The War in the Dark

by Nick Setchfield

  Beltz switched off his torch. Two other men emerged from the half-light. Their clothes were equally as shabby as Unterbrink’s and they shared his maggoty pallor. And just like him their eyes were pinched and shied from direct contact.

  A sudden burst of water fell from the ceiling, spattering the stone floor.

  ‘Your place of business, gentlemen, I take it?’ There was an irresistible edge of sarcasm to Winter’s voice. He sensed Karina flinch, clearly wary of him antagonising these people before the deal was done.

  ‘No, not as such,’ said Unterbrink, choosing not to acknowledge the taunt. ‘More a place of contentment. Reflection. A chance to savour everything we have accumulated over the years.’

  Winter gazed around the chamber, his eyes drawn to the curious contents of the cabinets. He saw a jagged shard of iron – a spear tip, perhaps – paired in a display case with a simple wooden plate. In another cabinet lay a solitary nail, rusted to the colour of blood, and in yet another was what looked like the remains of a winged sandal. There was a sword, too, its length inscribed with Latin script.

  ‘Strange place to keep all this stuff, surely?’

  Beltz interjected. ‘We believe that beautiful things become truly beautiful in shadow. Why would we wish to share all this with the world above, with their poisonous museums and foul galleries? The gaze of others diminishes that which is precious, makes it commonplace, unremarkable. Other people are bacteria upon beauty.’

  ‘That’s just a little elitist.’

  ‘We are an elite, mein Herr.’

  ‘Imagine if the world had never seen a Goya,’ said Unterbrink, blinking in the gloom. ‘Never beheld a Bruegel. Imagine if yours were the only eyes that had ever glimpsed their perfection. How much more beautiful they would be, no? So it is with our collection. We bury these objects to make them shine.’

  ‘Interesting philosophy, Herr Unterbrink.’

  ‘More than philosophy, mein Freund. It is our duty and our purpose. The precious things of the world must remain precious. And now, of course, we are about to make a significant addition to our collection. Fräulein Fabre, if you please?’

  Karina nodded and stepped forward. She unbuckled her bag and removed the bottle, passing it to Unterbrink. This time he held it with the obvious delight of a man who would never have to hand it back.

  ‘Danke,’ he whispered.

  The other men gathered around him, staring at the object. The glass had a jade shimmer, even in the dim light of the chamber.

  ‘We are quite certain of the provenance?’ asked Beltz.

  ‘I trust in the Order of Leaves,’ said Unterbrink, turning the bottle in his hand, half lost in wonder. ‘They have always had our respect. We have been rivals for centuries, after all.’

  He nodded to one of his colleagues. The silent man walked across to a cabinet and unlocked a thin drawer beneath the glass front. He came back holding two objects, one in each hand. He passed the first of them to Karina.

  She took the item with obvious reverence. It was a sliver of parchment, perhaps five inches high by three inches wide. It seemed closer to cloth than paper, fraying at its edges and darkened by age to a tobacco-stain shade of yellow. The scrap was completely blank.

  ‘Give me your lighter,’ she said to Winter.

  He handed it over. Karina conjured a flame and held it beneath the piece of parchment. For a moment Winter wondered if she actually intended to set fire to the thing. And then, as heat rose from the quiver of fire, the yellowed scrap began to curl, and to change.

  A series of shapes emerged from the fibres, ghostly at first and then gradually more distinct. Winter saw triangles bolted onto circles, circles fused with squares. Within these strange markings letters of the alphabet mated with geometrical symbols.

  They were sigils, he realised, as if accessing a submerged memory. Runes. The cipher codes of magic.

  ‘Dee called it the Language of Fire,’ said Unterbrink, taking his eyes from the bottle to watch the symbols materialise. ‘A sacred lexicon, with the power to summon a force beyond dreams. How fitting that the fire of our century finally reveals it.’

  Karina absently returned the lighter to Winter, her gaze fixed upon the parchment. ‘The Ingolstadt fragment,’ she murmured, marvelling. ‘How long has it been in your possession?’

  ‘Since 1953,’ said Beltz. ‘The Prussian dealer had no idea of its worth. Poor man. It felt like theft.’

