Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  ‘Anyway,’ Blithe went on, ‘as I said, most are just the sort of pictures you’d expect.’

  He laid down the three photographs he’d kept until last next to each other in front of them.

  ‘And then, there are these.’

  Sarah and Miss Manners stared in silence at the photographs.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sarah said quietly.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘Well, he certainly didn’t look like that when we saw him,’ Sergeant Green said.

  The photos from the journalist’s camera were spread out across the table in the conference room back at the Station Z offices. The three photographs that Blithe had held back till last were arranged together off to one side of the others.

  Leo Davenport picked up one of the pictures, examining it closely. ‘And these were developed in the normal way?’

  Miss Manners nodded. ‘Mr Blithe assures us that’s exactly how they were taken.’

  ‘The film was still in the camera and no one’s tampered with it,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Curious,’ Leo said.

  ‘That’s one word for it,’ Green agreed.

  Leo put the photo back down with the others. Each of them showed a general view of the reception J.D. Sumner had held. At the edge of one of the photos, Sarah herself appeared – half in and half out of the shot.

  The common factor was that each of the three pictures showed the Ubermensch. In one, he was half hidden behind several other people at the back of the room. In the second he was visible between a waiter and one of the guests. In the third shot, the Ubermensch was off to one side, but very much in the foreground.

  And in all three pictures, it was clear that the man wasn’t human.

  The clothes the creature was wearing looked normal enough. But in place of hands and head, there was a web-like network of interconnected lines, as if these areas had been scribbled over by a small child.

  ‘Some sort of nervous system, do you think?’ Miss Manners said.

  ‘Or the fungus stuff that seems to replace the internal structure of the body,’ Davenport said.

  ‘But I don’t understand why he looks like that here in the photos when we saw him as a normal human being,’ Green said.

  ‘Maybe it’s to do with the way film works,’ Sarah suggested. ‘I don’t really know much about it, but isn’t it to do with light levels?’

  ‘It is,’ Miss Manners said. ‘Perhaps the infected skin reflects light into the camera lens in a different way from other solid objects.’

  ‘Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,’ Leo said quietly. ‘Hamlet,’ he added for anyone who was interested. ‘There is another explanation. Well, probably several, but one that springs to mind.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sarah prompted.

  ‘I assume your photographer used a flash gun?’

  ‘You think this is due to exposure to the flash?’ Miss Manners asked.

  ‘Anyone close by would be blinded for a split second. The split second in which the Ubermensch was visible in this form. Well, as I say, it’s just a possibility.’

  ‘The important thing is we have a way of recognising them,’ Green pointed out. ‘We should tell the colonel.’

  ‘He’s rather out of touch at the moment,’ Miss Manners pointed out. ‘But it’s certainly worth telling Elizabeth Archer. She may have some ideas.’

  ‘Hang about,’ Green said. ‘She’s got the body of one of these things in her collection.’

  ‘It’s badly damaged, almost charcoal the way it was burned,’ Leo said.

  ‘Even so, it might be worth taking its picture,’ Green said. ‘See how it turns out. With and without a flashgun.’

  ‘Dr Wiles might have some ideas too,’ Sarah said.

  ‘I’ll phone Bletchley,’ Miss Manners said.

  ‘Good idea,’ Leo agreed. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to arrange to send a telegram. A friend of mine got married a few days ago, and I need him to know that my invitation never turned up.’

  ‘Perhaps you weren’t sent one,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Oh I’m sure I wasn’t. And I couldn’t have gone anyway as it was in America.’

  Green laughed. ‘You mean Cary Grant?’ The actor’s marriage to Barbara Hutton had made most of the papers.

  ‘I do indeed,’ Leo said. ‘Seems only right and proper to send my congratulations to the happy couple.’

  ‘Hasn’t Cary Grant become an American citizen now too?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He has. But with all due respect, my dear, I don’t feel that is quite such a cause for congratulation.’

