Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  ‘Could be him,’ Davenport said. ‘He’s about the right height and build. So far as you can tell from here.’

  ‘He’s not a German anyway,’ Guy said. ‘Could be a civilian. Let’s go and talk to him.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’

  ‘Keep your hand on your pistol just in case.’

  Even in the fading light, they recognised Hoffman as they approached. He had also evidently realised who they were, walking briskly towards them, the girl following behind.

  ‘There are German patrols nearby,’ he said in English, greeting them each with a slap on the back and a handshake. ‘We should get under cover, then we can talk. Come with me.’

  They followed him into a burned-out building, then through it and out the other side. The girl came with them.

  ‘I guess you don’t speak English,’ Davenport said to her as she walked beside him.

  ‘She doesn’t speak at all,’ Hoffman said over his shoulder. ‘I don’t even know her name, she’s sort of adopted me. God knows what happened to her, poor child.’

  Davenport reached out to take her hand. The girl hesitated before accepting. She was staring at Davenport’s wrist and it took him a moment to work out why. The bracelet he wore was glinting in the reflected light. It seemed to fascinate her. Hoffman saw it too, and stopped.

  ‘Is there something you need to tell me?’ he asked.

  ‘This?’ Davenport held up his hand. ‘No. It isn’t real. Just a precaution.’

  Hoffman nodded. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He looked round. They had stopped outside the doorway of what might have been an office building. ‘This will do for now.’ He shoved the remains of the wooden door open and led them inside.

  ‘We got your message,’ Guy said. ‘A clever way to get in touch.’

  ‘A desperate way, more like,’ Hoffman said. ‘I had no way of knowing if it would actually work.’

  Light filtered in from a nearby fire, picking out their faces in flickering orange and red. Hoffman had taken a knife from inside his coat.

  ‘But these are desperate times,’ he said.

  As he spoke he drew the sharp blade of the knife across the palm of his left hand. The skin parted, and Guy expected blood to well up from the wound. But instead orange tendrils licked out, pulling the skin closed again and sealing it up. In moments it was as if the cut had never been made.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hoffman said in response to their startled and worried expressions. ‘My mind is still my own. Most of it. I can hear them inside my thoughts. Trying to take control. But I managed to resist taking a bracelet and without it I can keep them at bay.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Davenport asked.

  ‘In the Vault, at Wewelsburg?’ Guy guessed.

  Hoffman nodded, slipping the knife away again. ‘The Vril from the tank. A deep scratch is enough for it to infect you. It takes a while, but if the initial attack doesn’t leave you dead, then it leaves you like this.’

  There was a rattle of gunfire from close outside the building.

  ‘We should move on,’ Hoffman said. ‘I have something for you, something they must not get.’

  ‘The axe-head?’ Guy said.

  ‘One of three. The Vril already have one of them, I know.’

  ‘We have the other,’ Davenport told him.

  The girl still held Davenport’s hand as they skirted another square and headed off down a road lined with rubble and debris.

  ‘You think we can trust him?’ Guy asked quietly as they followed Hoffman.

  ‘We don’t have a lot of choice. But why bring us here at all if he’s working for the Vril?’

  ‘To find out how much we know, maybe?’

  ‘He could just have asked us. He didn’t have to show us he’s an Ubermensch.’

  ‘True,’ Guy conceded.

  At the corner of the next street, Hoffman told them they were almost at their destination. ‘I’ve hidden the axe. Somewhere safe. Once I’ve recovered it, you have to get it away from here and make sure the Vril can never find it. I’ll tell you all I know before you go.’

  They came at them without warning out of the darkness. The leading soldier fired his rifle from the hip as he ran. The bullets slammed into their target, knocking him backwards – Hoffman.

  Guy had his pistol out and had shot back before Hoffman recovered. Davenport pushed the girl behind him, bringing up his own gun and firing in one fluid, practised movement.

  Two of the four Germans went down at once, including the one who had shot Hoffman. A third charged towards Guy, yelling and brandishing a bayonet. Hoffman rose up from the ground beside him, grabbed the man as he ran past, twisted his head viciously sideways and let his body drop lifeless to the ground.

