued. “Not Valeri, and not his master either. It has been my honour to serve you this past century and more, and I swore to myself long ago that I would never serve another. I have long fulfilled my own small ambitions, and I am proud of my life, here at your side. I do not wish to see Dracula destroy everything we have built, nor see him tear this world apart for no better reasons than arrogance and hubris. Both he and Valeri are relics of a long-dead world who I would gladly see put out of their misery.”

  Valentin’s eyes widened as Lamberton spoke. He had never, in more than a hundred years, heard the servant speak in such a way; a feeling of great pride swelled within his chest, and he broke into a wide smile of admiration.

  “Very well,” he said. “Your position remains as it was. Please, begin making the arrangements for our departure.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Lamberton, the tiniest flicker of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Then he floated backwards out of the study, closing the door gently behind him.

  “I would have thought my reasons would be obvious, even to you,” replied Valentin, smiling. “I have no desire to see Dracula rise to power again. As to why you should believe that my motives are genuine, I offer you this: you are all still alive.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Turner, his eyes narrowing.

  “Exactly what I said, my dear Major. Standing before me are the Director of Blacklight, the Security Officer of this facility, and members of the Holmwood and Carpenter families. If I had come here with some devious plan to hurt the Department from the inside, then surely all I would need to do was step through your little barrier and tear the heads from your shoulders. But I haven’t. If you don’t find that compelling evidence of my honesty, then I’m afraid I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Let’s say I choose to believe you,” said Turner. “Explain to me exactly what you are proposing.”

  Valentin rolled his eyes, and glanced at Lamberton, who was watching the exchange with professional disinterest. “You cannot defeat Dracula if he is allowed to regain his full strength,” he said. “It will be impossible. You would have little chance of destroying my brother, even with all your men and all their little stake guns, and comparing Dracula to Valeri is like comparing a Rottweiler to a poodle. Without me, he will rise, and you will all die.”

  “And with you? How exactly will you help us defeat him?”

  “I offer no guarantee that I can,” said Valentin, simply. “In all likelihood, my assistance will merely delay the inevitable. But I promise you this: with me on your side, you have a chance. A tiny one, in all likelihood, but a chance, nonetheless. Without me, you don’t.”

  Valentin looked directly at Jamie as he spoke, and he flinched under the vampire’s immortal gaze. He looked down the line of men at Admiral Seward, who was staring silently at Valentin; he looked extremely pale under the fluorescent lights of the cellblock.

  He knows what Valentin is saying is true, realised Jamie, and felt a chill race up his spine. We can’t stop Dracula on our own.

  “For what you are suggesting,” continued Major Turner, “which is essentially nothing more than a promise to try and help us defeat your former master, you are expecting to be allowed to murder innocent men and women, with impunity, for the rest of your life. Have I got that right?”

  “You have,” replied Valentin, a cruel smile creeping across his face. “But I’m afraid that’s not all.”

  “What else would you like?” snarled Turner, his composure momentarily deserting him. “The keys to the Loop? A virgin girl sent to your house every day?”

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” replied Valentin, coldly. “And no, since you ask, I require nothing so crass. I want the opportunity to engage in conversation with Mr Carpenter, alone. That’s all.”

  Jamie felt the eyes of every member of the Zero Hour Task Force turn slowly towards him, and felt heat rise in his face.

  “With me?” he asked. “Why would you want to talk to me?”

  “You destroyed my brother, Mr Carpenter,” said Valentin, “and I knew your grandfather. I think we have a great deal to talk about, don’t you?”

  Jamie flicked a glance at Admiral Seward, then looked back into the cell.

  “Maybe we do,” he said. “Maybe we don’t. But I’m happy to find out, if that’s what this is going to take.”

  “Excellent,” said Valentin. He jumped up from the chair and approached the barrier, until he was less than a metre away from Jamie. He tilted his head to one side, as if examining the teenager.

  “You look like him, you know?” Valentin said. “Your grandfather. You look very much like him.”

  “Step back from the barrier,” warned Major Turner.

  “I’ve only ever seen a portrait,” said Jamie. He could feel himself sinking into Valentin’s wide grey eyes. “He died before I was born.”

  “You could be his double,” said Valentin. The air between them was thick with tension, as though the UV barrier was giving off a field of static electricity.

  “Mr Rusmanov, step back from the barrier,” said Turner, his voice as cold as ice. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Valentin blinked, and then stepped back, breaking the spell.

  “My apologies,” he said, smoothly. “Please, by all means, continue with your questions.”

  24

  THE FOURTH MUSKETEER

  Almost three hours later the men of the Zero Hour Task Force made their way down the corridor of the detention level.

  The interrogation was progressing well; in fact, it was progressing far beyond even their most optimistic projections. So far, Valentin Rusmanov had been true to his word; he had told them everything they wanted to know. He had not restricted his disclosures to Valeri and Dracula either; he had encouraged them to enquire about all aspects of vampire life, and when a question had been posed to which he did not know the answer, he had simply given the briefest of glances to Lamberton, who had immediately supplied it.

  The information was flowing at such a rate – everything from known vampire habitats and congregations, to sources of black-market blood, to how much awareness the vampire community had of the supernatural Departments and the tactics they used to evade their attention – that Seward had called the first session of the interview to an end and ordered a resumption the following morning. He intended to spend the rest of the day formulating a structured approach for extracting the enormous amount of valuable intelligence that Valentin Rusmanov was carrying in his head.

  As the lift made its way up through the Loop, the Operators filed out one by one. On Level B, Jamie made for the door; his plan was
to gather his thoughts for a few minutes in his quarters, then go and find Larissa. But as he stepped forward, he felt a hand fall across his shoulder, and he turned back. Admiral Seward was looking at him with a strange expression.

  “I need to see you in my quarters, Lieutenant Carpenter,” the Director said.

  “Now, sir?” asked Jamie.

  “Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, and watched the grey metal doors of the lift slide shut.

  Admiral Seward held the door to his quarters open, waited for Jamie to step through it, then followed him inside and closed the door. Jamie stood patiently as the Director removed his jacket and settled himself behind his desk.

  “I got a reply from Beijing,” said Seward. “In less than forty-eight hours, remarkably. Damn nearly a record for PBS6.”

  “What did they say, sir?”

  “They’re investigating the circumstances of the Chinese citizens who arrived in Britain on the Aristeia, and they’ll keep us up to date on their findings. Standard stuff.”

  “Can we offer to send a team out to help them?”

  “We certainly can,” answered Seward. “And I probably will. But I can tell you now what their reply will be; they’ll thank us for our kind offer and tell us they’ll be sure to inform us if they need our assistance.”

  “But they won’t.”

  “No,” said Seward. “They won’t.”

  There was a long moment of silence that was not entirely comfortable; the obvious concern on the Director’s face made that impossible.

  “You do realise,” said Seward, eventually, “that Valentin’s reason for being here may well be to take revenge against you, for what you did to Alexandru?”