The War in the Dark

by Nick Setchfield

  Who had killed Malcolm? Another faction of British Intelligence? Some splinter of the SIS with its own agenda? If so, were they gunning for him too? Could he trust anyone now? Even Joyce had been part of it; part of a great lie that had coiled around his life without him even noticing.

  He thought about the nature of the secret he had chased to Vienna. It had power, clearly. Power greater than the atom bomb, Malcolm had warned. Enough to make it desired by every intelligence service in the world. And yet it could slip neatly into an envelope. Was it a code? A formula? A blueprint of some kind?

  Runes, Malcolm had said. Occult power. Knowledge made into a weapon in a war that had been fought for centuries, a war played out in shadows beyond even the ones Winter operated in. He had glimpsed a wider, more frightening world, that much was certain. He feared it might crack his mind if he wasn’t careful.

  The Russians possessed this secret now. He would have to take it from them, for his country and for Malcolm. And yet he was a prisoner: no gun, no plan, no expectation of release. But it was a mission, of a kind, and there was something reassuring about that.

  Winter also considered the photograph that Harzner had shown him, the one of the two of them together. How could it even exist? He had scoured his memory in that cell and knew that he had never met the man. And yet there was the proof, irrefutable in black and white. Perhaps it had been skilfully doctored. It was possible, he told himself. The British propaganda unit had disseminated doctored images during the war – Nazi bigwigs in compromising circumstances. But why would Harzner choose to do it? Had it been a psychological feint, meant to unnerve him? Perhaps. But it was a peculiar game if it was.

  And then there was the thing he tried not to think about. The reflection he had seen in the mirror at Krabbehaus, the face that had gazed back at him with that awful blankness. That was one thought he tried to bury. But it found him in his dreams, and sometimes in the silence when he sat alone in the stone room and came close to despair. We are the Half-Claimed Man. The words knew him in his bones.

  One day, in his third week of imprisonment, Winter was woken by the voice of a woman.

  ‘Good morning, Christopher.’

  He snapped awake, annoyed that his senses had been so negligent. It was the woman who’d called herself Sabīne. She had entered the room without him noticing and now she stood against the far wall, her arms folded. Her blonde hair was scraped back from her brow, underscoring her sharp features. She wore a tunic and trousers, cut to a military silhouette but lacking any distinguishing insignia. The guards had worn the same kind of covert uniform.

  It was the first time he had seen her since the escape from Krabbehaus.

  ‘Could I possibly trouble you for a bed?’ he asked. He was aiming for nonchalance but the words felt raw and lumpen in his throat. He remembered he had barely spoken in days.

  She hinted at a smile. ‘There would be very little point. You’re out of here today.’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘You’re being traded. At the border.’

  ‘I take it my people want me back?’

  ‘Of course they do. You’re quite an asset, apparently.’

  Winter mulled this. It should have been good news but another possibility hovered – the Russians might be returning him to the men who had murdered Malcolm. If they were, his own life expectancy had just been significantly shortened.

  ‘Who am I being traded for?’

  ‘Someone the British have held for years. Someone our government wants returned to them. Personally I have no wish for this creature to be back on our soil. I cannot imagine your freedom is worth such a price.’ She shrugged. ‘Politics.’

  ‘It’s always politics. I take it you’re here to interrogate me before I go?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Pity. A little professional torture might have helped break up the tedium.’

  The intimation of a smile remained, no wider, no smaller than before.

  Winter knuckled the sleep from his eyes. And then he focused on the woman.

  ‘I need to say thank you for saving my life.’

  ‘I saved your life twice.’

  He tried to examine her face. It was obscured by the morning light, the pale glare of the window hiding the finer details of her expression. Her words had been matter-of-fact but had he seen something more playful in her eyes?

  ‘So you did. Then I must thank you again, mustn’t I? Although bearing in mind you put a knife to me and gave me to these sods I may demand a recount.’

  He sat up, placing his spine against the cold hardness of the wall. He stretched his arms, expelling cramp from the muscles.