  The last German had a Luger. His first shot cracked into the brickwork close to Guy’s head. Davenport shouldered the man sideways and he stumbled on the uneven ground. Guy’s shot caught him as he was off balance, spinning him round to fall face down across a pile of rubble.

  Davenport had fallen heavily after knocking the soldier aside. He struggled to his feet, but one leg was painful when he put weight on it.

  ‘Probably just bruised,’ he assured Guy. ‘It’s not broken anyway. I’ll be all right in a minute.’ He sat on the rubble and tried to massage some feeling back into his leg.

  ‘You wait here with the girl,’ Hoffman said. ‘Pentecross, come with me and we’ll get the axe. Then we’ll find somewhere safe so we can talk.’

  The girl came and sat beside Davenport. She watched him rubbing his leg, and frowned. She reached out and tapped the heavy bracelet on his wrist.

  ‘It intrigues you, doesn’t it,’ Davenport said. His leg was feeling better. ‘We’ll maybe find you something pretty to wear.’ He stood up and tested his leg. It seemed to take his weight now, though it was still painful. As he turned, he caught sight of movement in the near darkness. The German he had knocked down was moving, groggily shaking his head. Guy’s shot hadn’t killed him.

  The girl saw it too. She ran towards the soldier.

  ‘No!’ Davenport shouted.

  But he was too late. The soldier was sitting up. In his hand he still held the Luger he had fired at Guy. As the girl rushed towards him he fired again. The force of the shot twisted her round, knocking her backwards. Anger taking hold of him, Davenport grabbed his own gun. But the girl was on her feet again almost at once, up and running at the soldier, blocking Davenport’s own line of fire.

  She was on the German before he could get off another shot, knocking the gun from him. Her hands raked down his face, nails biting into the man’s neck, twisting and squeezing, pushing him back down on to the rubble. He was still groggy from the initial fall, hardly able to defend himself as she grabbed his head and slammed it down on to broken bricks and stone. He cried out in pain. The cries became a whimper as she slammed his head down again. Even in the uncertain light, Davenport could see the dark stain spreading over the rubble as he limped over to help the girl.

  Dark shapes approached out of the night. Davenport brought up his gun, then sighed with relief as he saw it was Hoffman and Guy coming back. He knelt down beside the girl.

  ‘Are you all right? He shot you – let’s see how bad the wound is.’

  With any luck, the shot had gone right through, leaving only a flesh wound. Once the adrenalin wore off, she’d feel the pain. He didn’t envy her that.

  Gently, Davenport turned her so that what light there was illuminated the shoulder where she’d been hit. He could see the ragged hole torn in her clothes, the skin exposed beneath. And the orange tendrils flickering out of the wound as they repaired the damage.

  ‘Good God,’ he murmured. He turned to call out to Guy and Hoffman.

  Just as the girl grabbed his legs, pulling them away from beneath him. Her hands curled into claws, stabbing towards Davenport’s face.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Thames was boiling. Several minutes after Jane Roylston had disappeared b
eneath the surface, the whole middle area of the river erupted. Bubbles burst to the surface. A sudden, impossible wave curled upwards close to Westminster Bridge, between Miss Manners and the Houses of Parliament.

  ‘What the hell?’ Alban said. ‘Did your friend do this?’

  Miss Manners shook her head in disbelief. She had no answer.

  People paused on the Embankment, staring out incredulously as the waters churned, turning from muddy brown to foaming white. A dark shape forced its way to the surface. Water cascaded from the huge, bulbous craft as it broke the surface. It rose slowly, ponderously, water sluicing off it as it came clear of the river. Boats were tossed about like wooden toys, their crews struggling to keep control and avoid being washed overboard.

