The department of the British Museum for which Mrs Archer was responsible was different from all the other departments in two important ways. First, its greatest treasures and most valued acquisitions had not been removed from the Museum to be stored safely down disused tube tunnels or Welsh coalmines. They were safer left where they were, in this deep, cavernous vault beneath the Museum’s Great Court well away from prying eyes and – it was hoped – German bombs.
The second difference was that the Department of Unclassified Artefacts, ironically given its name, did not officially exist. It was a secret kept from all but a few. The artefacts for which Mrs Archer was curator did not fall into any other department’s remit for the simple reason that they should not, according to accepted science or history, exist. Or if they did then they, or what they implied, were certainly too dangerous to be made public.
Over the years the collection had grown, stored in a vast chamber that even most of the Museum’s staff had no idea existed. Shelves, crates, and boxes were home to ancient Egyptian canopic jars, manuscripts written in human blood, sophisticated electrical componentry found beneath an Iron Age burial mound, and much more. Almost all of it was meticulously catalogued, almost none of it fully understood.
Now old and increasingly frail, Elizabeth had worked here almost all her adult life, starting unofficially in the 1880s until finally she succeeded her husband George Archer as curator when he died. Her knowledge of the department’s collection and of the more arcane corners of history and science was almost unparalleled.
If anyone could track down a mysterious artefact from a rough sketch drawn by a woman who saw it while in an occult trance, then it was Elizabeth Archer. Leo Davenport had no illusions about that – here, for once, he was relegated from lead role to spear-carrier. His task was to help, to encourage, and to keep Elizabeth company. But as a keen amateur historian and archaeologist, and as one who enjoyed academic discussion, it was a role he was very happy to accept.
Thursday 18 June 1942 was the day that Winston Churchill arrived in Washington for meetings with Roosevelt and the US military. And it was the day that the months of research paid off and Elizabeth Archer finally found what she was looking for.
‘I think this might be it,’ she said with typical calm understatement, and so quietly that Davenport almost didn’t hear her.
He hurried over to where she was working her way through a pile of ancient manuscripts and volumes. ‘Let me see.’
Elizabeth held Jane Roylston’s drawing in one thin, bony hand. The skin was stretched tight and her veins stood proud of the skin. She held the drawing next to another, this one on yellowed parchment showing a similar artefact, but fixed at the end of a pole or rod.
Davenport nodded. There was certainly a distinct similarity. ‘You’ll have to enlighten me, my ancient Greek isn’t as good as yours.’
‘The Axe of Theseus,’ she told him. ‘Or rather, just the axe-head in Miss Roylston’s drawing. Probably all that survives, since the handle was wooden. If this is it.’
‘Oh this is it, all right,’ Davenport told her. ‘An axe-head, yes…’ He headed back to the table where he had been working.
‘What is it?’ Elizabeth watched as he sorted through more modern papers and documents.
‘I should have paid more attention. These are catalogues and lists of artefacts in various museums and collections in Los Angeles.’
‘Where Crowley claims the Vril are hunting for our artefact.’
Davenport nodded. ‘I had Jack Warner tear himself away from his work in the studios for long enough to send over anything he could get his hands on. He thinks I’m mad. He’s probably right. But he owes me a favour for stepping into the breach at the last minute when one of his so-called stars threw a tantrum and walked off set. Then there was that potentially embarrassing business with the showgirl and the slide trombone … Ah – here we are!’ He pulled out a printed booklet and leafed through it. ‘I saw it listed as native American and didn’t look to see if there was a photo as we were hunting for something more classical in origin. Yes.’
He brought the booklet back to Elizabeth and waved it triumphantly in front of her. Sure enough, the photograph showed a very similar artefact, made of stone and carved with the strange curling symbols visible in both the drawings.
‘That’s not native American,’ Elizabeth said.
‘It is according to the description. It’s supposed to be the axe that cut the wood that was used to create a doll-child who came to life and reawakened the winds when they were lost.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Don’t say that to J.D. Sumner.’
‘Sumner? The collector?’
‘The reclusive collector of all things valuable and ancient,’ Davenport agreed, ‘who is opening a new wing of his private museum to show off more of his acquisitions. Including this so-called Doll-Child’s Axe.’ He handed Elizabeth the booklet. ‘This is an advance copy of the catalogue for the new wing.’
Elizabeth sniffed. ‘Well, a story about an animated doll has some resonance with the Ubermensch, I suppose.’
‘Got to be worth following up anyway,’ Davenport decided. ‘It’s in the right place, and the resemblance is close enough that it has to be what we’re looking for. I’ll see what else I can find out about it. And if anyone knows how we can get to see the reclusive Mr Sumner.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Elizabeth told him. ‘From what I hear he’s a very private person. He sees practically no one these days. Even your charms may be wasted.’
‘One can but try. Unless you’d like to see if he’ll talk to an eminent curator of the British Museum.’
Elizabeth was already absorbed in the documents on her desk. ‘Not really,’ she said without looking up. ‘There’s some interesting provenance on this axe-head I’d like to follow up.’
Davenport nodded thoughtfully. ‘So could this artefact of Sumner’s be your Axe of Theseus, do you think? The same artefact? And if so, how did it end up in America with a different history?’
