“Just for a few bad Germans,” Horea said. “Not worth the risk.”
“There is something else.” Harker’s enthusiasm had not abated a bit. “My higher-ups have learned that the Gestapo have acquired the journals of a Rumanian physicist, a certain Demeter Olgaren. They would very much like to put their hands on those journals. What they contain could have a major impact on the war effort.”
“What about the physicist?” Lucille asked. “Wouldn’t they rather have him?”
“He died under questioning,” Harker said.
“What’s so important about this journal?” Horea asked after a proper moment of silence.
“Some kind of secret weapon that the Nazis are building,” Harker answered. “The kind of weapon that could swing the war. There is some urgency to obtain these journals before they are sent to Berlin.”
“Still sounds like a suicide mission,” Crisan said and tossed his cigarette into the fireplace.
“Something for me then?” Everyone was startled and turned to find the Prince behind them. Lucille had not even noticed that he was listening.
“You?” Harker asked.
“I have an affinity for stealth,” the Prince replied. “Which would appear to be needed in this excursion. I would be able to slip past the military encampment and into the training facility with some ease.”
“Maybe true.” Lucille turned to him. “But are you ready for another attack?”
“I am ready to earn my resurrection,” he said.
“I’ll go with you,” Harker announced.
“It is better for me to operate on my own,” the Prince said, looking pointedly at Horea.
“The purpose of this mission is not necessarily the elimination of the Gestapo,” Harker said. “Though that would be a welcomed benefit, it is secondary. We need Olgaren’s journals. You could waylay the staff while I find them. Two can be as surreptitious as one. And more efficient. I am not without my own stealthy capabilities. I have been taught by the best.”
Lucille could see the Prince considering the situation.
“I’ll go too,” Lucille said. Both men turned to her.
“I do not think this is advisable,” Harker told her. “It will be a most hazardous enterprise. For a woman especially.”
“Will you please stop treating me like I’m one of your frail English country maids? Who, by the way, are most likely not as frail as you imagine.” Lucille felt her anger rising. “This is not some Thomas Hardy novel. This is a goddamn war and I’ve been at it longer than you.”
Harker sputtered a moment, taken aback by her vehemence. Lucille knew that she had trumped him.
“I will not have you with me,” the Prince said. Lucille turned to him in surprise. She was about to protest when he raised a hand to silence her protest. “I cannot allow you to accompany us.”
“You cannot?” she demanded.
“I will not,” he said with determination.
“Because it is too dangerous for a woman?” She felt her face become hot. “You’re as ignorant as this English twit.”
Harker recoiled at the jibe.
“The mission is dangerous, agreed,” the Prince said. “I am even more dangerous. I would protect you from a bullet, my dear Lucille. Thusly I would protect you from something even more deadly: myself.”
She was too stunned to answer.
FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER
(transcribed from shorthand)
This is the uttermost despair. Now it is obvious that Lucy hates me. An “English twit,” indeed. From love to loathing within a month. I do not, for the life of me, know how I have instigated such rancour. I had thought that these last few days of acting together on a common cause had united us, at least created a working relationship. But no, she despises me. And I am a miserable git.
I must put my personal turmoil aside and concentrate on the mission at hand. My mission.
During preparations Renfield constructed some of his devilish devices for the two separate excursions. But when we were about to leave, the Sergeant suddenly tried to join the Prince and me, even attempting to climb into the hearse. When, with much struggle on our part, he was pulled from the vehicle he confronted Dracula, going to his knees, begging, “Master, allow me to accompany ye.”
He tugged at the vampire’s coat, like a Dickens beggar: “Please, Master, please.”
The Prince put a kind hand on the man’s shoulder, and Renfield took this opportunity to lay his cheek against that hand, tenderly as a lover might.
“You must remain here,” Dracula told his supplicant. “But I will return to you.”
“Yes, Master.” And to my surprise Renfield walked away without further complaint and busied himself with his kit as if this curious scene had never occurred. But I have seen this before. Whenever Renfield became caught up in one of his lectures or celebrated a demolition too loudly, all it took was one calming word from the vampire and the Sergeant settled. I was glad to turn over this command prerogative to the vampire, as when the birds in my Sergeant’s attic begin to flit about, he becomes too much to bear, what with my preoccupation with Lucille and the business of war and all.
Closca drove the vampire and me to the outskirts of the Rumanian Army encampments. Horea refuses to be alone in Dracula’s proximity, and even when all of us are gathered he edges as far away as possible from the vampire. When we needed someone to drive us to the drop-off point, Horea refused, and neither Closca or Crisan would volunteer. Obviously Horea has been sharing his experience with his fellows. Lucy was not speaking to us, so I had to make a command decision and order Closca to drive. I do admit that Horea’s trepidation has made me insecure about accompanying the vampire on this raid. I will be alone with him and he will be unleashing his more beastly vices. I try to put these thoughts aside but they are there, lurking in the shadows like . . . well, like the creature at my side.
So, it was with some qualms that I watched the taillights of our lorry disappear down the dirt road. Would Closca be here upon our return? I could only hope. Would we return? Again, hope was my only refuge. That and the power of the vampire beside me—which carried its own threat.