  The shouts and cries of the people watching were lost in the roar of the massive engines glowing beneath the craft. It climbed higher into the air, pausing for a moment before turning slowly on its axis. It was slightly elliptical, short, stubby fins jutting up from the back end, as big as a double-decker bus. Then suddenly a light so bright it hurt the eyes flashed out from the back of the craft. In moments it was screaming away across the river, climbing over the Palace of Westminster.

  ‘They’ve got the axe,’ Miss Manners said, staring after it. ‘Jane gave them the axe.’

  ‘Is it important?’ Alban could see the answer in her expression. ‘I’ll get on to the RAF. Maybe they can intercept it.’ He was already running back towards Charing Cross to find a phone.

  ‘It might be quicker to run to the Air Ministry,’ Miss Manners murmured. But Alban was probably right. He’d have more success phoning MI5 to put in an urgent, formal request than trying to get past the front entrance to the Air Ministry without the requisite clearance.

  For the moment, there was nothing Miss Manners could do except wait for Alban, assuming he came back. She stared out across the Thames. The surface was still choppy from the Vril craft’s emergence. If nothing else, she now knew what a UDT looked like. It matched the descriptions she’d taken from pilots who’d seen one – including Sarah Diamond. There were quite a few more people who’d seen one now, though of course they’d have no idea what they had really seen.

  She was about to turn away and follow Alban when she saw something in the water. At first she thought it was just a piece of driftwood or rubbish. But as she watched, it was drawn closer by the flow of the river – a shape emerged. A body. Lying face down in the water, just the head and shoulders breaking the surface. She could make out the short dark hair, plastered to the back of the neck. Jane.

  The current was taking Jane’s body towards Westminster Bridge. She ran along the Embankment, trying to keep the body in sight. Could she have survived – was it possible?

  She was almost at the bridge when the body seemed to come to life. Jane’s head lifted. Water gushed from her open mouth as she looked round. Then she struck out for the bank, swimming strongly with even, almost mechanical strokes.

  Miss Manners increased her speed. But she wasn’t going to get there in time. Already Jane was hauling herself up a slipway, then on to the Embankment. Apparently oblivious to her appearance, she headed off towards Westminster Bridge. People glanced at her curiously, taking in the sight of a young woman drenched from head to toe hurrying barefoot along the pavement. But most had seen more improbable sights.

  Turning onto the bridge to follow, Miss Manners lost sight of Jane for a second. Was she crossing the bridge, or had she turned the other way? Miss Manners looked round, trying desperately to spot her. Instead she saw another familiar and distinctive figure – Alban’s red hair meant he stood out easily in the crowd.

  ‘Did you see her?’ Miss Manners gasped as she reached Alban.

  ‘See who?’

  ‘Jane.’

  He just stared at her.

  ‘She swam to the bank. Climbed out. I lost her.’

  ‘She got out of the river? And came this way?’

  Miss Manners nodded, breathless.

  ‘Then let’s follow her.’ Alban pointed at the pavement at their feet. The area closest to the river was wet from the water cascading off the Vril craft. Trails of wet footprints led off in all directions.

  ‘How does that help?’

  ‘It might not,’ Alban conceded. ‘But if she’s been in the river, she’ll stay wet longer than most people’s shoes. Show me where she was heading and we’ll see if she left a trail.’

  ‘She’s barefoot,’ Miss Manners said. ‘That will help. And the RAF?’ she asked.

  ‘If they can get a trace, they’ll try to intercept. Well, they might get lucky.’

  * * *

  The UDT had reached the English Channel before the Spitfires found it. Three planes from RAF Manston intercepted over the Kent coast. None of the pilots had seen anything like it before, but their orders were clear – the craft was hostile and to be brought down.

  ‘Some sort of dirigible, maybe,’ Bert Tanner, piloting the lead aircraft, thought as he closed in, approaching from ahead of the craft as it raced at him.

  The other two Spitfires were close behind and on either side. Tanner opened up with his Browning .303 machine guns. If the bullets impacted on the craft in front of him, they had no effect. He kept firing, but the craft was moving rapidly towards him and he had to bank rapidly to starboard.

