‘Thank you. Penelope?’
‘Yes?’
‘I haven’t told him. But, your friend Pentecross … I heard a message. I keep hearing a message.’
Miss Manners nodded. ‘It’s all right. We know. We heard it too.’
‘It mentioned an axe. Like the one I saw before.’
‘We think there are three of them. Look, I’d better go before Crowley or someone finds me down here. But I’ll come back. Soon. I promise.’
‘Three axes? Is that what they want?’
‘Yes, we think so. They have one. Another is in Stalingrad, if the message can be believed.’
‘And the third?’
‘It’s all right. Don’t worry.’ She put her hand to her friend’s cheek. ‘We have the third one safe. They won’t get it.’
Jane’s eyes slowly closed. ‘That’s good. Keep it safe. And come back for me, Penelope. Please come back for me.’
‘Of course I will.’
She stayed for another few moments, but Jane seemed to be asleep. Her lips moved slightly, as if she was speaking to someone in a dream.
CHAPTER 32
The last hints of sunlight were fading from the sky when the warden called. He was polite, deferential, but insistent. The woman who answered the door could see several more air raid wardens in the street outside. One was knocking at the next house. She went to find Crowley.
‘We’re hopeful it won’t take long,’ the warden said. ‘Just got to make sure the thing’s safe.’
‘We’ve not had a raid here for months,’ Crowley pointed out. The Blitz was over, and air raids on London were sporadic and infrequent now.
‘God knows when it was dropped. But it’s a big one.’ The warden shrugged. ‘Could take out most of the street, so the UXB lads reckon anyway.’
There was a steady stream of people coming out of the other houses on Jermyn Street now. The warden glanced back over his shoulder at them. ‘We’ve told people if they wait in the pub in the next street, we’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back.’
‘And do you have any idea when that might be?’
‘A few hours at least. But before morning, I’m sure. Good excuse for a couple of pints, if you ask me.’
‘And if we don’t feel like a couple of pints?’
‘Then it’s your funeral. Maybe literally.’
Crowley’s head turned from side to side as he considered. Finally, he nodded. ‘You’ll let us know as soon as it’s safe.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to be. Might even join you for a pint if I get a minute.’
‘There’s something to look forward to,’ Crowley murmured as he went back inside. It was inconvenient, but it couldn’t be helped. And the man was right – an unexploded bomb wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
‘What about Jane?’ one of the girls asked as she headed after the others. ‘I haven’t seen her today.’
‘I’ll check,’ he assured her. They didn’t know that Jane was spending all her time down in the cellars now – the price of her attempted desertion. And a safeguard against what she had become. Well, she would probably be safer down in the cellar than anywhere else. The chances of the bomb going off, or causing any damage to the house if it did must be slight. Even so, he collected several of his most treasured books and put them in a leather briefcase to take with him.
* * *
‘Was she with them?’
Miss Manners shook her head. ‘No, Jane must still be inside.’
She and Alban were watching from across the road, hidden in the alleyway between two houses. The people leaving the houses were barely more than silhouettes in the fading light.
‘No way of knowing if everyone’s out,’ Alban said. ‘But at least we know Crowley isn’t there any more.’
‘I didn’t see Rutherford,’ Miss Manners said. ‘He’s a thoroughly unpleasant character.’
‘Yes,’ Alban agreed. ‘But don’t worry about him. He’s…’ He hesitated, choosing his words. ‘He’s no longer involved.’
‘No longer involved in what?’ Miss Manners asked, catching the tone in Alban’s voice.
‘In anything. If you take my meaning.’ He stepped out of the alleyway and checked the street. ‘Looks like it’s all clear.’
It was the work of only a few moments for Alban to pick the lock on the front door. He stepped back to let Miss Manners precede him into the house. Alban produced a torch from his pocket, so they didn’t need to put the lights on. She led the way to the door down to the cellar. The place was in darkness, but Alban’s torch illuminated the stone steps leading down.