  ‘Sabīne. I imagine that’s not your real name.’

  ‘Is Christopher Winter yours?’

  He gave a wan smile. ‘I hope it is. How do you even know my name?’

  ‘Easily enough.’

  Winter shook his head, amused. ‘People like us never have the easiest of conversations, do we?’

  The woman stepped away from the wall, out of the pallid light. There was a directness to her manner now.

  ‘My name is Karina Ivanovna Lazarova. I am an officer of the First Chief Directorate of the Committee for State Security.’

  Winter grunted. ‘KGB. I imagined as much. How long were you undercover with Harzner?’

  ‘Some years.’

  ‘Two? Three? Five? You killed him easily enough.’

  ‘As I say, some years.’

  ‘It’s impressive. Committed. I can’t imagine what it must be like to go deep like that. A cover’s one thing, but you really lived it. You must have known him very well. He must have trusted you. Did you feel anything when you killed him?’

  ‘Why do you ask me this?’ she countered. ‘Professional curiosity? Or do you want reassurance that no, it’s never easy? You know it marks you, every time. You’ve killed many men.’

  ‘Targets,’ said Winter, briskly. ‘Faces in files. Backs of heads, sometimes. Men I will never know. And God knows that makes it simpler. Not easier, but simpler.’

  There was a bruised silence in the room. And then Winter smiled as a new thought occurred to him.

  ‘You know, it’s a wonder you people are part of this. I thought you Reds had no time for the occult. Superstition’s a tool to control the masses, right? Isn’t that part of your motherland’s glorious ideology?’

  She regarded him coolly. ‘I understand that you’re an intelligent man, Christopher. I’m clinging to that thought right now.’

  Winter prickled at the putdown. He didn’t enjoy the sensation of feeling quite so foolish.

  ‘And your colleague? The man who was about to kill me? Also KGB?’

  ‘Malykh is my superior officer.’

  ‘It felt like he was… breaking into my head.’

  ‘Malykh has a gift,’ stated Karina. ‘A very rare and very precious gift.’

  Winter had heard the rumours, of course. Concrete intelligence had proved elusive but the SIS had long suspected that the Eastern bloc had a programme of psychic research under way. Extrasensory warfare, the service had labelled it. Telepathy, telekinesis. The CIA were said to be at it too, naturally. His own government had a research lab in North Woolwich but as far as he knew these experiments had led to nothing but a drizzle of wasted time and deeply British embarrassment.

  ‘You bother him,’ Karina said. ‘You may be the only man he’s ever failed to read.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.’

  She smiled, properly now. It was like sunlight on frost. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps there’s simply nothing in there worth reading.’

  She stepped closer, bringing a faint scent of tamarind. The smile had gone, replaced by a purposeful expression. ‘So no, I’m not here to torture you, Christopher. But I do have something to ask. British Intelligence has activated Operation Magus. What do these words mean to you?’

  Winter scoffed at the question. ‘Absolutely nothing. And if
they did, would you really expect me to tell you? Come on. That’s matches on the eyeballs time. You know that.’

  ‘Of course I know that. I just thought I’d offer you the chance to tell me. Before Colonel Malykh arrives.’

  Winter was irritated by the transparent threat. ‘I’m not lying. I have no idea what those words mean. Where did you hear them?’

  ‘We intercepted them. One of our listening stations. Your lines of communication are not quite as secure as you may hope.’

  ‘Neither are yours, darling. It all balances out in the end.’

  Karina nodded. ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘That envelope you took from Harzner. I imagine its contents are on their way to Moscow by now.’

  There was the briefest pause.

  ‘It’s quite safe. I shall leave you now. Malykh will be here shortly. Keep your English resolve. It’s very charming.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be sure to keep my home fires burning.’

  As the woman moved to the door Winter called after her, his voice studiedly casual. ‘Tell me, Karina. This secret that you killed a man for. Are you even allowed to know what it is? I nearly died for it and I haven’t the faintest bloody idea…’

  She paused. ‘You’ll soon have your suit back. And they’re bringing a razor.’