  As soon as Tanner was out of the way, the other two planes opened up. Their fire had as little effect, and they too had to turn rapidly to avoid collision.

  ‘Bring it down at all costs’ had been the order. Tanner barely gave a thought to what he was doing as he swung the plane round and dived back towards the strange craft. He pushed the throttle to its full extent, the acceleration driving him back into the seat. The Merlin engine’s note deepened to a throaty roar as it propelled the plane towards the enemy craft at almost 500 miles per hour.

  He closed his eyes at the moment of impact, taking his hands off the controls and breathing out. Only at that moment did he think about what he was doing. About Gracie and the children.

  A brilliant white light burned through his eyelids. That was it, he realised, and suddenly he felt calm and relaxed.

  Then a deafening thunderclap of sound shocked him back to reality. He opened his eyes and grabbed for the joystick. His plane was still diving, powering through the low clouds. The distinctive elliptical wings of two Spitfires cut through the sky above him as Tanner pulled the plane out of the dive and levelled off.

  A streak of white disappearing into the distance was the only sign of the craft he had been attacking.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sarah slept better the second night, not waking until almost eleven. She lay in bed for several minutes thinking back over the events of the previous night.

  As he had promised, Tustrum had been waiting in the Embassy dining room when she returned from the Kremlin. He was dozing in a chair, his feet stretched out under the table, an empty whisky glass in front of him.

  He jolted awake as Sarah pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. She felt every bit as exhausted as the man looked.

  He wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry, what time is it?’

  ‘Almost two in the morning.’

  ‘Christ – where have you been?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you,’ Sarah said.

  He nodded. ‘Fair enough. So long as you’re all right.’

  ‘The evening had its moments, but yes, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Sarah and Vasilov had cautiously checked there were no Vril lurking in the shadows or waiting behind the hole they had torn in the wall of the Archive. But it seemed the one that attacked them was alone. Perhaps it had been left on guard, or been sent back to obtain some other item.

  ‘Or it somehow got separated from the others,’ Sarah suggested.

  ‘I need to tell the Kremlin commandant what has happened,’ Vasilov said. ‘We need to block off this opening. Make sure they cannot return.’

  ‘Do you know what they took?’
Sarah asked.

  Vasilov nodded. He looked pale. ‘I believe so. I shall have to check to be certain. But first I must alert the commandant. You should go.’

  ‘I need to know why the Vril were here,’ Sarah insisted. ‘What they took.’

  Vasilov shook his head. ‘You cannot stay here. I will check what is missing, and get a message to you. Or, no,’ he decided, ‘I shall write to Elizabeth. You will see she gets the letter?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then Larisa will bring it to the Embassy. Tomorrow.’ He called her over, giving her rapid instructions. ‘But now, she will take you back while I find the commandant.’ He glanced at the gaping hole in the wall. ‘The fact that one of them was still here – it could mean that others will return.’

  ‘It could,’ Sarah agreed. ‘We should all get out of here. Let the soldiers sort it out.’

  They returned through the white-stone tunnels to the opening into the Arsenal Tower above. Then through the metal gate and up the spiral staircase. At the top, Vasilov left them. He shook Sarah’s hand, then leaned forward and kissed her gently on each cheek.

  There was a different guard on duty at the exit, but he spared Larisa and Sarah little more than a glance as they left. Outside, it was raining. Larisa shivered, but declined Sarah’s coat when she offered it. They walked briskly back to the Embassy, parting company in the same narrow alley where they had met several hours previously.

  As Sarah turned to go, Larisa pulled at her sleeve, turning her back. For a moment, the woman stared impassively into Sarah’s face. Then she pulled Sarah into a fierce hug. When they separated, Sarah took off her coat, and this time Larisa accepted it.

  Vasilov was as good as his word. When Sarah finally emerged from her room the next day and checked with the front desk, there was an envelope waiting for her, addressed to ‘Mrs Elizabeth Archer, care of Miss Sarah Diamond’. She recognised Vasilov’s handwriting from his earlier letter. She considered opening it, reading what Vasilov had discovered.