That said, what he was offering seemed rather arcane. Weingarten’s interest was in what the man could discover on his return to England rather than what he was offering right now.
‘A stone axe,’ Weingarten said, wanting to be sure he had it right. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rutherford, but I cannot see the significance of an archaeological artefact to the British war effort.’
‘Neither can I,’ Rutherford admitted. ‘I just know that it’s important. I thought you should be told.’
‘Thank you. I will pass on the information, along with your written description. And, of course, we will be grateful for any further information you can provide. Either on this same subject, or about other things.’
Rutherford frowned. ‘What other things?’
Weingarten made a show of shrugging, his enormous shoulders lurching with the effort. ‘Oh, I don’t know. There may be things you see or hear that we might find useful. Troop movements, ships at the docks in London. Supplies being moved or loaded. We may send you specific questions from time to time. And money, of course. We can’t expect you to work for nothing, and I’m sure there will be expenses.’
‘How will I pass this information on, assuming I can get it?’ Rutherford asked. ‘I can’t keep coming to Lisbon.’
‘That might raise suspicions,’ Weingarten agreed. ‘Although between you and me, the British seem rather incompetent in the area of counter-espionage. We have a significant network of agents already working across Britain. You will be joining a team.’
‘Really?’ It was gratifying that Rutherford seemed surprised at this. The British really had no clue, Weingarten thought with satisfaction.
‘I shall give you the name and address of an agent you can contact. We refer to her as Magda, but in London she uses a different name of course.’
‘Of course.’ Rutherford leaned forward to stub out his cigarette.
‘I will write down the details. You will memorise them, then destroy them. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
There it was, in his voice. Weingarten could hear the thrill, the excitement, the hint of nerves. Rutherford was trapped now – involved, intrigued, ensnared. Yes, he could prove a most valuable agent. Weingarten wrote out the details of how and where to contact Magda, and her assumed name. He stood up and handed them to Rutherford before seeing the man out.
Easing himself back into his chair, Weingarten thought about what the man had told him. He doubted that any of it was of any interest to anyone in Berlin. But he had nothing else to do this afternoon, so he might as well include it in his report. Along with details of his latest agent. He smiled at the codename he had selected for Ralph Rutherford – ‘Thor’. Well, the man seemed to be interested in axes.
* * *
‘Progress meeting’ was a misnomer, Miss Manners thought as she listened to the others talking round and round the same subjects. She glanced down at her shorthand minutes of the discussions so far.
The axe-head that J.D. Sumner had in his possession was gone – taken by the Vril before Sarah or Sergeant Green could even examine it properly. They had photographs and notes from Sumner, but so far Elizabeth Archer at the British Museum had made little of them. The cat that Jane had been able to connect to, which gave them an insight into what the Vril were doing, was also gone, probably dead.
Leo Davenport and Guy Pentecross had not brought back the manuscript from France. But they had at least escaped with their lives, and they had a transcript. It suggested there might (or might not) be two other axe-heads, but so far no one knew where.
Colonel Brinkman was getting frustrated, but hiding it fairly well. With the Y Stations reporting an increase in UDTs over mainland Europe, he was under increasing pressure from the Prime Minister to offer some advice and insight. But all he could suggest was that this increase might merely mean more enemy aircraft were being deployed but not being identified.
The most positive suggestion of the meeting came from David Alban. Although he worked for MI5, Alban had been caught up in the affairs of Station Z, tracking down an Ubermensch and saving Sarah from it. Initially cynical about the team’s usefulness, he was now a convert – and a useful ally within the intelligence services.
‘This transcript,’ he said, ‘is it in English? Or is it the original medieval Latin or whatever it is?’
‘We have both,’ Davenport told him.
‘Do you understand Latin?’ Sarah asked. The marks on her face where the cat had attacked her were almost gone, but one stubborn scratch persisted down the side of her face.
‘Precious little,’ Alban said. ‘But I was just wondering if we shouldn’t treat it like any other data we’ve recovered.’