‘If it did,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Perhaps there are two of these things. Which begs an obvious question.’
‘Are the Vril after just one, or both of them? And why?’
* * *
The cat didn’t feel the heat. In the height of summer, the streets of Los Angeles were oven-hot. But the cat padded along them methodically, slowly but surely getting closer to what it was seeing.
By late June, it had covered most of the enormous city, and was working its way out towards the suburbs. It was close – it could feel it. Rarely resting, occasionally eating, the cat had kept to the shadows. The closer it got, the less it wished to attract attention.
* * *
Even without Himmler, Hoffman was kept busy. The Japanese offensive in the Pacific seemed to be stalling, and there were rumours that the Russians were preparing to counterattack on the Eastern Front. Hoffman hoped that was true. He kept his real emotions and thoughts masked as he effectively ran several SS operations from Wewelsburg in Himmler’s absence.
But eventually he got the chance to escape from the rigours and demands of the war.
The whole of the forest was burning. It was only six years ago, but the flickering black and white made the images seem older. There was no sound on the film, just the chattering of the projector. They had warned him not to stop the film, or the celluloid would melt from the heat of the projector’s bulb. But he could play it backwards and forwards over sections he wanted to see in more detail.
The images were distorted and given texture by the stone wall they were projected onto. Hoffman had not bothered with a screen. He stood beside the projector, occasionally walking closer to make out the detail. Occasionally slumping down in a chair. His eyes never left the screen.
He had seen it before, seen most of the films before. But now he was looking for something more specific than information and enlightenment. An image that resonated in his mind’s eye. The more he thought about i
t, the more he was sure he had seen it somewhere else, before the Vril clawed their way inside his consciousness.
This first film was almost like a shadow play. The dark silhouettes of SS soldiers against the pale flames licking up from the crash site. The trail of devastation composed a nightmare landscape of skeletal branches from shattered trees punctuated by small fires – a scar through the heart of the Black Forest.
The cameraman didn’t get close enough for detail. Maybe it was too hot, or he was scared, or the SS team wouldn’t let him. Instead he recorded their retreat, carrying what they could salvage. Blurred, indistinct, some of it still burning.
The second film was less frenetic. A calm, almost measured tour through the debris and devastation, lit by the pale morning light. The trail through the trees where the craft had come down was more evident. What it was that had crashed was not. The ground was churned up, blackened and charred. Roped off, waiting for the investigation team.
Then suddenly, on the third reel, there was Streicher – the SS archaeologist brought in with his team at Himmler’s express orders to excavate and catalogue the site. In rapid edits that belied the time and care actually taken, they marked off the site into metre-squares and painstakingly excavated each one. Flashbulbs flared on the stone walls as everything was photographed and removed.
But still Hoffman had not found what he was looking for.
He knew, because of what he now was, that the Vril that survived the crash would have burrowed into the ground. They liked the darkness and the shadows, the weight of the earth above them, surrounding and protecting them. But the surprise on the celluloid faces of the soldiers and archaeologists as the creatures burst from the ground was total.
The camera was on a tripod, left to get footage of the archaeology. It captured a confused mêlée – the ground erupting; dark shapes emerging; flashes of gunfire; people running … Then the image skewed suddenly sideways. Something dark spattered across the lens. The picture cut to blackness.
The final reel from the crash site showed the aftermath. The dead bodies being taken away. Humans dumped into a heap, and then burned, the Vril by contrast carefully photographed in situ then delicately removed.
He returned the reels of film to the Vault, passing Kruger on the way.
‘Did you find any sign of whatever she is drawing?’ the scientist asked.
Hoffman shook his head. ‘Not so far.’
‘You could review the Ubermensch footage,’ Kruger said. ‘But I doubt there is anything much in it that’s relevant.’
Hoffman had also seen that footage before, and he was inclined to agree. There were photographs of the Ubermensch after it was brought back from Tibet, and more taken after it woke. But what they showed was not the same as the moving pictures captured on the films. The images in the still photographs were … different. What they showed bore no resemblance to a human being. Hoffman did not know why that was. No one knew.
This film had sound with it – documenting the creature’s progress as it learned to talk. Or rather, as it learned to talk their modern language. Its own was ancient and forgotten, it had slept – had been dead – for so long. It assimilated knowledge at a rapid pace. Occasionally, there were flashes, moments where the Ubermensch’s form blurred and became like the still photographs. Then it shuddered back to the emaciated form that Hoffman himself had seen when he met the Ubermensch.
In the recordings of the interviews, the Ubermensch, educated and invigorated, looked more as Hoffman recalled – more like an emaciated human than a desiccated corpse. This was when the Ubermensch made its proposal. Hoffman had been there for that of course. He had been as surprised as anyone that Himmler accepted the Ubermensch’s suggestion that it should lead a raiding party to England.
Of course, it promised them knowledge, power, more Ubermenschen in return. ‘And what would you gain from this?’ Hoffman had asked.
He never got used to its rasping, tortured voice. ‘I hear, although that is not the word for it, I sense information coming from England. If I go there, it may become clear. If I go there, I can recover another like me. I shall have comradeship. You will have two of us to study and to learn from.’