  * * *

  Dr Wiles was intrigued by Miss Manners’ description of the pictures when she phoned him. She promised to send up a set of prints for Wiles to see.

  ‘Not really that clued up on photography,’ Wiles confessed. ‘But Douglas dabbles a bit, I gather. He may have some thoughts. Send them up marked for my attention and Debbie can make sure they get to us.’

  ‘Her name is Eleanor,’ Miss Manners pointed out.

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘Your assistant.’

  ‘What, Eleanor? Well, of course it is. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I sometimes wonder,’ Miss Manners muttered.

  ‘Actually, I had a note to contact you today anyway,’ Wiles went on. There was a pause, and Miss Manners could hear the sound of papers being shuffled. ‘Yes, here it is. “Call them,” it says.’

  ‘Does it say what about?’ she asked with enforced patience.

  ‘Oh, doesn’t need to, I know. It’s about Crete.’

  Miss Manners leaned forward at her desk, telephone receiver pressed tight to her ear. ‘What about Crete?’

  ‘I know the colonel’s interested in Crete, he asked me if we had any data about the island.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Not that I haven’t already passed on, which is mainly to do with UDT tracking. But that’s because it isn’t somewhere we were really watching. Well, I’m sure someone is, but we weren’t, if you see what I mean. Anyway, I made arrangements for us to receive any unusual communications data from the area. The first batch came in yesterday. We’re still analysing it, but recently there’s been a lot of radio traffic that the Y Stations put down to interference or bad reception.’

  ‘UDT transmissions?’ Miss Manners guessed.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Wiles confirmed. ‘Quite a lot of activity. We’re going back through whatever we can find in the historical data to see when it started. Don’t know yet, I’m afraid. It might have been going on for years, of course.’

  ‘Thank you. Let us know if you discover anything more.’

  ‘There was some Ultra traffic that was passed to me this morning. Not sure if that’s any use, but it seems that Colonel Brinkman isn’t the only one interested in Crete.’

  ‘There’s a large German occupying force there, we know that. Over thirty thousand men, I believe. Not surprising given the strategic importance of the island.’

  ‘This was a movement order, or news of one,’ Wiles said. ‘Probably nothing, but apparently there’s a team from the Ahnenerbe heading for Crete. Whoever they are.’

  Miss Manners frowned. She knew exactly who they were. ‘The Ahnenerbe are part of the SS now. It’s a group Himmler set up to look into ancient history and establish the Aryan origins of the German race.’

  ‘Ancient history,’ Wiles echoed. ‘That can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Miss Manners. ‘We have to warn Colonel Brinkman he may have company in Crete.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’ Wiles wondered.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she confessed. ‘But I need to come up with something fast.’

  * * *

  A possible answer arrived that afternoon in the form of David Alban. He perched himself half sitting on the edge of Miss Manners’ desk, smiling at her glare of disapproval.

  ‘I’m not stopping,’ he promised. ‘Just wanted to
let you know that my colleagues at SOE tell me Brinkman and Pentecross arrived safely in Crete. Well,’ he qualified, ‘perhaps “safely” is an exaggeration.’

  Sarah had looked up from her desk at the mention of Guy’s name. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘They are now,’ Alban assured her. ‘But there was a storm. They lost their kit in the sea. Lost their guide too, apparently, poor blighter. But they’ve met up with their contact, and signalled on his scheduled radio transmission.’

  ‘So we can get in touch with them?’ Miss Manners said. ‘There’s a few things we have to pass on.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. There are some photographs you need to see.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ Alban said. ‘But getting the information to Brinkman won’t be as easy as that, I’m afraid. Radio contact is infrequent and unreliable. Tell you what, though, the colonel asked for some replacement equipment. SOE agreed to send a plane in to make a drop in a couple of days. There’s just about time to get a letter across to Cairo and have them include that with the gear.’

  ‘A letter may not be the best way to communicate this,’ Miss Manners said. She peered over the top of her glasses at Sarah, on the other side of the room. ‘But I think, with your help, we can arrange something a little more appropriate and a lot more useful.’