‘Mrs Archer is examining both the translation and the Latin,’ Guy told him. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Not exactly. If we see it as data rather than prose, as some sort of cipher…’ He shrugged. They had got the point. ‘I deal with coded text and hidden messages all the time. Sometimes one set of symbols is jumbled up, other times they stand in for a completely different set of symbols or language. Numbers instead of letters, that sort of thing. Just a thought, but what it says and what it means may be very different things.’
Brinkman nodded. ‘A good thought. Yes. Leo – you and Elizabeth know as much about these legends as anyone, take the transcripts up to Wiles at Bletchley and see if he can make anything of them.’
Guy waited for Sarah as the meeting broke up. ‘Feeling left out again?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ she told him. ‘To be honest I’m glad of the rest. And there’s not a lot for you and me to do right now. Best to leave it to the experts.’
Guy agreed. ‘I don’t think there’s a training course for how to understand Wiles and his team.’
‘I did have one idea,’ Sarah told him as they followed the others out of the room. ‘Someone it might be useful to talk to. If I can set it up, will you come with me?’
‘Of course. Who are you thinking of? Just so long as it’s not Adolf Hitler.’
* * *
One whole wall of the wooden hut was covered with a map of Britain. It was a composite picture, made from a tessellation of several maps, overlapping and fixed to the wall with drawing pins. Coloured threads criss-crossed the map, some red and some blue, held in place by round-headed map pins.
Elizabeth Archer had not been to Bletchley before, and examined the map with interest. To Leo Davenport, it was old news. He watched the two of them absorbed in their studies – Elizabeth intent on the map; Professor Wiles poring over the transcript of the ancient text they had brought with them.
‘These lines in red…’ Elizabeth said thoughtfully after a while.
Wiles glanced up, peering over the top of his spectacles. ‘What of them?’
‘They’re Ley lines, aren’t they?’
Wiles took off his glasses and dropped them on his desk. ‘You know about Ley lines? I mean, yes, yes, they are. And you can see there’s a good correlation between the UDT tracks, the blue lines, and the Ley lines.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Someone did mention your theory, but it’s only when you see it laid out like this that it’s so obvious. I assume these numbers –’ she pointed to a label at the end of one of the blue lines – ‘tell us how many UDTs have been tracked along this route.’
‘That’s absolutely correct.’
‘They do seem to stick to particular flight paths,’ Davenport said. ‘And those paths correlate, as the professor says, to Ley lines.’
‘Miss Diamond suggested that the ancient sites that are thought to define the Ley lines might be navigational markers of some sort,’ Wiles explained. ‘Not whatever is at the site now, but the place itself.’
‘It would explain why some sites gain a mystical status,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘An emanation of some sort. We sense it but can’t define it. The Vril make use of it.’
‘Perhaps they even put it there,’ Davenport said. ‘Whatever it is. But what about our m
anuscript?’ he went on. ‘Any joy with that?’
Wiles retrieved his spectacles. ‘Well, if it’s a cipher we won’t know from this. But I think it’s unlikely, as the original stories have been told and retold. They will have changed over the years and as a result of translation and transcription. So any message explicitly encoded in the actual words and phrases won’t be recoverable.’
‘You think there was one?’ Elizabeth asked. She sounded dubious.
‘Oh, I doubt it. What would be the point? Who would it be intended for? And anyway, these myths and legends originated with human beings, not with the Vril. Probably. And they’d be recounted orally, not in written form to begin with.’
‘I agree.’
‘So there’s nothing you can tell us?’ Davenport said, disappointed.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We have three stories here, more or less. Three being the minimum for a series or a progression. In mythology, there are almost always three choices, or three giants to defeat, or three tasks to perform. It shows development – of narrative and character. Sorry,’ he went on without breath, ‘where were we?’
‘The manuscript,’ Davenport prompted. ‘You were telling us what you learned from the three stories.’