Taking a heading from my compass, we started into the woods that bordered the access road. It was a dense stand of trees, mostly hardwoods, the branches overhead blotting out the feeble light from a half moon and the white splash of the Milky Way. I could not help bumping into trees and stomping on dry branches, making more noise than a herd of elk. So much for my lessons from the great Leatherstocking.
Dracula suffered no such clumsiness. He glided through the woods in absolute silence. Like a wraith he moved, weaving among the trees like the wind itself, with only the whisper of a rustle. He avoided every tree, every branch, as if he could see them, which was probably the case, considering his supernatural propensities.
Ahead of us there was light, silhouetting the forest before us. Once we had achieved the very edge of these woods, we could see the source of this false dawn. Great lights mounted on twenty-five foot poles ringed a temporary camp of Rumanian soldiers. Tents, large and small, were laid in military precision across a few hectares. The roads and pathways between were dusty and remarkably busy for such late hours, as we had arrived just past midnight. Notably there was no fence.
Dracula moved forward without hesitation, and I followed with some. I still did not have enough of the spy-actor in me to feel confident mingling with the enemy, my prey, despite my masquerade as a Rumanian Warrant Officer, a maistru militar. The uniform fit me well, Crisan having stitched up the trousers quite admirably, though the tunic smelled of tobacco, body odour, and a sickly sweet hair tonic. I added to my costume a holstered sidearm, a Ruby 7.5, and a valise. Dracula carried a larger briefcase. We both looked most professional. Just another soldier and civilian businessman intent on some dealings with the military.
Again, my fears were for naught as we walked through the camp without notice. Thank God Dracula had been convinced to esche
w his cape. In his common attire he looked like just another civilian, if maybe with a more cavalier attitude than most.
Beyond the tents we came across newly built wooden structures, barracks, and command buildings. The activity here was less, with a preponderance of officers who paid us no more attention than anyone else. After wandering about the post for far too long, I realised that we were lost. I confessed this to Dracula.
“Then, we should ask for directions, should we not?” He asked as casually as if we had made a wrong turn in Picadilly Circus. He stepped up to the next man walking toward us. It was a Rumanian Colonel, a rather red-faced fellow with a preposterous mustache that extended past his jowls. I do not know if my misgivings rose out of my fear of being discovered or just habitual discomfort around superior officers. I managed a rather shaky salute.
“We are looking for the Germans,” Dracula said. “Could you give us some guidance?”
“The Gestapo?” The Colonel took an involuntary step back.
“Precisely,” I added, trying to do my part.
The officer gave us directions and within a few moments we came to the repurposed school building. It was a massive old stone structure, three storeys, an eighteenth-century mansion converted into a girls’ finishing school some thirty years ago and now, once again serving a new function.
Within the vestibule squatted a varnished desk, situated to confront anyone who entered the front door. Sitting behind it a Rumanian Sergeant was sketching on a pad. His rifle leaned against the wall next to him.
As soon as we stepped through the door this gatekeeper pushed aside his drawing and snatched up the rifle. The Gestapo was apparently tough on their guard detail.
“Halt,” he ordered without much enthusiasm.
Dracula walked up to face the man across the desk.
“Where do the Gestapo sleep?” Dracula asked.
The sentry seemed discombobulated by the question.
“This facility is closed,” the Sergeant said. “Come back in the morning.”
Dracula stepped around the desk, putting himself even closer to the soldier, who showed some concern. I could see him stiffening his spine, readying for a confrontation. Dracula was not intimidated. He made sure that the guard was meeting his eyes and waved his hand before the man’s face.
“You will tell us where the Germans sleep,” he said.
The man’s face displayed no dazed look, no manifest evidence of hypnotism. He just answered.
“Third floor,” he said.
“And the records?” Dracula asked.
“Second floor,” the guard answered.
“What’s on the first floor?” I asked. The guard did not respond, just kept staring into Dracula’s eyes.
“What resides upon the first floor?” Dracula asked him.
“Offices.”
“Is there a floor below this?” Dracula continued.
“Interrogation rooms. And cells for detainees.”
“Ask him who is in the cells,” I prodded Dracula.
“Who is in the cells?” he obliged.
“No one right now,” the guard said. “They use them to practice. On privates and prisoners.”
“Time for you to sleep,” Dracula told him. The man smiled, set his rifle against the wall, and lay down on the floor behind the desk. Curling into a fetal ball, he was instantly asleep.
We walked past the desk toward the stairway leading up to the second floor. On the way I glanced at the sentry’s sketchpad. It was not, as I expected, a crude nude so typical of soldiers but instead a rather finely executed drawing of a pair of horses frolicking. It was a bit in the abstract mode but you could feel the muscularity, the joy and freedom of the animals running wild. I was impressed.
On the way up the stairs I asked the vampire what he had done to the guard.
“He wanted to speak,” Dracula said. “I just opened the sluice gates.”
“With what?” I asked. “A crossbar?”
“A very strong suggestion.”
We paused at the second-floor landing. I tried the door leading into the offices. Locked.