  ‘One item closer to your goal,’ said Unterbrink. ‘I understand your happiness, believe me.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ said Karina, almost to herself. ‘This is the final fragment.’

  ‘My God,’ breathed Unterbrink. ‘You have assembled the entire grimoire?’

  ‘Every page,’ replied Karina, smiling in the gaslight.

  ‘I see now why you would trade this for the wine of Christ.’

  Karina said nothing. She remained transfixed by the symbols, taking in every scratch and curve of ink.

  ‘Your life’s work is over, Fräulein Fabre,’ said Beltz, dryly. ‘However will you occupy yourself now?’

  ‘Give me the second item,’ said Karina. ‘We need to complete this deal.’

  Unterbrink nodded his blessing once more. The silent man passed the remaining object to Karina.

  It was a sturdy iron key, corroded but intact. It looked functional rather than elegant, with chunky, serrated teeth and a plain metal loop. Winter watched as Karina turned its rusted bulk in her hand. It seemed weighted with history.

  Unterbrink gestured to the bottle of Rémy Martin on his desk. There were dusty brandy glasses arranged next to it. ‘Please, will you not share a cognac? Alas only a miracle could allow us to share the wine…’

  Winter heard a sound then. He had just caught it beneath Unterbrink’s rattle of a laugh. A faint, quick sound. It had come from the tunnel, from the passage beyond the chamber. He tilted his head, cocking an ear, focusing his gaze past the door. Had there been movement back there in the dark? Perhaps it had been water spilling through the rock, or the reverberation of the U-Bahn.

  ‘Are we all done here?’ he asked.

  ‘Please, mein Herr,’ said Beltz. ‘Let Fräulein Fabre relish this moment. She has accomplished something very special.’

  Winter turned to Karina, directing his words at her alone. ‘If the deal’s done then we should leave. No sense staying down here longer than we need to.’

  She was silent for a moment, continuing to stare at the symbols. And then she nodded, briskly. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, placing the key and the parchment into her bag and buckling it. ‘Herr Unterbrink, Herr Beltz, it has been a very rewarding transaction for all of us.’

  ‘Such knowledge you hold now,’ said Beltz, quietly. ‘I must say I’m envious.’

  Another noise from the tunnel. This was closer. Unmistakably the sound of movement.

  ‘Of course,’ Beltz continued, ‘we might ask whether such knowledge should even be in your hands.’

  Winter glimpsed a sudden shadow at the mouth of the chamber, cast from the passage beyond. A man’s shadow, holding a gun. Another armed shadow approached behind it.

  They had been betrayed.

  Winter seized the bottle of Rémy Martin from the table. He hurled it into the tunnel. It smashed as it hit the rock, exploding in a hail of glass and dousing the passage with pure cognac. A second later he wrenched one of the gas lanterns from its hook. He flung that, too. As the lantern shattered its flame ignited the trail of alcohol. Fire reared in the passageway, quick and vicious.

  It bought them only a moment. Startled, the men in the tunnel recoiled, allowing Winter and Karina a chance to retreat into the chamber, chasing cover.

  Stamping on the flames, the men took position at the entrance to the anteroom. They were the same men from the market. Stasi agents. Framed by the blaze they fired warning shots into the lair of the Reliquarists.

  ‘No guns!’ cried Beltz. ‘Not in here! You promised me!’

  A st
ray bullet struck the sacred wine bottle. The green glass burst apart. Unterbrink gave a hoarse, disbelieving scream.

  Karina snatched her blade from her dress, ready to engage. As she did so Winter wrested one of the cabinets from the wall. It tipped forward, its treasures clattering; he steadied it and crouched behind, pulled out his stolen Russian revolver, took a breath and fired back. He heard the bullet whine as it ricocheted across rock, seeking a place to embed itself. This was not a smart place for a gunfight.

  Karina squatted beside him, sharing cover. ‘Contingency plan, Christopher?’

  ‘Not sure. Can’t you just kill everyone in the room?’

  ‘I can’t promise that I can.’

  ‘Damn. I was banking on that.’

  A bullet flew above the cabinet, clipping its corner, studding into the wall beyond. These were no longer warning shots.