‘Ah yes, yes yes. Well, it’s interesting because they are not a progression. In fact, in many ways it’s the same story over and again.’ He waved a piece of paper that was covered with jottings and a spider’s web of lines. ‘I’ve noted down the salient points and linked them together as you can see.’
‘Perhaps a quick summary?’ Elizabeth prompted.
‘Well, in all the stories, the same elements occur. Most obviously, and therefore we must assume most importantly, in each, our hero journeys, or attempts to journey, to the underworld or some equivalent. He must pass through a metaphorical Valley of Death. And in each we have an awakening – from death, or from sleep. A powerful being or group of beings returns.’
‘And the axe features in them all, of course,’ Davenport added.
‘Of course, yes. In fact, the axe is the instrument of awakening, see.’ Dr Wiles pointed to a nexus of lines on his notes. ‘The axes are therefore key. Or rather, I think they are keys, plural.’ He smiled at them, evidently pleased with his deductions. ‘It’s an allegory.’
‘An allegory for what?’ Davenport asked. ‘You say the axes are keys, which certainly ties in with what Pierre told us in France.’
‘To awaken the powerful beings,’ Wiles said.
‘And these beings,’ Elizabeth said slowly. ‘You think that’s the Vril?’
‘It seems likely. Which is why they want the axes. We know from Bulwer Lytton’s writings that they have bases underground.’
‘And from our own experience,’ Davenport reminded him.
‘So, here’s my conjecture. At some point in antiquity, someone stole the keys to the underground chambers where the Vril are sleeping. Those people were venerated as heroes, and the keys, which happen to look like stone axe-heads, became almost mystic symbols. Perhaps axes were modelled on the shape of the keys, or perhaps it’s a coincidence that they’re similar. Who knows. Some of the legends have got confused or conflated, so it sometimes seems that the keys will awaken great heroes. But other times, as your friendly monk suggested, they are said to open the gates of Hell. But it always comes back to releasing something hidden deep underground.’
‘And now the Vril are collecting the keys that will unlock these hidden underground chambers?’ Davenport said.
‘That’s about the size of it. If I’m right. I wonder where those three axe-heads are now.’
‘The Vril already have the axe from Los Angeles,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Thor’s axe could be anywhere,’ Davenport said.
‘But it’s likely to be in Central Europe, judging by this,’ Wiles told them, brandishing the transcript they’d brought. ‘Probably in Germany, knowing our luck. The Black Forest region seems likely.’
‘Theseus used his axe to slay the Minotaur,’ Davenport recalled.
‘Underground again, you see,’ Wiles said. ‘But according to this text, he left the axe behind when he followed the thread back out of the Labyrinth. Which is all a legend, so goodness knows.’
‘Not if Arthur Evans is right,’ Elizabeth said. ‘He believed his excavations on the island of Crete about forty years ago had uncovered the Labyrinth at a place called Knossos.’
‘I wonder if he found a stone axe-head,’ Wiles said. ‘Perhaps we should ask him.’
‘He died last year,’ Davenport said.
‘Shame,’ Wiles said. ‘That is, of course, if I’m right about any of this. It’s all deduction and supposition really. There’s no empirical proof.’
‘But if you are right,’ Elizabeth said, ‘I wonder how many of these things there are in hibernation or whatever they’re doing. Waiting to be woken up.’
‘And why wake them, I wonder?’ Wiles said.
‘Well we know they’re not exactly friendly,’ Davenport said. ‘Perhaps they are the army the Vril intends to use to conquer the world.’
Wiles frowned. ‘That’s a rather sobering thought,’ he said. ‘You could be right, though. Yes…’ He stared off into the distance. ‘Yes, you could well be right.’
CHAPTER 13
Luckily for Hans Meyer, he had not been at headquarters that night. As deputy to Kriminaldirektor Fleisch, Meyer faced the problem of explaining events at the monastery. It was a mess, but Fleisch’s death made things easier. There was already a scapegoat, and Meyer for one would not shed any tears for the man. Especially if he could organise things so that he got Fleisch’s job.
