Anno Dracula 1918 - The Bloody Red Baron (30 page)

'The kill should be mine,' claimed Lothar von Richthofen. 'If I had not crippled him in our earlier engagement, he'd have been safely home by sun-up.'

'Just be glad Ball is gone,' Erich von Stalhein said. 'He was a dangerous man. The skies are safer without him in them.'

Poe could not imagine the skies being dangerous for these creatures. In their shapeshifted forms, they were masters of the jungle of the air.

'I am afraid there is no confirmation of your kill yet either,' Goring told Stalhein. 'We have found the Snipe but the pilot's body escapes us.'

'Bigglesworth fell separately. I am satisfied our debt is cancelled.'

Pilots on both sides were ranked by their score. Some fliers affected indifference but Poe noted how attention revolved around Goring's chalked display of engagements, victories and kills. None of the fliers of JG1 could match Richthofen's line of cups, but all had impressive records.

'The Baron's bag is increased again,' Goring announced, not surprising anyone. 'Another useful victory. Captain Courtney.'

'What about the observer?' asked Theo von Kretschmar-Schuldorff.

'The British do not list him as lost.'

The intelligence officer was perturbed. The point of the dogfight, from Theo's point of view, had been to keep intelligence from the allies.

'He cannot have survived No Man's Land. Like Albert Ball, he must be dead.'

'You don't understand the British, Hermann. Too gentlemanly to lie, they omit information. Who was this observer?'

Goring shrugged. 'He is not listed as lost, therefore he is not listed.'

'If he made it home then they know all about you.'

'Nobody knows
all
about us,' Lothar commented.

Theo smoked furiously, thinking. 'Since they do not claim the observer as a survivor, the British may simply wish us to believe he passed on his intelligence, encouraging us to show our hand.'

'About time,' Stalhein said. 'We should be let loose.'

'Soon, soon ...' Theo said. 'It's a clever game, and requires a cool hand.'

'I passed over the wreck of the Baron's RE8,' Goring said. 'There could be no survivor. The British wish to pretend they know our secrets. Typical of them.'

Poe saw shapes in the smoke-streams around Theo. The officer was disappearing in literal clouds of thought. Poe tried to follow his reasoning. Pleased his old knack for conundra had not deserted him, he penetrated the mystery just as Theo solidified his own conclusion.

'No,' Theo decided. 'The observer survived the crash and returned. It is the only possible interpretation of the facts.'

The fliers were mystified.

'You've lost me, Theo,' Lothar said.

'The observer must have perished,' Goring insisted.

Theo allowed a smoke ring to escape his mouth and smiled. 'Poe, would you care to explain our reasoning to these schoolchildren?'

Poe was surprised Theo realised he too had seen the answer. Fliers hauled their chairs around, very like children waiting for a story.

'The key is the fate of Ball,' Poe stated. 'The British claim he did not die in the crash of his aeroplane but later, some way from the wreck, at dawn. In No Man's Land, between the lines, during a bombardment.'

Going snorted. 'This I have told you. It is in the record.'

'Who saw the crash?'

'Only myself. I would have finished Ball by drinking his blood, but there was fire. I judged it unwise to touch ground.'

'You have not recently been in communication with British Military Intelligence?'

Goring snarled, pig-like tusks sharp. 'You upstart cur, I'll have you whipped ...'

'He's right, Hermann,' Theo said, calming the recording officer. 'Someone gave the British an accurate account of your victory over Albert Ball. It could only have been the observer of the Baron's RE8.'

Poe, vindicated, continued, 'if he gave his account to his superiors, he must ergo have survived and returned to his lines.'

The completed puzzle hung in the air. Theo waved his cigarette holder and his cloud drifted apart.

Lothar whistled. 'Manfred will
not
be pleased. It's rare that his little jokes backfire.'

The fliers seemed cheered that Baron von Richthofen had made a mistake. Maybe it proved the Red Battle Flier was made of the same stuff as they. Human stuff, after all,

'The Baron should have killed pilot
and
observer,' Theo agreed. 'It may be a great error on his part.'

'There is still no proof the observer survived, Theo,' Goring said. 'It is most unlikely.'