  Karina nodded towards the entrance. The wooden door frame was ablaze. ‘That’s the only exit we’ve got. Thank you for setting fire to it.’

  Another bullet glanced against the wall, sparking on the rock. There was a fug of cordite in the air now.

  ‘We know the tunnel extends past this chamber,’ Karina continued, her words cool and unhurried. ‘It has to run deep beneath the city.’

  ‘It might be a dead end,’ said Winter.

  ‘We’re in a dead end. I’d rather have a possibility, wouldn’t you?’

  Winter bobbed above the cabinet and blasted his gun. The Stasi agents blasted back.

  ‘You’re right. Let’s move.’

  They abandoned their makeshift cover. They were clear targets now.

  Unterbrink and his two silent colleagues were flat against the far wall, as if attempting to merge with the rock itself. Beltz, however, was frozen in the crossfire, cringing as the bullets arced past him. Winter seized him by the collar and shoved him forward, using his twisting, protesting body as a shield. He propelled the man the length of the chamber, firing around his head as they scrambled to the exit.

  Beltz jerked as a Stasi bullet thumped into his shoulder, flooding his shirt with blood. As he howled Winter threw him at the men, knocking them backwards.

  Winter and Karina dodged the flames that licked the doorway. They ran headlong into the darkness, kicking through pools of cold tunnel water, expecting to slam face-first into rock at any second. There was barely any light in this part of the underground labyrinth, not even the sickly glow of a gas lantern.

  Winter reloaded, spun and fired, the shot briefly illuminating the span of the tunnel. The bullet took down one of their pursuers. Winter scowled. The shot felt lucky, not earned.

  Karina tore right. ‘This way!’

  Another length of passageway, as dark as the last. They pelted down it, Karina’s blade flashing silver.

  Something else glinted in the shadows, just ahead of them. A huge steel plate, set into the black rock. The words ‘BERLINER VERKEHRSBETRIEBE’ and ‘ACHTUNG!’ were stencilled upon it. There was a handle attached to the plate. It was a hatch, some kind of utility door. And it was rattling in its hinges. Karina lifted the bar that unlocked it. It creaked with disuse. The door swung back. They tottered on the edge of a drop. There was a violent, almost blinding rush of air. A U-Bahn train roared past in a blur of heat and metal, carriage after carriage after carriage. The rails of the underground screamed beneath its thundering bulk.

  The other Stasi man was almost upon them. He raised and steadied his gun. Karina pivoted, her blade severing the main artery of his wrist. The gun spun from the man’s hand. He pitched onto his knees, cradling his slashed flesh. Blood pumped from his wrist.

  Karina took a step towards him, her knife poised for a finishing strike.

  ‘Leave him,’ said Winter, sharply.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you don’t need to kill him, do you?’

  Karina turned, her eyes contemptuous. ‘Are you reproaching me, Christopher? You kill men for your job!’

  ‘I said leave him. He’s not one of Harzner’s dogs to be diced up.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to kill everyone in the room?’

  There was a sound of movement behind them, deep in the tunnel. It was the pounding of feet. There were more men in pursuit. The two Stasi agents had clearly only been an advance guard.

  Winter cast a glance across the U-Bahn line. There was a ridge of rock on the other side, running above the tracks. A maintenance path, perhaps. It looked just about big enough to walk on.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll follow the line. Find a way out through the U-Bahn.’

  ‘You seriously expect us to cross electrified rails?’

  Winter waved a hand at the tracks. There were two running rails and a third, parallel rail, higher than the others and set apart from the wooden sleepers.

  ‘It’s the third rail that closes the circuit. That’s the one with the contact points. Don’t step on that and you’ll live.’

  ‘There’ll be another train coming any moment…’

  ‘So we should get on with it, shouldn’t we?’

  Winter jumped down onto the tracks, small stones scattering beneath his shoes. There was no vibration in the rails, no indication of an oncoming train. Good. They had time. He began to cross the line, keeping to the gravel where possible. He stepped over the bullhead rails and the welded iron anchors and the greasy corpse of a rat.

  The third rail waited. It seemed to murmur with power. Winter could almost feel the slumbering voltage. He moved across it with a wide, wary step.