Except that the Ubermensch did not survive the mission to Shingle Bay. The British – Davenport, Pentecross and their comrades – had destroyed the second Ubermensch too, though no one here knew that except Hoffman. Was the ‘information’ the creature sensed actually from a group of Vril in Britain, or was it some sort of interference – either deliberate or unintentional?
‘You’re right,’ he told Kruger. ‘I don’t think the Ubermensch footage will help. And there is nothing in the Vault.’
‘Not everything is still in the Vault,’ Kruger pointed out. ‘But everything they found was photographed, before it was stored or sent on to von Braun and the others. Kammler was in charge. Now he oversees some sort of construction project.’
Hoffman knew exactly what sort of construction project Kammler was working on. But Kruger’s suggestion was a good one. He thanked him, and continued on down to the Vault.
* * *
Even now that her SOE training was complete, a summons to Colonel Brinkman’s office usually meant that he wanted Sarah to arrange transport for him. If she was busy, she arranged for an army driver. Sometimes Sergeant Green was happy to oblige. Often she drove him herself, grateful for an excuse to get out of the office. If she was lucky, she might need to fly Brinkman or some of the team somewhere.
But today it was not about transport. At least, not in the way Sarah imagined. Leo Davenport was already in the office, leaning nonchalantly against a filing cabinet and smoking a cigarette. Brinkman waved Sarah to a chair.
‘We’ve found the artefact,’ Brinkman said. ‘Or at least, Mrs Archer and Leo have.’
‘That’s great,’ Sarah said, wondering what it had to do with her. ‘So where is it? What is it?’
‘It’s an ancient axe-head, it seems.’ Davenport pushed himself away from the cabinet and leaned past Sarah to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on Brinkman’s desk.
‘Do you know J.D. Sumner?’ Brinkman asked.
‘I’ve heard of him, of course,’ Sarah said. ‘Everyone has. Eccentric millionaire who collects, well, just about everything. He endows arts funds, sets up museums, buys art and antiques. But I don’t think anyone actually knows him, do they? He’s some sort of recluse. Does he own this axe-head then?’
‘Apparently,’ Brinkman told her.
‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, but just because one of my parents is American doesn’t mean I know everyone else who’s American. I doubt if I can help.’
‘You might be surprised,’ Davenport said.
‘Oh? I’d have thought you’d have more chance of knowing Sumner. You must have contacts in LA.’
‘I do,’ Davenport agreed. ‘And it’s my contacts in LA who tell me that Mr Sumner entrusts artefacts in his extensive collection to just one shipping company. He wants anything moved, then there’s one man he calls.’
Sarah could guess where this was leading. ‘My father, I suppose.’
‘You suppose correctly.’
‘And you want to know if I can persuade my dad to get you an appointment with J.D. Sumner?’
Brinkman shook his head. ‘No. I want your father to get you an appointment with him. I’m sending you and Sergeant Green to Los Angeles.’
‘Sergeant Green?’ That surprised her more than anything else. ‘Surely to deal with Sumner we need a trained diplomat, not an army sergeant and an ATA girl. Why not send Guy?’
‘It’s a good point,’ Brinkman conceded. ‘But I think you’ll find Green is more than up to the job. As are you, now that you’ve completed the SOE course. And in any case, although he doesn’t know it yet, I need Guy to go with Leo, to France.’
CHAPTER 6
It didn’t seem to Jed Haines that the paper’s readers would be at all interested in the sixty-eighth meeting of the American Astronomical So
ciety. Especially as it had taken place a couple of weeks previously, and at Yale University. But Felix was keen to publish what he called ‘lighter’ material to distract from the news of the war.
The challenge for Jed was coming up with some sort of local angle to give the story some interest. He hadn’t been out of the city for months. For one thing he was too busy, with the paper and with seeing Cynthia. For another, the few times he had driven out in the hope of finding someone who had seen the mysterious aircraft back in February had soon convinced him he was looking for a needle in a field full of haystacks. Now, looking back, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
But on his last trip, he’d driven past a sign to the Mount Wilson Observatory. Maybe that was his local angle? The astronomers on our doorstep … He found the number and gave them a call. The next afternoon, he was driving out of Los Angeles again – but this time with a defined destination and a specific purpose.
The Mount Wilson Observatory was a collection of small buildings hidden away amongst the trees. The pale structures could be glimpsed through and above the woods as you approached. A narrow lane afforded the only way in.
The interviews went better than he had expected. It turned out that one of the senior staff at the observatory had actually been at the Astronomical Society meeting. They were happy to show him the telescope and explain what they did – some of which Jed understood. He took copious notes and snapped a few photos.
He waited until he was leaving before asking, as casually as he could, if any of them had seen anything on that night back in February when it seemed like Los Angeles was under attack. There were some exchanged glances, but it seemed that no one had seen anything unusual.
‘Hell of a light show though,’ the senior guy – Meredith – said. But no, he assured Jed, no one had seen anything. There were no unexplained sightings in the sky on the night of 24 February. And thank you for coming, it had been a pleasure.
Blood Red City Page 6