'There is no proof, but I am satisfied. And so is
Herr
Edgar Poe.'

The fliers regarded him with a mix of admiration and contempt.

'I understand you find my brother hard going? Can you imagine what it has been like having Manfred as an example for a whole lifetime?'

Lothar von Richthofen leaned against the battlements. The breeze riffled an aviator's scarf away from his casually worn Pour le Merite. With white grin, shiny-peaked cap, black leather boots and breeches and loose crimson blouse in the Russian style, he looked far more the dashing hero than his brother.

'Even if the gods of battle will it and Manfred falls, I will never be the Red Baron. I will always be the Red Baron's brother. I have my medals. I have my score. But I fly in his shadow.'

The afternoon was overcast but Poe wore tinted spectacles with side-panels. He heard the minute sounds of distant birds more acutely than the nearby din of war. To his ears, the castle was a living thing of creaking stone and breathing wood.

'We are very different, he and I,' Lothar declared. 'Even when warm, Manfred was not "warm". Given that I have chosen a life of service which will, in all probability, not last long, I feel entitled to take my pleasures to excess. As a poet, you will understand what I mean. But I doubt Manfred has ever been with a woman except for feeding. Even then, he prefers his dogs. And his fallen foes.'

Lothar was his brother's opposite. He described exploits in embroidered detail, making an uneventful patrol one of Sinbad's voyages. In the Great Hall, he would give thrilling accounts of his battles, performing rather than reciting. Other fliers hung on every word, every turn of combat. It would be a simple matter to make of Lothar von Richthofen's reminiscences a heroic autobiography.

'He is a good soldier,' Poe suggested. 'He flies by the rules, fights by the rules . .

'The sacred
dicta
of Boelcke?' Lothar said, eyebrows arching.

'Manfred has made them his Bible, a manual for survival, for victory. As for the soldiering, it's hard to say. I fly close to the wind. I was always the boy who got in trouble while Manfred did his duty, or enough of it to get by. But it's open to debate whether he is really the better soldier.'

'I don't understand.'

Lothar watched a hawk wheel and circle over pigeons. Perhaps he was studying the tactics of aerial predators?

'Ask Theo if Manfred is a good soldier. That business with the RE8. You know what he did?'

'He took the pilot in mid-air and drained him.'

'And he left the observer. The man could not possibly have got control of the aircraft. Imagine his panic, his fear, as the RE8 went into a spin. Consider his frustration, his powerlessness.'

Poe thought it must be like being buried alive. Having written of the condition while warm, he had experienced it upon his turning. The stinking closeness still tormented his imaginings. No, that was a more protracted fate. To go down in an aeroplane must be like waking in a coffin as it is conveyed into the furnace of a crematorium.

'To Manfred, that man's fear was almost as rich as the pilot's blood. He
feeds
on that as he feeds on the fawning of his admirers. Secretly, he is delighted you are to write this book.'

'That is not my impression.'

Lothar's grin was wolfish. 'Make no mistake. He has heard of you, Poe. If only for
The Battle of St Petersburg.
You've been well chosen.'

One of the hawks took one of the pigeons. Poe heard the tiny neck snap. The sensations of the world crowded in on him. Little sounds from the countryside all around. The water lapping in the lake. Footsteps on frozen grass.

'It
was
impossible that the British observer could survive, but in war the impossible is commonplace. It is customary to kill one's foe as many times as possible, to be sure. It was
important
the observer be killed. It was the
primary objective
of the flight. Yet Manfred took delight in torturing him rather than going for a clean, certain kill. His pleasure, his feeding, his score... these were more important to him than executing his mission. In this case, that may have consequences we shall all regret.'

'This must be a constant complaint against heroes.'

'I am a hero too, Poe,' Lothar said, hands on hips, a deadly Adonis. 'I concede you are right. This is a part of all of us. Certainly, all of us in JG1. But it is
all
of Manfred. He is not a man, he is a weapon. I love him for he is my brother, but I would not trade hearts with him, not for his score, not for his fame.'

The hawk soared higher. Poe and Lothar both followed its path, turning to keep the bird in in their sights.

'Manfred
kills,
Poe. That is what he does. That is what he
is.'

