Blood Red City (16 page)

‘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 manuscript?' 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 account 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.

Brinkman laughed. ‘Hello, son. You looking after Mother for me?

‘I'm growing carrots for tea.'

‘Good.'

‘Are you staying at home now? Is the war over?'

‘Not yet, I'm afraid.' Brinkman extricated himself from the boy's embrace, and crouched down so he was at eye level with the three-year-old. ‘But I hope it won't be long, and then I'll be home for good. But until then you have to be brave and you have to be the man of the house, all right?'

James nodded. ‘All right,' he conceded, disappointed.

Brinkman stood up and ruffled the boy's hair. ‘Good man. Now you get back to your digging while I have a chat with Mummy.'

‘Yes, sir.' James attempted a salute, then ran back to retrieve his trowel.

Brinkman was aware of Dorothy standing behind him in the doorway, watching them both. He put his arm round her shoulders. She had taken the apron off, and the bulge of her stomach was more noticeable now.

‘It must be hard,' Brinkman said. ‘It'll be even harder with two of them to look after.'

She nodded. ‘I know. So you'd better win this war pretty damn quick and come home to help.'

‘I'm doing my best,' he assured her with a smile. But beneath the smile he wondered which of the wars he was fighting would be the harder to win – the one against the Nazis, or the one against the Vril?

*   *   *

‘I'm not at all sure how I can help,' the old man said. His thinning hair was still dark, though his moustache was grey. ‘Some propaganda thing, is it? You want me to write a piece for a newspaper, perhaps?'

‘Nothing quite like that, sir,' Sarah said. It had been her idea to come, but she hadn't realised how old he would be. Perhaps Guy was right and they were wasting their time.

‘You could reprint passages from
The Rights of Man
, of course. Funny how your opinions change and develop, isn't it?' he mused.

‘In what way?' Guy prompted.

‘Hmm? Oh, thirty years ago – twenty even – I'd have said that eugenics was a good thing, broadly speaking. Impractical, of course, but generally a way to advance the human race through selective breeding. Now of course, I'm arguing that it restricts the rights of the individual – as we can see from what's happening on the continent, and in the United States before that.'

‘Yes, actually,' Sarah said, ‘we were hoping to talk to you about one of your novels. About where you got the ideas for it, whether any specific research helped.'

‘You know, last year, I said in my preface to the new edition of
The War in the Air
that my epitaph should be “I told you so, you damned fools”. So if you've come to tell me I was right, it's not exactly news.'

‘It was actually
The War of the Worlds
we wanted to ask about,' Guy said.

Mr Wells blinked. ‘Really? Never really rated that one myself. Wasn't all that successful until that other Mr Welles did his radio show of it a few years ago in America. And people believed it was actually happening.' He shook his head. ‘I should write something about human credulity.'