At the foot of the stairs, he shone the torch round the chamber and whistled. ‘You could store a lot of wine down here, you know.’
‘This way.’
Miss Manners set off towards the altar. Alban followed, shining the torch ahead of her. Only when he stepped up on to the raised dais did he see that there was a woman stretched out on the stone.
‘Penelope?’ the woman said, raising her head slightly as they approached. ‘Is that you?’ She blinked, dazzled by the torchlight after so long in the dark.
‘It’s all right. I told you I’d come back. We’ve come to get you away from here.’
‘But – Crowley?’
‘Out of the way for now,’ Alban said. He examined the chains and manacles holding the woman down. ‘Hold the torch for me, and I’ll see if I can pick the locks.’
He had expected she would need help standing, let alone getting up the steep steps. But as soon as she was free Jane Roylston seemed to recover her strength.
‘I’ll take you to your room,’ Miss Manners said. ‘If we have time?’ she checked with Alban.
He nodded. ‘Good idea. She can’t go out dressed like that. She’ll need shoes at least, and a coat probably.’
He waited in the hallway. It wasn’t long before the two women were back again, Jane now wearing a Macintosh, buttoned up with the belt pulled tight at her waist.
‘I’ll lock up,’ Alban said, as they left the house. ‘We’ll give it an hour or so, then tell the warden that the bomb’s been defused and everyone can come back again.’ He grinned, suddenly looking like a mischievous schoolboy. ‘Crowley will be livid.’
Sarah was waiting in the car a couple of streets away. Miss Manners opened the door for Jane to get in the back, then climbed in beside her.
‘Do you know Sarah Diamond?’
Jane nodded. ‘I think we’ve met. Or if not, I’ve certainly seen you.’
Sarah smiled a welcome, and put the car into gear.
‘My place is so small,’ Miss Manners said, ‘and if Crowley comes looking for you it’ll be one of the first places he tries. But Sarah has a spare room in her flat.’
Sarah glanced back. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,’ she said.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘It’s no problem,’ Sarah assured her. ‘And don’t worry – you’ll be quite safe.’
* * *
They were getting closer to their prey. They could sense it. They knew that the final key was being dealt with. That just left the key they were seeking, and they crept closer. Every day, their anticipation grew. Soon they would have what they needed.
A dark, bulbous shape clawed its way across a field of rubble. It clambered through a shattered window and into what had been a factory. From inside it stared back out across the devastated landscape, watching the humans picking their way through the debris. There were two soldiers, rifles clutched in their hands, alert for any sound, knowing that death could strike from anywhere at any time. They were probably looking for food.
Behind them, a small shape rose up from the cratered ground, watching the men as they moved cautiously forwards.
The girl was an orphan, her mother killed a few days earlier by men like these. She was too young to tell the difference between Germans and Russians. Too young to care. Men with guns wer
e the enemy. Men with guns had left her alone in this world of death and destruction.
She kept a knife in her boot. Slid it carefully out as she hurried after the men, careful to make no sound. She was only small, but she was strong and every kill made her stronger yet.
The first man turned as she approached. His expression switched from fear to relief to the faintest smile as he saw it was just a child. A girl, no more than maybe nine years old, face grimy with dust and dirt, fair hair lank and darkened by sweat and blood.
Then surprise, and finally fear again as the knife blade gleamed in the pale September sunlight. It was the one thing she kept clean. His grunt of sudden pain as the blade entered his stomach was loud enough for the other man to swing round, his rifle raised.
The girl twisted the knife savagely, her face frowning with the effort. Then she ripped it out again, her hand and arm spattered red.
He had time for one shot. It went wide, hammering into the remains of a wall a hundred yards behind the girl. She hurled herself forwards, catching the soldier off balance, knocking him to the ground. He landed on his back, his head cracked into the rubble blurring his vision.
But he could feel her weight on top of him as he struggled to bring up the rifle again. Could see her unfocused silhouette, arm raised. Could feel the thump of the impact as the blade sliced into his chest, again and again and again.