Clearly Fleisch had somehow allowed the prisoners to escape – dying in the process. The Abbot was another casualty, presumably killed by the British for turning them over to the Gestapo in the first place. How Fleisch’s own gun came to be in the Abbot’s dead hand was a detail that failed to make it into Meyer’s final report.
He expected an investigation, but it was a shock when an SS Hauptsturmfuhrer arrived at Meyer’s (formerly Fleisch’s) office two weeks after the incident. The man introduced himself as Dieter Grebben and sat without asking.
Meyer forced a smile. ‘And how can I help?’
Grebben teased off his black leather gloves. ‘These spies – you are sure they were British?’
‘I was not here myself at the time,’ Meyer pointed out. ‘But the men on duty felt that at least one of them was British. Another seemed to be American. He spoke no French apparently.’
Grebben considered this, although he must already have read it in the report. ‘So why send a man who speaks no French into occupied France, do you suppose?’
Meyer shrugged.
‘And why send them to a rather insignificant Gestapo office?’ He smiled. ‘No offence.’
‘They were arrested in the library of the monastery,’ Meyer said. ‘It is in the report.’
‘Yes. The library. We are very interested in this library. Or rather, in whatever the British were looking for.’
‘You think that was why they came here?’
‘I don’t think it was to confess their sins, or for the scintillating conversation. No offence. The American was perhaps an expert of some kind. A man who had to be here in person to identify or study whatever they were after. He was clearly unsuitable in operational terms for the mission, therefore his presence was unavoidable. What were they doing when arrested?’
‘Doing, Hauptsturmfuhrer?’
‘Your report says simply that they were found and arrested in the library. It doesn’t state whether they were looking for something, or copying down information, or drinking tea. I repeat – what were they doing?’
Meyer bit back his instinctive confession that he had no idea. ‘I wasn’t here at the time, you understand.’
‘Oh yes, you have made that very clear. Several times.’
‘So it is probably best if you hear it from one of the officers who was. A first-hand a
ccount is always better, I find.’
Meyer excused himself and, after hurried enquiries of his men, established that Witzleben had been there and helped make the arrest.
‘They were on the gallery of the library,’ he told Grebben, standing stiffly to attention and not meeting the SS captain’s stare.
‘Standing?’ Grebben asked. ‘Sitting? Talking? Silent?’ Before Witzleben could answer, Grebben stood up. ‘Show me. I wish to see exactly where they were.’
A few minutes later the three of them were standing on the gallery.
‘They were here, three of them. Standing. Talking, I think. They stopped when we entered the room, of course.’
‘Why here, do you think?’
‘Well, because they were reading a book.’
Grebben turned to glare at Meyer. ‘What book?’
Witzleben opened the door protecting the ancient volumes. He pulled one out, its chain jangling across the wooden reading table. ‘This one.’
‘You are sure? You saw the title?’
‘No, sir. But I remember where it was on the shelf.’
Grebben nodded. ‘Very well. I shall take it with me. Also the volume either side, just in case your memory is at fault. But keep them separate. Cut the chains and bring them to my car.’ He turned and started down the spiral staircase without a backward glance.
* * *
It was almost a month since Colonel Brinkman had last seen his family. He telephoned to let his wife know that he was coming. As he approached the house, he could smell the bread she’d been baking.
Dorothy hurried out to greet him, wiping the flour from her hands on to her apron before embracing him. Brinkman tried not to hug her too tight.
‘Oliver,’ she chided, ‘you’ve lost weight.’
He laughed. ‘You haven’t.’
‘No,’ she agreed.
‘Where’s James?’
‘Back garden,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t mention you might be coming, in case you couldn’t get away.’
The boy was digging in a corner of the vegetable patch with a small trowel. When he saw his father, he leaped up, dropping the trowel and ran to Brinkman, wrapping muddy hands round his father’s legs.
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