  Alban smiled. ‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting,’ Miss Manners said, ‘that I find where Leo Davenport has got to, while Miss Diamond works out a flight plan.’

  Alban nodded. ‘I’ll talk to SOE. They won’t like it, of course. But that always makes for a more satisfying conversation. I’ll be in touch directly.’ He paused at Sarah’s desk on the way out. ‘Bring me back an olive, would you? I’m rather partial to olives. Especially in a good Martini.’

  CHAPTER 24

  The somewhat inauspicious home of the vast collection of art and culture that would one day be housed in the planned Fuhrermuseum at Linz was the basement and cellars beneath the Dresden Picture Gallery. An elderly curator armed with a clipboard, a pencil and dusty spectacles assured Hoffman that he would find the artefact requested.

  ‘Everything is logged and catalogued,’ he explained. ‘We have a card index system set up by Dr Posse himself.’

  Hoffman made a point of looking impressed, though he had no idea who Posse was and even less interest in finding out.

  ‘Of course,’ the curator went on, ‘it will all be very different when we move to Linz. Let me show you. Come with me.’

  He led Hoffman through a dimly lit passageway, past alcoves stacked with numbered crates and doorways that gave into more storerooms, all crammed with items on shelves and labelled boxes.

  ‘We keep it down here to be safe from the bombing. Ah, here we are.’

  They had arrived at a sort of hub, an open area where several passageways met. It was better lit, and in the middle of the area, directly under a hanging light, was a large trestle table. On the table was a model, buildings and streets manufactured from plain white card.

  ‘Speer’s design,’ the curator announced proudly. ‘This is what it will look like when it is finally built.’

  It was certainly an impressive complex. Hoffman thought he detected similarities to the Haus der Deutsche Kunst in Munich.

  ‘The railway station is on the site at the moment, so that will have to be moved, of course,’ the curator was saying. ‘Then here we have the monumental theatre, the opera house…’

  ‘And this?’ Hoffman asked, pointing to a third large building.

  ‘The Adolf Hitler Hotel.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘All surrounded by wide boulevards. Oh, and a parade ground.’

  ‘Will it take you long to locate the artefact?’ Hoffman asked. The old man seemed happy to spend the whole afternoon pointing out items of monumental folly. ‘It is rather urgent.’

  ‘Oh, of course, Sturmbannfuhrer. I apologise. I shall leave you to enjoy the model while I locate the item you are interested in. I shan’t be long. Ten minutes.’ He made a show of consulting his clipboard before hurrying off along one of the passageways.

  Hoffman was left waiting for nearer fifteen minutes, but even so he was impressed. However the card index system worked, it was certainly efficient. There must be thousands of artefacts and paintings stored down here. Finding just one small stone axe-head amongst them in a quarter of an hour was remarkable.

  ‘I believe this is what you are looking for,’ the old man said.

  He handed Hoffman a plain cardboard box. Hoffman lifted the lid. Inside, nestling on a bed of cotton wool, was the axe-head, exactly as it had appeared in the photographs he had seen at Wewelsburg. It was about four inches long, and half as wide. He brushed his fingers across the surface, feeling the rough texture of the stone and the precise indentations where the runic symbols were carved.

  ‘Will you want to examine it for long?’ the curator asked.

  ‘Examine it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I assumed that was why you are here. To examine the artefact.’

  ‘No,’ Hoffman told him. ‘I am here to collect it. I shall be taking it away with me.’

  The curator’s mouth was an ‘O’ of astonishment. ‘Oh no, no, no. I’m afraid that is not permitted. Nothing leaves here. We have pictures, of course,’ he went on quickly. ‘It was photographed for one of the Fuhrer’s albums. Every Christmas and on his birthday we present the Fuhrer with a volume containing photographs of some of the artefacts in the collection.’

  Hoffman closed the box and set it down on the edge of the model of the Fuhrermuseum. He took a piece of folded paper from his inside pocket and handed it to the man. ‘Read this.’