In the shadows opposite, a dark creature squatted malevolently watching through a single darkened eye. The setting sun caught the mist rising from the soldier’s chest, and stained the ruined landscape red.
CHAPTER 33
One way to get to Russia was on an Arctic convoy, delivering military supplies from the UK to Archangel or Murmansk. But after the disastrous losses suffered by convoy PQ17 in July 1942, Guy wasn’t convinced this was the safest or the most comfortable route.
‘Besides,’ Brinkman told him, ‘I gather they’re suspending convoys now until probably December. And I agree with you – time is of the essence.’
The simpler option, if it could be arranged, was to fly to Moscow.
‘The Prime Minister managed, on an American bomber,’ Davenport pointed out.
‘You are not the Prime Minister,’ Brinkman told him.
‘Hmmm, but are you sure?’ Davenport asked in a passable Churchillian voice.
Brinkman stifled a smile. The last thing Davenport needed was any encouragement. It was with reluctance that Brinkman had agreed that Guy should go to Stalingrad. He was even less persuaded that Davenport should accompany him. But it was hard to argue with Leo, who contended that if anything happened to Guy he was the only one that Hoffman knew and would trust.
‘But you don’t speak Russian,’ Brinkman had told him, exasperated.
‘I didn’t speak German but you sent me to Wewelsburg. And anyway, Hoffman speaks pretty good English.’
So it was decided. Brinkman would do his utmost to arrange air transport for Guy and Leo to Moscow, and from there they would make their way to Stalingrad.
‘And hope the Germans haven’t completely overrun the place by the time you get there,’ Brinkman said. ‘Ismay won’t agree to send a plane just for you, so let’s hope there’s a delegation going anyway and you can hitch a ride.’
‘I’ll get on to Chivers at the Foreign Office,’ Guy said.
‘He the chap you used to work for?’ Leo asked.
‘That’s right. He may have some diplomatic contacts out in Moscow who can help us travel on from there.’
‘I should think he’ll have something to say about being asked for directions from Moscow to Stalingrad,’ Leo said with a smile.
Guy laughed. ‘I expect he will. But it’ll be what he always says: “Rather you than me”.’
It turned out there was a flight in a few days that they could get on. After the meticulous and frustratingly slow research of previous weeks everything was now happening very fast, Guy thought. He would have liked to spend more time with Sarah before he left, but she was preoccupied with Jane Roylston.
‘It’s like she’s sort of gone into her shell,’ Sarah told him over a quick drink after they left the Station Z offices the evening before his flight to Moscow. ‘I don’t like to leave her on her own for too long. God knows what those monsters did to her. She hardly speaks. Never smiles.’ Sarah reached across the table to put her hand against Guy’s cheek. ‘I’d like to spend more time with you, really I would.’
He put his hand over hers. ‘It’s all right. I understand. I hope I shan’t be gone long.’
‘Come back safe.’
He smiled. ‘With Leo looking after me, what can possibly go wrong?’
They kissed long and hard outside the pub, ignoring the looks of passers-by. Then they walked hand in hand to the nearest tube, and went their separate ways, not knowing when or if they’d meet again.
* * *
In fact, they met again the next morning, much to Guy’s surprise. He had agreed to meet Leo not at the offices but at the British Museum. Elizabeth Archer was already at her desk. And sitting beside her was Sarah.
‘Come to see us off?’ Guy asked.
‘Not exactly.’ She glanced at Elizabeth, who stifled a smile. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Guy couldn’t disguise his surprise. ‘To Stalingrad?’
‘Just as far as Moscow.’
‘But – why? Not that I’m unhappy about it,’ he added quickly.
‘Blame Elizabeth.’
‘I had a word with Colonel Brinkman,’ Elizabeth confessed. ‘Did you know that the Kremlin has a hidden Archive, rather like this one though on a much smaller scale. Well,’ she added, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t, as very few people do. But I was lucky enough to visit it once, long ago…’ Her voice tailed off and she stared into the distance through watery eyes.
