Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  Arriving at the Beaulieu estate in Hampshire to complete the final stages of her training was almost a rest.

  ‘Here you will learn surveillance techniques as well as deception,’ the chief instructor, Major Woolridge, informed Sarah and the others. He was a tall, slim man with a plummy voice and a thin moustache. About a dozen trainees were assembled outside the impressive country house, standing on the gravel driveway. ‘But don’t believe for a moment that the heat is off, because it isn’t. So I’ll see you back here at oh-six-hundred tomorrow for a visit to the assault course.’

  Every day started early with the assault course, or a run through the extensive grounds, or both. Sarah reckoned she was fitter than she had ever been. As exhausted as she had ever been. It was a surprise as well as a relief to be given some free time one sunny, warm afternoon. One of the instructors gave Sarah and several other trainees a lift into Southampton. He ‘suggested’ that they should not be seen together, so they each went their separate ways.

  It was a refreshing change of pace just to wander round the town. But it wasn’t long before Sarah realised she was being followed. She first saw the man as she was walking along a quiet street. He paused to light a cigarette as she glanced back, turning out of the wind, but also so that his face was hidden. She recognised the same man from his raincoat and hat later as she turned a corner. Then she saw him reflected in the plate-glass window of a large shop on the main street. He stood on the opposite side of the road, obviously watching. As she turned, he also turned away, and pretended to walk on.

  Was this part of her training, Sarah wondered? Or was it more sinister – someone actually watching her because of her connection to Station Z? Either way, her best option was to lose him, and as soon as possible.

  She wandered apparently aimlessly round the main streets as she decided what to do. When she finally decided, she walked into the largest clothing store she had found, and made for the ladies’ underwear department. There were a few other people browsing, all women. As she had hoped, the man kept his distance rather than make himself obvious.

  Taking a selection of items to the changing rooms, Sarah smiled at the attendant. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t really want to try any of these on.’

  The middle-aged woman outside the line of changing rooms raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s just that…’ Sarah hesitated, feigning nervousness. ‘There’s a man following me. He’s been following me round all the shops. I know him slightly, but I would really rather not see him.’

  The woman smiled back. ‘Oh, I quite understand.’ She glanced past Sarah to where the man was making a pretence of examining a rack of women’s coats. ‘He does look rather an unpleasant type,’ she agreed.

  ‘I just wondered if there is a back way out of the shop, or something?’

  The woman pointed past the changing rooms. ‘Turn left at the end, you’ll find a door that leads out into Melvyn Street. I’ll distract him for a moment for you.’

  Without another word, the woman marched off towards the man. He glanced up as she approached, while Sarah made sure he saw her step into the nearest changing room. She put down the clothes and peered out again, watching as the woman took the man by the arm, turning him expertly as she showed him one of the coats.

  As soon as the man’s back was turned, Sarah hurried from the changing room and round the corner. Soon, she was sitting in a tea room several streets away, positioned so she could see the street outside without being seen herself. There was no sign of the man who had been following her.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  She thought at first it was the same man. But he was younger, wearing a jacket rather than a coat.

  ‘No, please.’ Sarah gestured for him to sit down opposite her.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ the man asked as he waited for the girl to come over. ‘The tea cakes are very good. If they have any.’

  ‘My first time,’ Sarah said, returning his smile.

  She was happy to sit and chat for a while, all the time keeping a discreet watch on the street outside for the man who had been following her.

  He introduced himself as Charlie. ‘I work down at the docks,’ he told her. ‘Boring, really. An office job, but they say it’s too important for me to be allowed to join up, so…’ He shrugged. ‘What about you? What do you do?’

  ‘I work in an office too,’ Sarah said, choosing her words carefully.

  Charlie sipped his tea. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Oh, this and that. I’m a sort of secretary.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  She watched him carefully, noting how intent he suddenly seemed. The bead of sweat above his left eyebrow. She hadn’t noticed before, but there were several empty tables further into the tea room, so why had he sat here with her?