  She was gone. Winter felt himself relax at her departure: there was a conspicuous tension in his body that was only now dissipating. He didn’t care to admit that the woman unsettled him. He told himself it was a purely physical response. He had seen what she was capable of, after all. It was like keeping company with a grenade.

  He shifted against the wall and drew his knees towards him. Magus? The name of the operation hinted at everything Malcolm had warned him about. Just who had ordered it? Faulkner? It was possible, but it was more likely to be a man he had never met, cloistered in some sunless corner of 54 Broadway, hidden in that labyrinth of dusty, furtive rooms.

  Winter’s entire career in the service had honoured one simple principle: did he need to know? He was beginning to sense he had never asked enough questions.

  An hour later Malykh strode into the makeshift cell, kicking Winter in the thigh to rouse him. He had the same featureless uniform as the others but wore a long leather trenchcoat over the tunic. The leather was battered, webbed with deep cracks that echoed the scars on the man’s face. The coat looked to be Soviet army issue. Winter imagined it had seen duty on the Eastern Front: Kharkov or Stalingrad.

  He also noted the Tokarev semi-automatic, sat in its snug holster. And what appeared to be a sheathed blade slung low from Malykh’s belt.

  There were two men with the colonel. They held Garanin machine guns and positioned themselves either side of the door. Their presence felt like overkill to Winter, almost flatteringly so.

  ‘What is Operation Magus?’

  The Russian’s voice was as cold as a lake.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Winter. ‘But I imagine you won’t believe that.’

  Malykh was upon him then, clamping Winter’s head in his hands. Winter felt the fingers tighten. The man’s nails dug into the flesh at his temples, almost breaking the skin.

  What is Operation Magus?

  The voice was inside him, as close as his own. It was a worming, invasive thing. The man was searching out faultlines in his skull, hunting for points of entry. As Winter met Malykh’s gaze he saw that clouded iris swirl like a miniature dust-storm.

  What is Operation Magus?

  It was like a live current touching his mind. Winter recoiled from it. He could see sweat beading on the Russian’s brow, summoned by the sheer exertion of his will. A blue knot of veins grew angry and engorged on his forehead. The iris spiralled, almost mesmeric now.

  What is Operation Magus?

  Winter had no answer for him.

  With a snarl, Malykh pushed him away. Winter hit the wall. He found himself snatching lungfuls of air.

  Malykh’s breathing was also ragged. He turned his back, determined to regain his officer’s composure. Winter saw him swipe the sweat from his forehead.

  ‘You defy me,’ Malykh spat. ‘How do you defy me? Have they trained you for this?’

  He turned to face Winter again. This time there was a knife in his hand. He placed it under Winter’s jaw, tilting the Englishman’s chin. The blade was black, slender and glimmering. It was like a shard of ink.

  ‘Tempered obsidian,’ said Malykh. ‘Sharper than steel or diamond. In Kaliningrad I cut out the heart of a witch with this knife.’

  Winter felt the tip of the weapon flutter at his throat. He spoke softly, aware that even the tremor of his Adam’s apple might provoke the blade.

  ‘I’m not sure my government would appreciate damaged goods.’

  Malykh let the knife loiter at Winter’s throat. And then he sheathed it, the black glass sliding into leather.

  ‘You are correct, of course. But I think you are already damaged goods, Christopher Winter.’

  Winter laughed, sourly. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  Malykh’s lips thinned with distaste. ‘There is nothing inside you. Where other men have souls you have emptiness. You are hollow.’

  The words pricked at Winter. He remembered a stolen face in a Polaroid picture. Another blank face, confronted in a mirror. We are the Half-Claimed Man.

  He fought his unease. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘your comrade told me I was the only man you couldn’t read.’

  Something shifted in Malykh’s eyes. ‘My comrade?’

  ‘The woman. Karina.’

  ‘Lazarova? She has had no scheduled contact with you.’

