The Ultimate Secret
THE ULTIMATE SECRET
S
HE THREW OPEN
another door and came out into a covered alley on the far side of the building, this one wider, cleaner, even dimly gaslit. The smell of the fish market wafted up from one end, and the roar of traffic could be heard at the other.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.
She looked up and left towards the sound, close to panic, and made out two huge figures lumbering –
No, that wasn’t right. They moved slowly and haltingly, as though assessing every step, but with precision and economy.
The figures picked their way slowly and carefully towards her. They were at least seven feet tall, and broad with it, with slightly unnatural proportions, their ungainly limbs and craning necks seeming slightly stretched. Although they were fully dressed, in long kurtas and broad hats, she was sure it was more for disguise than modesty. In the half-light, she could make out nothing of their features. Every few steps, one or the other would pause for a half-second or so, as though uncertain about its footing. Every time they did, they emitted that staccato ticking sound.
Kim felt ice trickle down her back as they picked their way towards her. She backed away from them, stumbling and nearly falling over before she could finally tear her eyes from the things. She wheeled on one foot and sprinted down the alley, dimly registering them both stopping to make that noise as she did so:
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.
PAX BRITANNIA
THE ULTIMATE SECRET
David Thomas Moore
Pax Britannia
The Ulysses Quicksilver Books, by Jonathan Green
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Anno Frankenstein
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The El Sombra Books, by Al Ewing
El Sombra
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Pax Omega
An Abaddon Books™ Publication
www.abaddonbooks.com
First published in 2013 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.
Editors: Jonathan Oliver & David Moore
Cover & Design: Sam Gretton
Marketing and PR: Michael Molcher
Publishing Manager: Ben Smith
Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley
Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley
Pax Britannia™ created by Jonathan Green
Copyright© 2013 Rebellion. All rights reserved.
Pax Britannia™, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.
ISBN (EPUB): 978-1-84997-532-2
ISBN (MOBI): 978-1-84997-533-9
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
For Tamsin, of course.
MASQUES AND LIES
Fortune does not change men;
it unmasks them.
– Suzanne Curchod (1739 – 1794)
A
USCHWITZ,
O
CCUPIED
P
OLAND,
1944
I
VAN STEPPED OVER
the cooling body of the Nazi guard and slowly pushed open the door into the dormitory. Filthy pallets crowded the floor, and a few wretched belongings – a girl’s torn dress, a book missing its cover, a silver Star of David – were scattered here and there, but the draughty shed was as devoid of people as all the others had been. He turned back and looked around the empty camp again.
What was going on here?
Even the Nazis had all but disappeared. The guard had been Ivan’s third kill since his arrival, and only the eighth living human being he’d seen. After all their preparations and stealth, Captain Ilyanov’s unit were essentially unopposed; the officers, most of the men, the engineers, even the Jewish workers had all seemingly vanished. Possibly, with the loss of the Frankenstein Corps and their catastrophic failure at Amiens, the Nazis were retrenching. Or, perhaps, the officers and men at Auschwitz had been warned that Russian forces were on their way, and had fled.
Fled, somehow, taking the time to set fire to their own administrative block and bring all their prisoners with them, but leaving – judging by the plumes of acrid smoke pouring from the chimneys of the massive building looming ahead of them – the factory’s engines burning in the middle of the night.
He turned and glanced over at Daria, emerging from the dormitory opposite his. Her eyes flashed green as she met his gaze, and she solemnly shook her head. Empty. She crept around the side of the building, tight-fitting black fatigues fading into the shadows, and peered around the corner; they were at the end of the last accommodation block.
Ivan mirrored Daria, his skin gleaming in the moonlight, looking around his own building. Nothing. Eventually, he shrugged and walked across the open ground to her.
“What?” she hissed.
“There’s nothing here.” He gestured around him.
She nodded. “It’s strange. If it’s a munitions factory, you’d think they’d have gone to more effort to hold it.”
“If.” Ivan shrugged, looking at the fence beyond the dorms, and the great red building beyond, with the smoking chimneys.