  ‘Very boring,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Typing mainly. I’m sorry, but I have to go.’ She drained the rest of her tea in a swallow and stood up.

  Charlie – if that really was his name – seemed amused. ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ She left without looking back, pausing only to pay at the till on the way out.

  ‘Charlie’ got up almost immediately. He handed a few coins to the girl at the till, not waiting for his change, and followed Sarah out into the street.

  As soon as he stepped through the door, a man appeared in front of him. Charlie made to step round him, but the man moved with him.

  ‘Leave her,’ the man said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Charlie frowned, tried to push the man out of the way.

  But the man resisted, catching hold of his arm. ‘I said leave her. You had your chance, you did you best, and she didn’t fall for it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do. So don’t be a poor loser. She passed the test, she didn’t tell you anything about herself, did she? Probably not even her name.’

  Charlie’s silence gave the man his answer.

  ‘So make your report and leave it at that.’

  ‘Afraid she might crack if I keep at it?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Isn’t that the point?’

  The man smiled. ‘Usually, perhaps. But Sparrow Hawk is a very special case. I don’t want her upset or intimidated.’

  Charlie made to go, but the man’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezing it painfully tight. The man’s eyes were flint-hard and there was an unpleasant edge to his voice. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Yes, you’ve made your point.’ He stared at the man for a moment as he tried to twist free, seeing him closely for the first time. ‘Hey – aren’t you…?’

  The man let go of his shoulder. ‘I get that a lot,’ he said.

  * * *

  Sarah’s suspicions were confirmed the next day. Summoned to Major Woolridge’s office, she was surprised to find that there were already two other men in the room.

  ‘Come in, Sparrow Hawk,’ Woolridge said. ‘I believe you already know Captain Philcox, and Corporal Innes.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said to Philcox. She turned to the corporal. ‘And I assume you’re the man who wanted to buy me a new coat. Or was it a pair of knickers?’

  Innes coloured and stammered a greeting.

  ‘You did well,’ Woolridge told her. ‘Not many people spot they’re being tailed on the first outing. Even fewer manage to lose their minder.’

  ‘And what about Charlie?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘You’d be surprised how many of the ladies fall for a handsome young man with a plausible manner. Though I have to say a higher proportion of the men are taken in by a pretty young woman. It gives the secretaries here an amusing side line.’

  ‘And if I had been taken in, as you put it?’ Sarah asked. She glanced at ‘Charlie’. It would have been easy to succumb, easy to tell him a bit of what she did to try to impress him.

  ‘Well, you’re something of a special case, I gather,’ Wool
ridge said. ‘But for anyone else, it’s the end of any career they might have thought they had with SOE.’

  ‘So, a lucky escape,’ Captain Philcox said with a smile.

  ‘Or,’ she told him, ‘it’s just possible I know what I’m doing and wasn’t taken in for a second.’ She smiled back at him, as his own expression froze. ‘And anyway,’ she added, ‘you’re not my type.’

  * * *

  For weeks she drew similar pictures. Hoffman checked through them whenever he could, but the initial novelty had worn off, and both he and Kruger left the nurses to take shifts providing paper and pencil.

  Streets, people, cars and buildings. But the drawings were indistinct, with not enough detail, despite the quantity of images, to identify where the place was. Obviously somewhere industrialised and modern – but it could be Britain, the USA, even Germany …

  Over each image Number Seventeen drew the same symbol. Two triangles pointing in at each other, overlapped at the tips. Just an outline, but Hoffman could see the details. It was the same image he saw in his own mind, but his image was stronger, focused, detailed. He could see the runes carved into the stone the artefact was fashioned from.

  But what was it? On the one hand he didn’t want to show too much interest in it, afraid that might somehow give him away. On the other, Hoffman was desperate to know.

  ‘This shape,’ he said to Kruger finally, ‘why does she draw this on every page?’

