Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep

by F. Paul Wilson

  Woermann managed to sneak off for an hour during the late afternoon to sketch in the outline of the village. It was his only respite from the growing tension that pressed in on him from all sides. As he worked with the charcoal pencil, he could feel the unease begin to slip away, almost as if the canvas were drawing it out of him. He would have to take some time tomorrow morning to add color, for it was the village as it looked in the early light that he wished to capture.

  As the sun sank and the fading light forced him to quit, he felt all the dread and foreboding filter back. With the sun overhead he could easily believe a human agent was killing his men; he could laugh at talk of vampires. But in the growing darkness, the gnawing fear returned along with the memory of the bloody, sodden weight of that dead soldier in his arms last night.

  One safe night. One night without a death, and maybe I can beat this thing. With half of the men guarding the other half, I ought to be able to turn this around and start gaining ground tomorrow.

  One night. Just one deathless night.

  Sunday, 27 April

  The morning came as Sunday mornings should—bright and sunny. Woermann had fallen asleep in his chair; he found himself awake at first light, stiff and sore. It took a moment before he realized that his night's sleep had gone uninterrupted by screams or gunshots. He pulled on his boots and hurried to the courtyard to assure himself that there were as many men alive this morning as there had been last night. A quick check with one of the sentries confirmed it: No deaths had been reported.

  Woermann felt ten years younger. He had done it! There was a way to foil this killer after all! But the ten years began to creep back on him as he saw the worried face of a private who was hurrying across the courtyard toward him.

  "Sir!" the man said as he approached. "There's something wrong with Franz—I mean Private Ghent. He's not awake."

  Woermann's limbs suddenly felt very weak and heavy, as if all their strength had suddenly been siphoned away. "Did you check him?"

  "No, sir. I-I'm—

  "Lead the way."

  He followed the private to the barracks within the south wall. The soldier in question was in his bedroll in a newly made cot with his back to the door.

  "Franz!" called his roommate as they entered. "The captain's here!"

  Ghent did not stir.

  Please, God, let him be sick or even dead of a heart seizure, Woermann thought as he stepped to the bed. But please don't let his throat be torn. Anything but that.

  "Private Ghent!" he said.

  He saw no evidence of movement, not even the easy rise and fall of the covers over a sleeping man. Dreading what he would find, Woermann leaned over the cot.

  The bedroll flap was pulled to Ghent's chin. Woermann did not pull it down. He did not have to. The glassy eyes, sallow skin, and drying red stain soaking through the fabric told him what he would find.

  "The men are on the verge of panic, sir," Sergeant Oster was saying.

  Woermann daubed color onto the canvas in short, quick, furious jabs. The morning light was right where he wanted it on the village and he had to make the most of the moment. He was sure Oster thought he had gone mad, and maybe he had. Despite the carnage around him, the painting had become an obsession.

  "I don't blame them. I suppose they want to go into the village and shoot a few of the locals. But that won't—"

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but that's not what they're thinking."

  Woermann lowered his brush. "Oh? What, then?"

  "They think that the men who've been killed didn't bleed as much as they should have. They also think Lutz's death was no accident . . . that he was killed the same as the others."

  "Didn't bleed . . . ? Oh, I see. Vampire talk again."

  Oster nodded. "Yessir. And they think Lutz let it out when he opened that shaft into the dead space in the cellar. "

  "I happen to disagree," Woermann said, hiding his expression as he turned back to the painting. He had to be the steadying influence, the anchor for his men. He had to hold fast to the real and the natural. "I happen to think Lutz was killed by falling stone. I happen to think that the four subsequent deaths had nothing to do with Lutz. And I happen to believe they bled quite profusely. There is nothing around here drinking anyone's blood, Sergeant!"

  "But the throats . . ."

  Woermann paused. Yes, the throats. They hadn't been cut—no knife or garroting wire had been used. They had been torn open. Viciously. But by what? Teeth?

  "Whoever the killer is, he's trying to scare us. And he's succeeding. So here's what we'll do: I'm putting every single man in the detachment on guard duty tonight, including myself. Everyone will travel in pairs. We'll have this keep so thickly patrolled that a moth won't be able to fly through unnoticed!"

  "But we can't do that every night, sir!"

  "No, but we can do it tonight, and tomorrow night if need be. And then we'll catch whoever it is.”

  Oster brightened. "Yessir!"

  "Tell me something, Sergeant," Woermann said as Oster saluted and turned to go.

  "Sir?"

  "Had any nightmares since we moved into the keep?"

  The younger man frowned. "No, sir. Can't say that I have. "

  "Any of the men mention any?"

  "None. You having nightmares, Captain?"

  "No." Woermann shook his head in a way that told Oster he was through with him for now.

  No nightmares, he thought. But reality certainly had become a bad dream.

  "I'll radio Ploiesti now," Oster said as he went out the door.

  Woermann wondered if a fifth death would get a rise out of the Ploiesti defense command. Oster had been reporting a death a day, yet no reaction. No offer of help, no order to abandon the keep. Obviously they didn't care too much what happened here as long as somebody was keeping watch on the pass. Woermann would have to make a decision about the bodies soon. But he wanted desperately to get through one night without a death before shipping them out. Just one.