“Allow me,” Dracula said as he grasped the doorknob with one hand, jamming his fingers into the gap between the hinges on the other side. There was a popping of steel and a cracking of wood, and without any effort at all he pulled the door out of its frame. He leaned the door against the wall and turned to go up the stairs.
“Time to feed,” he said and began the ascent up to the next floor. “And to reduce the number of our enemy, of course.”
I entered the offices. There was a main reception desk in front of me, then the room split into two wings, right and left. Each had a line of offices along the window side—the Gestapo like a view, I suppose. The only decorations were framed photos of the little man with the odd mustache and a large Nazi flag. On the inner side was an open area for secretaries’ or assistants’ desks, the wall behind them lined with file cabinets. I started with the files.
The Germans are an orderly lot—every desk in the office was as neat as a pin. The file cabinets were set up in a most systematic manner. I found Professor Olgaren’s file almost immediately. But inside there was nothing more than a concise biography and a synopsis of the brief “interview” that ended in mid-sentence. I wondered what kind of interrogation led to a man dying before he could finish a sentence.
I quickly read the after-report on Olgaren’s death but found no mention of the Professor’s journals. Not finding the journals in the files, I then began searching the desks and offices. Most were locked. But I had thoughtfully packed a pry bar in my valise. I used it with abandon, ripping open office doors and tearing at desk drawers like I was a madman searching for the deed to my soul. When I was done, the offices on both sides were a shambles.
And I still did not have the journals.
I was just standing there, in the centre of my vandalism, trying to think of where else I could look, when Dracula strode in.
“I cannot find the journals,” I told the vampire.
“I thought that might be a possibility,” Dracula said. “So I brought someone who might be willing to help us.”
He was carrying a man over one shoulder. He tossed the German into a chair. The fellow was in a dishevelled state, wearing only an undershirt and drawers. He was hugging himself as if against the cold, though it was exceedingly warm in the building. He didn’t look at either of us but stared off into some distant place that did not contain a blood-splattered vampire.
“Where are the journals belonging to Professor Olgaren?” Dracula asked. The man did not answer, just sat there in his stunned state.
Dracula slapped him. The blow seemed a light one but it knocked the man off the chair. The vampire grasped him by a fistful of hair and lifted him back into the chair.
“Why not hypnotise him for the answer?” I asked the vampire.
“Some are resistant,” he replied. “It may be that fear creates some sort of blockage.” He returned his attention to the man in the chair. “Again, where are the journals?”
This time the wretch responded.
“Why should I tell you anything?” the chap mumbled. “You will still violate me like the others.”
“No, he won’t,” I told the man. “I promise you.”
Dracula peered at me. There was blood down his chin to his neck, dried clots clinging to his mustache. It was as frightening a visage as I have ever witnessed. But I had seen it before, after his other excursions, and I suppose I had become inured to it by now.
“Agreed,” Dracula said. “You are safe from my predation. Now, as to the journals.”
“They are in the courier’s pouch,” the fellow said. “Downstairs. To go out with the morning dispatches to Berlin.”
“I believe you,” Dracula said. And he snapped the man’s neck with a crack that caused my sphincter to pucker.
We proceeded down the stairs and there it was, a canvas courier bag next to the door. It was locked, but I cut
the bag open with the Ghurka service kukri blade I carried in my valise. Inside were three small journals, booklets filled with tiny writing and mathematical symbols. Inscribed inside the cover of each was the owner’s name, D. Olgaren. I stuffed all three inside my Rumanian jacket and then, as an afterthought, the rest of the papers. Who knew the value of these documents?
“This is what we seek?” Dracula asked.
“Most definitely,” I said. “Done and dusted.”
“Then let us erase the evidence of my presence,” he suggested and climbed back up the stairs. I followed him to the third floor. As soon as the door was opened the smell of blood hit me like a dank fog of death. I reluctantly followed Dracula inside a large room with two dozen beds arranged with a draughtsman’s precision. My boots splashed across the tiled floor and I looked down to find myself ankle deep in a small pond of blood. I could barely hold back the gorge that rose in my throat and I turned away. But no place held any relief. The walls were splashed with arterial sprays that painted a portrait of violent death and agony. Bodies of dead men, their skin the white of their underclothing, were sprawled about in lifeless repose. Many had their necks torn into shredded meat. It was evident that Dracula’s preferred method of execution was neck breaking, but many of the dead had limbs missing, chests ripped open, rib cages splayed like cracked walnuts. I will not enumerate the other brutal violations of the flesh I witnessed.
The lump in my throat could not be kept at bay and I discharged a volume of spew onto the floor and a severed leg. For some reason I felt some guilt at this offence to the deceased owner of this extremity.
During my momentary distress Dracula was walking around distributing the phosphorus charges that had been prepared for us by Renfield. Phosphorus burns at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit, destroying anything and everything it touches. As a result fire spreads quickly, incinerating, hopefully, any traces of our burglary—and what the vampire had wrought.
“I learned long ago not to leave any evidence of my presence,” he had told us. “Such proof of my existence raises alarms and then opposition. Whereupon I find myself in much difficulty, and sometimes harm.”
Dracula vs. Hitler Page 21