  Kruger shrugged, inspecting the latest sheet. ‘Some sort of interference, perhaps? Or maybe it represents some defect in the creature’s vision. Perhaps this is how cats see the world.’ He smiled to show he was not being serious. The smile faded as he caught Hoffman’s answering expression. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

  ‘Does it represent something?’ Hoffman asked. ‘Have you seen it before?’

  Kruger looked back at the drawing he held. ‘There is something about it,’ he admitted. ‘It did seem familiar when I first saw it. Something held in the Vault, perhaps.’

  Hoffman shook his head. ‘There’s nothing like that down there.’ He had checked. As soon as the image had appeared in his own mind, he had checked.

  ‘Even so…’ Kruger leafed back through the past few drawings, although the shape was identical on them all. ‘I’ll tell you where it might be,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you seen the archive footage?’

  ‘Not all of it,’ Hoffman admitted. ‘And a long time ago.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ Kruger said. ‘But perhaps the answer lies in what happened back in 1936.’

  * * *

  One of the most surprising courses that Sarah took was ‘Deception Training’. What surprised her was not being taught how to lie convincingly, how to tell when someone else was probably lying, or the importance of apparent self-confidence and techniques to suppress any outward signs of fear or unease.

  What surprised her was that the instructor was Leo Davenport. He smiled at her as their eyes met, but made no comment. So she too did her best to give no sign that they knew each other. Everyone else knew who Davenport was of course, which made it easier to keep up the pretence.

  She made sure she was the last to leave at the end of the day, waiting until there were just the two of them.

  ‘Making a little extra on the side?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were off on a film somewhere.’

  ‘Cover story,’ Leo told her. ‘Brinkman knows I moonlight here from time to time. Part of the conditions of SOE letting me leave them to join Station Z in the first place. Between you and me, no actor can stay as busy as I claim to be. More often than not, the film or radio work you think I’m doing is down here bringing light and enlightenment to potential agents. Well,’ he added, packing away his notes into a leather briefcase, ‘if what I teach ends up saving the life of just one of them, then it’s time well spent.’

  Sarah had to agree. ‘You down here for long?’

  ‘Heading back this evening. Just as soon as I’ve delivered my reports on each of today’s students.’

  ‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll pass with flying colours.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And I am glad to see you’re taking this new “Bare legs for Patriotism” campaign seriously.’

  * * *

  Ralph Rutherford didn’t wait for an answer. He knocked on the study door, and went straight in. He knew immediately that he shouldn’t have done.

  The bookcase behind Crowley’s desk had been pulled back from the wall on one side – hinged like a door. Before Rutherford could retreat, Crowley himself stepped out from behind the bookcase. He saw Rutherford immediately, and Crowley’s deep-set eyes seemed to recede even further into his head as they narrowed.

  Without comment, Crowley swung the bookcase closed again, concealing whatever lay behind it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rutherford said. ‘I shouldn’t have come in.’

  ‘No,’ Crowley agreed in a monotone. ‘But what’s done is done.’ He raised his hand so that Rutherford could see he was holding a heavy bracelet made of dull metal. ‘Is everyone ready?’

  Rutherford nodded. ‘I was coming to tell you.’ He smiled apologetically, trying to make light of his mistake. ‘So what else do you keep in there?’

  Crowley didn’t answer for a moment, and Rutherford felt suddenly cold and empty inside. Another mistake. Then the older man’s long face cracked into a grim smile.

  ‘Pray that you never find out,’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘I promise you, it won’t hurt,’ Crowley had told her. Either he was wrong or he was lying.

  The chanting reached its peak, echoing round the candlelit cellar. One of the robed women held a silver tray out in front of her. Her head was bowed so that her long, fair hair spilled over the tray, obscuring what was on it. She raised her head as the chanting stopped, revealing the bracelet.