‘Elizabeth thinks they might have some information about the Vril that could be useful,’ Sarah said.
‘The problem is, I don’t know if Vasilov is still the curator. It was a long time ago.’
‘You’re still here,’ Guy pointed out.
‘True enough.’
‘So my job is to try to find Vasilov and persuade him to show me anything they have on the Vril.’ Sarah picked up an envelope from the desk. ‘Elizabeth’s written me a letter of introduction.’
‘Even so, you’ll have to be careful,’ Elizabeth warned. ‘Trust no one except Vasilov. Since Stalin’s rise to power, most of the old guard have been removed. Executed. Knowledge about the Archive was severely restricted even before Stalin arrived. Now…’
‘I get the idea,’ Sarah said.
‘I’m afraid you may have a wasted journey.’
‘We won’t know unless we try, though,’ Guy pointed out. ‘What sort of thing is Sarah looking for?’
‘Oh, Elizabeth’s given me all sorts of clues and pointers,’ Sarah said. ‘But I’d better get home and pack. I didn’t know I was going anywhere until Brinkman called me in this morning and sent me over here.’
‘I assume you can write in Russian as well as speak it?’ Elizabeth said to Guy.
‘I’m not sure I do it quite as well, but passably.’
‘Good, then you can make yourself useful and address Sarah’s envelope.’
She handed Guy a pen, and Sarah gave him the blank envelope.
‘What do you want me to put?’
‘Address it to the Senior Archivist of the Kremlin Library.’
Guy did as he was told. ‘But the letter inside, I assume, is in English.’
‘Vasilov can speak and read English,’ Elizabeth told them. ‘And if the letter doesn’t go to Vasilov, then it probably doesn’t matter if it can’t be read.’
Guy blew on the ink to make sure it was dry, then handed the envelope back to Sarah.
‘Make sure she’s safe,’ Elizabeth said to Guy when Sarah had gone. ‘It may not be as straightforward as she seems to think.’
‘I’ll look after her,’ Guy promised.
‘And
yourself too.’
Their eyes met for a moment, and just for a second Guy could imagine her as a young woman – perhaps the same age as Sarah. Then she returned her attention to the ancient manuscript laid out on her desk. It seemed to be written in a language consisting entirely of interconnected lines and a few dots. It looked like a cross between Chinese and a child’s scribbles. At the side of the desk rested the stone axe-head. She seemed to be using it as a paperweight to hold down a pile of meticulous sketches of the artefact and the symbols carved into it.
‘Ancient Morse code?’ Guy suggested.
‘Linear A,’ she said without looking up. ‘It’s an ancient language only found on Crete.’
‘Ancient?’
‘Prior to 1500 BC.’
‘So when were you in Russia?’ he asked.
‘Oh, a long time ago. Before all that nasty revolutionary business.’
‘And you think this Vasilov might still be there?
‘I hope so.’ She leaned back. ‘He was a good man. Extremely learned and well read. Clever, good at his job. It would be sensible to keep him in charge as long as possible. But,’ she went on, ‘there’s precious little sense in what has happened in Russia. So who knows? We can but hope.’
Leo Davenport joined them a few minutes later. ‘You got my souvenir ready?’ he asked.
‘I thought a souvenir was something you brought back from a trip,’ Guy said.
‘Pedant,’ Leo accused.
‘I’ve got it here,’ Elizabeth said, opening a drawer in her desk. She brought out a heavy metal bracelet and handed it to Davenport.
‘You’re never going to put that on?’ Guy said. He knew these bracelets could fix themselves to a wrist, burrowing into the flesh.
‘It’s all right,’ Elizabeth said. ‘That’s the one you recovered from the Vril base in North Africa. It’s useless, inert. Just for show.’
‘Which is why I want it, of course,’ Davenport said, snapping it closed on his wrist. He held his hand up. ‘Rather fetching, don’t you think?’
‘Very,’ Guy said. ‘But why bother?’
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