  He turned back to the painting, but found the light had changed. He cleaned his brushes. He had no real hope of capturing the killer tonight, but still it might be the turning point. With everyone on guard and paired, maybe they'd all survive. And that would do wonders for morale.

  As he placed his tubes of pigment into their case, an ugly thought struck him: What if one of his own men were the killer?

  Monday, 28 April

  Midnight had come and gone, and so far so good. Sergeant Oster had set up a checkpoint in the center of the courtyard and as yet no one was unaccounted for. The extra lights in the courtyard and atop the tower bolstered the men's confidence despite the long shadows they cast. Keeping all the men up all night had been a drastic measure, but it was going to work.

  Woermann leaned out one of his windows overlooking the courtyard. He could see Oster at his table, see the men walking in pairs along the perimeter and atop the walls. The generators chugged away over by the parked vehicles. Extra spotlights had been trained on the craggy surface of the mountainside that formed the rear wall of the keep to prevent anyone from sneaking in from above. The men on the ramparts were keeping a careful eye on the outer walls to see that no one scaled them. The front gates were locked, and he had a squad guarding the break into the subcellar.

  The keep was secure.

  As he stood there, Woermann realized that he was the only man in the entire structure who was alone and unguarded. It made him hesitate to look behind him into the shadowy corners of his room. But this was the price of being an officer.

  Keeping his head out the window slot, he looked down and noticed a deepening of the shadow at the juncture of the tower and the south wall. As he watched, the bulb there grew dimmer and dimmer until it was out. His immediate thought was that something had broken the line, but he had to discard that notion when he saw all the other bulbs still glowing. A bad bulb, then. That was all. But what a strange way for a bulb to go dead. Usually they flared blue-white first, then went out. T
his one just seemed to fade away.

  One of the guards down there on the south wall had noticed it too and was coming over to investigate. Woermann was tempted to call down to him to take his partner with him but decided against it. The second man was standing in clear view by the parapet. It was a dead-end corner down there anyway. No possible danger.

  He looked on as the soldier disappeared into the shadow—a peculiarly deep shadow. After perhaps fifteen seconds, Woermann looked away, but then was drawn back by a choked gurgle from below, followed by the clatter of wood and steel on stone—a dropped weapon.

  He jumped at the sound, feeling his palms grow slick against the stone windowsill as he peered below. And still he could see nothing within the shadow.

  The other guard, the first's partner, must have heard it too, for he started over to see what was wrong.

  Woermann saw a dull, red spark begin to glow within the shadow. As it slowly brightened, he realized that it was the bulb coming back to life. Then he saw the first soldier. He lay on his back, arms akimbo, legs folded under him, his throat a bloody ruin. Sightless eyes stared up at Woermann, accusing him. There was nothing else, no one else in the corner.

  As the other soldier began shouting for help, Woermann pulled himself back into the room and leaned against the wall, choking back the bile that surged up from his stomach. He could not move, could not speak.

  My God, my God!

  He staggered over to the table that had been made for him only two days ago and grabbed a pencil. He had to get his men out of here—out of the keep, out of the Dinu Pass if necessary. There was no defense against what he had just witnessed. And he would not contact Ploiesti. This message would go straight to High Command.

  But what to say? He looked at the mocking crosses for inspiration but none came. How to make High Command understand without sounding like a madman? How to tell them that he and his men must leave the keep, that something uncanny threatened them, something immune to German military power.

  He began to jot down phrases, crossing each out as he thought of a better one. He despised the thought of surrendering any position, but it would be inviting disaster to spend another night here. The men would be nearly uncontrollable now. And at the present death rate, he would be an officer without a command if he stayed much longer.

  Command . . . his mouth twisted sardonically at the word. He was no longer in command of the keep. Something dark and awful had taken over.

  SEVEN

  The Dardanelles

  Monday, 28 April

  0244 hours

  They were halfway through the strait when he sensed the boatman beginning to make his move.

  It had not been an easy journey. The red-haired man had sailed past Gibraltar in the dark to Marbella where he had chartered the thirty-foot motor launch that now pulsed around him. It was sleek and low with two oversized engines. Its owner was no weekend captain. The red-haired man knew a smuggler when he saw one.

  The owner had haggled fiercely over the fee until he learned he was to be paid in gold U.S. double eagles: half on departure, the rest upon their safe arrival on the northern shore of the Sea of Marmara. To traverse the length of the Mediterranean the owner had insisted on taking a crew. The red-haired man had disagreed; he would be crew enough.

  They had run for six days straight, each man taking the helm for eight hours at a stretch, then resting for the next eight, keeping the boat at a steady twenty knots, twenty-four hours a day. They had stopped only at secluded coves where the owner's face seemed well known, and only long enough to fill the fuel tanks. The red-haired man paid all expenses.