Over the protests of the nurse, Kate walked with Edwin in the hospital grounds. Shortly after dawn, the moon was not yet down. Her glasses were sensibly tinted. Daylight hurt her only at the height of a cloudless summer day. The gauzy blue dawn light of French winter was as cool as a night of the crescent moon.

Edwin held her hand. His grip was firm, hers weak. He was changing. So, she supposed, was she.

He had not told her much of his mission to Malinbois, just that he had been in an aeroplane brought down by enemy action and had made his way back across the lines. Some of his reluctance to give detail was imposed by the Diogenes Club, who wished to keep their secrets. But there was in him some spark of strangeness. He now had his own secrets. This Edwin Winthrop who returned was not quite the man who had gone out.

'I'm in flying school. Diogenes is lending me to the new show. They'll need trained intelligence people.'

The Royal Flying Corps was being divorced from the army and reformed as a new service, the Royal Air Force. Edwin no longer wore his staff officer's pips.

'I'd have thought that after the last jaunt, you'd wish never to go near an aeroplane again.'

His face was set, his mind closed to her. 'Unfinished business in the air, Kate. I have to get back up there.'

The sun came out and Edwin flinched. His eyes closed to slits. She knew, at once, why.

There's a demon in the sky and I must kill him.'

They stepped into the tangled shadow of a bare tree.

'You've vampire blood in you,' she said.

He nodded. 'A pilot I was shot down with. Albert Ball.'

She had heard of Ball, a decorated ace.

'Have you also given blood?'

He shook his head. 'Ball died before I could help him. It was his last wish I taste his blood. I think he believed he'd live on through me.'

'Now you're becoming a pilot?'

There was a strength in his eyes. Still warm, he had the beginnings of the power of fascination.

in the air, I know what to do. I don't know if it's natural ability or something Ball passed on, but I'm jumping through the hoops faster than the instructors can credit. It must be Ball. Or maybe fear has been burned out of me.'

Kate was unsure about this new Edwin.

By mid-morning, they had taken refuge in Edwin's billet in a small hotel entirely occupied by the British. His small room was on the fourth floor, directly under the roof. Its ceiling sloped like a tent. Thick blackout curtains hung over a gabled window. Daylight seeped around the edges.

Kate sat on the narrow bed, pillows propped behind her. Edwin stood, head bowed by the ceiling.

She was weaker than she had thought. Walking in the sunrise had tired her. She could hardly move. By contrast, Edwin was accelerated, gestures and thoughts faster than hers. It was as if she were the sluggish, docile, warm fool, and he the predatory vampire, darting round her defences. Perhaps it was Albert Ball in him. And the despairing, ruined Blighty cases in her.

Edwin knelt and took her hand. A little of his vitality seeped into her. An attribute of her line was a minor facility for psychic vampirism, the ability to drain energy without tasting blood. Those who knew Frank Harris, even before his turning, said he was an exhausting experience.

Edwin, to state the obvious, you're alone in your room with a woman.'

He avoided her glance.

'Aren't you supposed to be engaged?'

Face down on the tiny bedside table was a photograph frame. A watch sat on it.

'I'm dead to Catriona. The war has made living dead of us all. Until it's done, there can be nothing else.'

He rose and sat beside her, still holding her hands. She heard his strong heartbeat. Her mind swam and she recalled falling under the spell of her father-in-darkness. Frank Harris's kisses were sour-sweet. Memory was blotted by a new taste.

Edwin kissed her deferentially and took her glasses off. She took them from him and placed them next to his watch, nails brushing the hardboard backing of the unseen photograph. His huge eye was up close, a blur of liquid gleam. His lips fixed to hers.

Without drawing blood, they drank from each other's mouth. His strength of purpose was a blast of wind against her face, streaming through her hair.

Something of her flowed back into him. She sensed his electric tingling. With a smear of guilt, she had an impression from his memory of a girl she took to be Catriona. A tall, delicate, grey-eyed willow in a white dress and a straw hat. The impression faded. Kate was overwhelmed by a heat in her heart. She hugged Edwin, vampire strength coming back to her arms, squeezing breath out of him.