  Crowley lifted the bracelet from the tray, murmuring the words of power. He opened the bracelet and turned to Jane Roylston standing beside him. She raised her right arm and Crowley slid back the sleeve of her loose gown with one hand. With the other, he placed the bracelet over her forearm and snapped it shut.

  The pain was immediate and intense, like fire burning, stabbing, and burrowing right through her. It started in the arm, shooting up to her neck then out through the whole of her body. Her vision swam as she struggled to contain the fire. When it slowly subsided, and her eyes refocused, she was somewhere else.

  Crowley’s words were faint and muffled, as if he was speaking to her from another room.

  ‘What do you see?’

  She was close to the ground, padding along a deserted street. Rubbish blew across the pavement in front of her. Jane knew she was the cat again. But now she didn’t just see through its eyes like she had back in February. She could feel what it felt, she knew what it knew. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Smelling the rancid decaying food and the traffic fumes.

  When she opened them again, she was back in the cellar. The scent in her nostrils was the smoke from the candles. The bracelet burned on her arm, but she could cope. She was used to pain – she had Rutherford to thank for that. She could detach herself from it, use it to give her the strength to be herself.

  ‘Los Angeles.’ She was surprised how strong and assured her voice sounded. ‘I was in Los Angeles. Whatever the Vril are searching for is there.’

  ‘Very good, Jane,’ Crowley breathed. ‘Thank you. Do you know what it is?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only what it looks like.’

  At a gesture from their master, the robed figures bowed their heads and backed away. All except one.

  ‘Will you tell Brinkman?’ Rutherford asked, throwing back his hood.

  ‘Perhaps. I haven’t decided.’

  ‘I don’t think we should.’

  Crowley pushed back the hood of his own robe and stared back at Rutherford impassively. ‘I repeat, I have not decided.’


  The discussion over, Crowley turned back to Jane, reaching for the bracelet on her arm. It was warm to the touch, the inlaid silver tracery glowing faintly in the dimly-lit cellar. And when he tried to unclasp it, the bracelet didn’t give. It was like it was a single ring of solid metal welded to her arm above the wrist.

  CHAPTER 5

  The death of Reinhard Heydrich on 4 June cast a shadow over Wewelsburg. He had been injured in an assassination attempt in Prague on 27 May, taking a week to die from his infected wounds.

  Himmler was in a foul mood. He had visited Heydrich in hospital two days before his death, and found the man in philosophical mood, resigned to his fate.

  Hoffman didn’t really care either way. He had never much liked Heydrich – the man was too full of himself, like so many of the higher-ranking Nazis. The blood on his hands was thicker than on most. This was the man who more than anyone else devised the Final Solution to the Jewish problem. But Hoffman knew that he would soon be replaced, and the reprisals against probably innocent Czechs would be brutal and extensive.

  The only good thing to come out of it was that Himmler was preoccupied. Heydrich had been on his way to Berlin when he was attacked.

  ‘The Fuhrer had decided to reassign him to France,’ Himmler had told Hoffman. Another irony, Hoffman thought – if the Czechs had only waited, they would have been rid of their ‘Protector’.

  ‘The situation in France has worsened,’ Himmler went on. ‘The resistance there is gaining traction. We need a man of Reinhard Heydrich’s drive and commitment to subdue the subversive elements entirely.’

  Determined to have a say in how to fill the power vacuum left by Heydrich’s death, Himmler departed for Berlin, leaving Hoffman in Wewelsburg. It was the first chance he’d had to follow up on Kruger’s suggestion that the answers to his questions might lie in what had happened back in 1936 …

  * * *

  Station Z’s continuing pursuit of the artefact Jane Roylston had seen in her visions took place largely below ground. In a vast chamber built beneath the Great Court of the British Museum, in the centre of London, Elizabeth Archer worked through days, nights and the increasingly infrequent air raids without distinguishing one from the others. When he was available, Leo Davenport helped, but for the most part it was a lonely and painstaking task. Exactly as Elizabeth liked it.