  The curator took the paper warily, as if afraid it might burn his fingers. He unfolded it, and his frown deepened as he read the letter.

  ‘You will see that I have absolute authority to take whatever I please,’ Hoffman said. ‘Be thankful I merely want an old piece of stone which no one will miss for a moment.’

  ‘But…’ the curator protested weakly. ‘But this is unprecedented.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to take the matter up with the Reichsfuhrer-SS,’ Hoffman suggested, taking back the paper. ‘It is, as you see, his signature on this letter.’ That was a lie, of course. He had typed out the letter and signed Himmler’s name to it himself.

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course, the Reichsfuhrer must have the artefact if he so desires.’

  ‘It’s not a whim,’ Hoffman told him sternly. ‘This artefact could be vital to our future. By providing it so efficiently you have done the Reich great service.’

  The curator blinked, his frown becoming a surprised smile. ‘Well, of course, we here at the gallery are always more than happy—’

  ‘As I shall make sure the Reichsfuhrer knows,’ Hoffman interrupted. ‘Now, as I say, my time is pressing.’ He picked up the cardboard box containing the stone axe-head. ‘Perhaps you can show me the way out of this rabbit warren?’

  * * *

  Now that he had the axe-head, Hoffman needed to decide what to do with it. When he stopped concentrating, when it lacked focus, his mind all too easily became a conflicting mass of ideas and possibilities. He needed to take some time to clear his head and think things through. He had discovered that alcohol, paradoxically, helped him to concentrate. It deadened the voices and images that pressed in upon his thoughts, freed him to think for himself – provided he didn’t overindulge.

  There was a bar near the main station that senior officers frequented. It wasn’t really to Hoffman’s taste, but he could get a drink and remain undisturbed. The place was full of smoke hanging in the air like the dust in an ancient tomb. He pushed through a group of junior officers and made his way to an empty table against the wall. From here he had a good view of the bar, and of the stage. An elderly pianist was doing his best to disguise the tuneless voice of a young female sing
er. Since the woman seemed to be wearing only stockings and a short, tight jacket over a white shirt and bow-tie, the pianist needn’t have bothered. No one was listening.

  A waitress came to take Hoffman’s drink. She wore almost as little as the singer but had compensated by slapping on a vast quantity of make-up which she presumably hoped would disguise her age. In fact she was probably only thirty, but glancing round the other women in the bar, that counted as elderly. Hoffman ordered schnapps, smiling and flirting with the woman briefly to make her feel better.

  ‘If there’s anything else you want,’ she said as she returned with his drink, ‘you know – anything at all. You let me know.’

  ‘Just the drink will be fine.’ He tipped her more than he needed to. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ he said, seeing her surprise as he handed her the money.

  Her painted expression didn’t change. ‘With two kids and a dead husband? Oh yes I do.’ She leaned closer. ‘You’d be all right, though. I wouldn’t mind with you.’

  ‘Maybe later. What’s your name?’

  ‘Helena.’

  ‘Thanks for the drink, Helena.’

  He sipped at the schnapps, feeling it burn down the back of his throat. Her name probably wasn’t Helena, and he wouldn’t see her later. But he had no doubt she would find someone to subsidise her wages.

  Helena sounded close enough to ‘Alina’ to make him think of home, of what he had left behind when he came to Germany and joined the madness. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, and concentrated instead on what to do with the axe-head. It was a reassuring weight in his jacket pocket. But he couldn’t just walk round with it hidden there, could he?

  Whatever happened, he knew he didn’t want the Vril to get it. What they needed it for was still only a vague impression in a corner of his mind. But if they wanted it, he wanted to keep it from them. Should he destroy it, he wondered? Could he destroy it? It had survived so long and in such pristine condition that somehow he doubted it.

  So, his options were to keep it himself, to hide it, or to pass it on. If he kept it, he risked it being discovered on him and that could provoke difficult questions. If he hid it … Well, anything hidden might be found as he had proved himself today. But who could he pass it on to?