  Karina leapt down after Winter and followed him across the tracks. Reaching the other side of the rails the pair hauled themselves onto the ridge. It was more of a ledge than a walkway, extending only a foot or so from the rock wall. Placing themselves side-on against the granite – the only way their feet could stay on the lip – they edged deeper into the tunnel, almost scratching their way by their fingertips.

  Soon the gloom gave way to solid shadow. The only illumination came from the red glimmer of signal lights in the distance. It was unbearably warm.

  They heard a rumbling. It rapidly gathered in pace and volume. The rails quaked and rattled, as if sending a warning through the steel.

  There was a train coming, hurtling through the dark like a punch of light.

  Winter and Karina became motionless. Without even breathing they stood flat against the tunnel wall, their eyes locked shut. They stayed frozen as the train passed in a hot roar, scorching metal, spraying oil, its carriages buckling and rocking, impossibly loud, impossibly close. It seemed to judder past them forever. It smelt like lightning. And then, finally, the clamour and the heat were gone. The train retreated into the tunnel with a warm wind in its wake.

  Winter and Karina continued to inch along the ridge. A last they found another utility door, and pushed through it to the passage beyond. There was a service ladder ahead of them, rising to meet the underside of a manhole cover. Winter climbed the rungs, unscrewed the thick metal disc, elbowed it free and emerged into the sharp night air of Berlin. It was raining again.

  For a moment they perched on the edge of the manhole, reclaiming their breath, letting their adrenalin subside, sink back into their veins. They could hear the sounds of city traffic, the horns and the engines. And then, impatiently, Winter spoke.

  ‘You’ve got it, then. Whatever it is you’ve been chasing. You’ve got it all. So just what do you intend to do with it?’

  Karina looked at him, the mess of rain and oil on her face lit by a streetlamp. She paused just long enough for Winter to suspect she didn’t intend to reply.

  And then she spoke.

  ‘I’m going to destroy it.’

  She unbuckled her bag, rummaged inside and removed the key the Reliquarists had traded with her. She revolved it between her fingers, the rust staining her skin.

  ‘But first,’ she declared, ‘I’m going to understand it.’

  There was a single word etched into the side of the key. The letters were crud
e but legible.

  Schattenturm.

  22

  The man stirred as the canvas mouth of the tent was pushed open. The Algerian sun flooded in, the desert light illuminating the khaki womb that enclosed him. The tent’s interior was bare and functional. No tables, no clocks, no boards, no charts. No ornamentation of any kind. Only the lone wooden chair, military plain and stiff as bricks against his spine.

  The flap closed, returning the tent to a state of sweltering gloom. There was a scratch of shoes on a hessian mat. Someone was walking towards him.

  Jürgen Scholz let his tongue play against his lips. He could still taste the whisky, burning in the cracks. He remembered how the Englishmen had doused his broken skin, purifying the very wounds they had inflicted. It had been a curious act of kindness. The stinging alcohol had run with his blood in a pale red stream, spilling onto his chest. It had made him think of communion wine and his childhood church in Tremmen. With that last thought he had slid into unconsciousness.

  His hands were still bound. Scholz glanced at the hanks of rope strapping his wrists to the arms of the chair. There was a numbness in his fingers. He flexed the muscles of his left hand and sensed a disconnect in the nerves. The finger that held his wedding ring was swollen and black and lay at an ugly angle. It didn’t respond at all.

  ‘I understand you’re quite a resilient fellow,’ said the man who had entered the tent.

  Another Englishman. Scholz felt sure he hadn’t seen this one before, though the faces of his captors were blurring now. He looked younger than the other men, his black curls worn a little looser, a wilder, more mischievous energy in his green eyes. A cream linen suit hung on his slender frame and there was a battered leather holdall slung across his shoulder, stickered with bright, colourful travel labels. Trinidad. Bali. Macau.

  Scholz sensed something else about him. A coiled and tangible darkness, as if he had altogether too much shadow for one man. This one was a practitioner, that much was certain. He held magic inside him, and a lightless magic at that.

  The newcomer smiled. ‘Do we even have your real name yet?’