  And now, alerted by the slowing of the boat, he waited for the owner, Carlos, to come below and try to kill him. Carlos had had his eye out for such a chance ever since they had left Marbella, but there had been none. Now, nearing the end of their journey, Carlos had only tonight to get the money belt. The red-haired man knew that was what he was after. He had felt Carlos brush against him repeatedly to assure himself that his passenger still wore it. Carlos knew there was gold there; and it was plain by its bulk that there was a lot of it. He also appeared to be consumed with curiosity about the long, flat case his passenger always kept at his side.

  A shame. Carlos had been a good companion the past six days. A good sailor, too. He drank a bit too much, ate more than a bit too much, and apparently did not bathe anywhere near enough. The red-haired man gave a mental shrug. He had smelled worse in his day. Much worse.

  The door to the rear deck opened, letting in a breath of cool air; starlight framed Carlos briefly before he closed the door behind him.

  Too bad, the red-haired man thought as he heard the faint scrape of steel being withdrawn from a leather sheath. A good journey was coming to a sad end. Carlos had expertly guided them past Sardinia, sped them across the clear, painfully blue water between the northern tip of Tunisia and Sicily, then north of Crete and up through the Cyclades into the Aegean. They were presently threading the Dardanelles, the narrow channel connecting the Aegean with the Sea of Marmara.

  Too bad.

  He saw the light flash off the blade as it was raised over his chest. His left hand shot out and gripped the wrist before the knife could descend; his right hand gripped Carlos's other hand.

  "Why, Carlos?"

  "Give me the gold!" The words snapped out.

  "I might have given you more if you'd asked me. Why try to kill me?"

  Carlos, gauging the strength of the hands holding him, tried a different tack. "I was only going to cut the belt off. I wasn't going to hurt you."

  "The belt is around my waist. Your knife is over my chest. "

  "It's dark in here."

  "Not that dark. But all right . . ." He loosened his grip on the wrists. "How much more do you want?"

  Carlos ripped his knife hand free and plunged it downward, growling, "All of it!"

  The red-haired man again caught the wrist before the blade could strike. "I wish you hadn't done that, Carlos. "

  With steady, inexorable deliberateness, the red-haired man bent the knife hand inward toward his assailant's own chest. Joints and ligaments popped and cracked in protest as they stretched to their limit. Carlos groaned in pain and fear as his tendons ruptured and the popping was replaced by the sickening crunch of breaking bones. The point of his knife was now directly over the left side of his chest.

  "No! Please . . . no!"

  "I gave you a chance, Carlos." His own voice sounded hard, flat, and alien in his ears. "You threw it away."

  Carlos's voice rose to a scream that ended abruptly as his fist was rammed against his ribs, driving the blade into his heart. His body went rigid, then limp. The red-haired man let him slip to the floor.

  He lay still for a moment and listened to his heartbeat. He tried to feel remorse but there was none. It had been a long time since he had killed someone. He ought to feel something. But there was nothing. Carlos was a cold-blooded murderer. He had been dealt what he had intended to deal. There was no room for remorse in the red-haired man, only a desperate urgency to reach Romania.

  Rising, he picked up the long, flat case, stepped up through the door to the rear deck, and took the helm. The engines were idling. He pushed them to full throttle.

  The Dardanelles. He had been through here before, but never during a war, and never at full speed in the dark. The starlit water was a gray expanse ahead of him, the coast a dark smudge to the left and right. He was in one of the narrowest sections of the strait where it funneled down to a mile across. Even at its widest it never exceeded four miles. He traveled by compass and by instinct, without running lights, in a limbo of darkness.

  No telling what he might run into in these waters. The radio said Greece had fallen; that might or might not be true. There could be Germans in the Dardanelles now, or British or Russians. He had to avoid them all. This journey had not been planned; he had no papers to explain his presence. And time was against him. He needed every knot the engines could
manage.

  Once into the wider Sea of Marmara twenty miles ahead, he'd have maneuvering room and would run as far as his fuel would take him. When that got low, he would beach the boat and move overland to the Black Sea. It would cost him precious time, but there was no other way. Even if he had the fuel, he could not risk running the Bosporus. There the Russians would be thick as flies around a corpse.

  He pushed on the throttles to see if he could coax any more speed from the engines. He couldn't.

  He wished he had wings.

  EIGHT

  Bucharest, Romania

  Monday, 28 April

  0950 hours

  Magda held her mandolin with practiced ease, the pick oscillating rapidly in her right hand, the fingers of her left traveling up and down the neck, hopping from string to string, from fret to fret. Her eyes concentrated on a sheet of handwritten music: one of the prettiest Gypsy melodies she had yet committed to paper.

  She sat within a brightly painted wagon on the outskirts of Bucharest. The interior was cramped, the living space further reduced by shelves full of exotic herbs and spices on every wall, by brightly colored pillows stuffed into every corner, by lamps and strings of garlic hanging from the low ceiling. Her legs were crossed to support the mandolin, but even then her gray woolen skirt barely cleared her ankles. A bulky gray sweater that buttoned in the front covered a simple white blouse. A tattered scarf hid the brown of her hair. But the drabness of her clothing could not steal the glow from her eyes, or the color from her cheeks.