  ‘Well, she strikes me as something of a free spirit.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About an hour ago. She was asking about this Operation Magus. I told her what I told you. I’ve never heard of it.’

  Malykh evaluated this information. ‘She had no authorisation to talk to you. I shall see that she is reprimanded.’

  ‘I’m sure she was only being a good communist.’

  ‘Oh, we are all good communists here, Christopher. Now, you must ready yourself. Your comrades are waiting.’ A smile spread like a wound on Malykh’s face. ‘I understand they have missed you very much.’

  15

  The truck rolled through the dark, its headlights hunting the ground.

  Two motorbikes flanked the vehicle, edging just ahead of it. Their riders wore goggles and helmets and kept precise military formation. Engines growling in synch, they led the way along the twisting forest road.

  Inside, under the flapping, oil-spattered canvas, Winter felt every rattle and judder of the journey, every jolt of the tyres. He was in his suit. There were still flecks of blood in the tweed but it felt good to be in his own clothes again. Even the presence of his tie – a present from Joyce, he remembered – gave him a renewed sense of identity. He had shaved, too. A clumsy, hasty shave, one that had nicked and stung, but he was grateful for it.

  He was cuffed now. His wrists rested on his lap, bound with cold metal. His gun was gone, of course. He felt oddly incomplete without it, as if some vital bone had been plucked from his body. His empty holster lay strapped against his chest. It only made the gun’s absence more acute.

  He shared the truck with a group of men, some of whom he recognised from the farm. The youngest was the guard who had given him cigarettes. Winter had made halting conversation about football with another. There was nothing amiable about any of these men now. Their faces were stern, their expressions focused. One soldier toyed with an American Zippo lighter, conjuring and crushing the flame. Winter found himself watching it with a vacant fascination.

  Karina was next to him. He imagined she was acting as his personal guard, though nothing had been said. In fact she had remained silent throughout the journey. It wasn’t a companionable silence and yet it wasn’t a cold one, either. She struck him as someone who chose to conserve conversation like oxygen.

  She had
buckled a raincoat over her fatigues and her hair was covered by the smoke-grey fur of a Cossack hat. Winter regarded her sleek profile, the Slavic planes, noting how her mouth held a determination even in repose. She intrigued him.

  He tried to make conversation again.

  ‘Malykh told me he killed a witch. Is this true?’

  The truck swayed over a pothole.

  ‘He didn’t kill her. He cut out her heart.’

  ‘I might have assumed that was one and the same thing.’

  ‘Then I might have assumed you were ignorant.’

  Winter caught a ghost of a smirk on the face of the youngest soldier.

  ‘A witch?’ said Winter. ‘A real one?’

  ‘Yes. The Bone Mother.’

  The trooper with the Zippo stopped teasing the flame. A moment later his thumb resumed its compulsive ratcheting.

  ‘The Bone Mother?’

  ‘The Bone Mother,’ said Karina, evenly, as if explaining it to a child. ‘The Forest Hag. The Snow Crone. Baba Yaga.’

  Once again the man with the Zippo paused. This time he chose not to summon the flame.

  Winter snorted. ‘Baba Yaga? Even I’ve read that. In a kids’ book. It’s a folk tale.’

  Karina looked at him, her eyes cold-bright in the gloom of the truck’s interior.

  ‘That’s what folk tales are,’ she said, simply. ‘Warnings against everything that waits for us in the dark.’

  ‘Come on. They’re stories for kids.’

  ‘Stories arm children against the dark. But only children are allowed to believe in them. As they grow old they lose their faith in stories. And everything that hides beyond the light becomes strong again.’

  Winter shook his head. ‘Sounds like the Church to me. And I know what you people think of the Church.’

  Karina spoke calmly but intensely. ‘This world doesn’t belong to us, Christopher. We carve out our safe places. We light our candles. We say our prayers. But the world isn’t ours. We are too small for it, too fleeting. You know this.’

  ‘I know I’ve seen stuff I can’t explain,’ said Winter. ‘That doesn’t mean I’m prepared to believe in fairy stories.’