Blood Red City (37 page)

Vasilov was smoothing Larisa's hair, still speaking gently and quietly to her.

‘I don't know who George is,' Sarah went on. ‘If he used to work with Elizabeth, then I'm sorry but I've never met him. There is someone who helps her. Keeps himself to himself. He's quite old, but she calls him “Young Eddie” not George.'

Vasilov looked up at that. ‘Young Eddie,' he repeated. ‘He would not be so young now. But how can you not know George Archer? He is the Curator of the Department of Unclassified Artefacts.'

And suddenly it made sense. ‘Elizabeth's husband?'

‘Of course.'

‘I'm sorry.' There was no easy way to tell the old man. ‘Elizabeth has never told me her husband's name, or if she has mentioned it, I didn't remember. But – Elizabeth is a widow now.'

Vasilov looked up at her, a frown creasing his already wrinkled face. He wiped his hand across his eyes and murmured something in Russian.

‘I'm sorry,' Sarah said.

‘So am I,' Vasilov said. ‘And grateful,' he added. ‘For the life of my granddaughter.'

They helped Larisa to her feet and she sat on one of the metal strong boxes, still breathing heavily. She seemed to notice the mess down the front of her coat for the first time, and quickly pulled it off, throwing it away from her.

‘That beast,' Vasilov said. ‘The Vril. What did it want here?'

Sarah shook her head. ‘I have no idea. I wasn't expecting it.'

‘You said they live underground.'

‘But you're right, it came here for a purpose. There must be something here that it was after.'

Vasilov nodded slowly. ‘There are many things here that it might have wanted. One section in particular, stored away from the other artefacts. A section that holds especial interest for Comrade Stalin…' He paused, letting out a long breath. ‘Yes, that would make sense of many things. I store the items, but I am forbidden from investigating them.'

‘What are these things?'

‘They were recovered from the same area, the same
incident
. Thirty-five years ago, it must be now.'

‘Can you show me?'

Vasilov nodded. ‘Of course.'

He turned to speak to Larisa. She looked pale, but her breathing was back to normal. She stood up, slightly shakily, and walked with them through the chamber.

They needed their torches again as the back of the area receded into shadows. Sarah was listening keenly for any hint of sound, of movement. There was another set of metal doors. There was a grille above the doors, the bars too close together for anyone to get through. But wide enough for the Vril to have entered from, Sarah assumed, the tunnel beyond. But when Larisa unlocked these and swung them open, she revealed another chamber beyond.

Lights flickered on, and Sarah saw that this chamber was smaller than the first. Again, it was filled with crates and metal boxes. The centre of the floor was covered with the shattered debris of a broken crate. Straw spilled out of the remains.

‘I think we can see what they came for,' Sarah said.

‘And how they got in,' Vasilov added.

He nodded towards the side of the chamber. The distinctive white stone had been torn away, leaving a ragged dark hole.

‘They took something away with them,' Sarah said. ‘Something that was inside that crate. But what? And why?'

*   *   *

It was surprising how quickly they got used to the constant background noise, the smell, the need to stay alert at every moment. When the first light of dawn filtered through the haze of dust and smoke, they found themselves in a surreal landscape. Brick chimney stacks stood as industrial sentinels as far as the eye could see, like petrified trees in a desolate winter forest. The ground was uneven, but layered with dust and ash rather than rubble.

‘Incendiaries,' Davenport said. ‘I've seen similar in parts of London, but nothing on this scale. The air raids burn out the wooden buildings but leave anything brick or stone almost intact.'

Beyond the forest of chimneys, they moved back into the shattered remnants of more robust structures. Several buildings they passed were obviously occupied by Russian troops. Guy saw them watching from windows, gun barrels poking out from upper storeys and field guns on the ground floor. With the arrival of a misty daylight, they became even more careful, hugging the shadows and avoiding open ground. They should be safe from the Russian snipers, but as they moved into areas that were not completely controlled by either side, there would be German snipers too. The bodies crawling with rats were a continual reminder that death was never far away.

They hid on the upper floor of a building, watching through a hole punched in the wall, as a group of Germans advanced across one area. Two of them carried flamethrowers, spraying liquid fire across walls and rubble. Guy knew that the fire would find the tiniest way through. If there was a sniper hiding the other side, the flames would find him. Or her.

But the sniper was further away and higher up, judging by where the shot seemed to come from. One of the soldiers collapsed clutching his chest. The others scattered.

‘Didn't kill him, though,' Leo pointed out as the other soldiers dragged their comrade into cover.

‘Probably didn't aim to,' Guy said. ‘A badly wounded man can't fight, but he ties up resources. Just getting him out of here will slow the others down and make them easier targets.'

It was late afternoon before they found what they hoped was the Square of Fallen Heroes. It was still recognisable as a square, but the buildings on one side were all but gone and on the other three they were little more than burned-out husks. A tattered red flag fluttered in the breeze, hanging from a pole angled off a shattered balcony. It was the only colour in the whole grey landscape – the colour of blood.

‘No street signs, and no policeman to ask,' Davenport complained. ‘But assuming this is the place, what do we do now?'

‘I don't know,' Guy confessed. ‘To be honest, I didn't really think we'd get this far. I guess we have to hope that Hoffman will be looking out for us.'

‘Just so long as he hasn't given up and gone home.'

They gathered up enough wood to make a fire in the doorway of one of the buildings. Guy took a charred piece of wood from the fire and scraped a large letter ‘H' on the wall behind the fire. With luck it would attract Hoffman's attention. Of course, the fire was likely to attract the attention of anyone else in the area too. So they watched from another building fifty yards away.

The fire was dying with the sunlight as evening drew in. There was no let-up in the sounds of the battle. If anything it had intensified in the last hour. The figure was so slight they almost missed her – a little girl picking her way round the edge of the square. She paused by the fire, perhaps looking at the ‘H' on the wall, or perhaps just warming herself. She turned, looking round. Another figure, a man, joined her. He too turned and looked round. It was too dark to make out his features.

‘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.