The ruins had to be centuries old. Maybe even a thousand years, imagined Winter. From the shore the stark remains of the monastery appeared almost to float upon the water. In reality they crouched upon a mass of rock.
The jagged granite that bore the building rose out of a glacial hollow, carved into the land by ancient ice. Barren crags loomed behind the promontory, their peaks eclipsed by mist, marking the boundary of this secluded Alpine valley.
It was an astounding feat of engineering. Winter could barely conceive how the monks might have quarried and hauled the slabs of limestone, let alone build a shrine to God on such an inhospitable site. The power of faith, no doubt.
One of the twin bell-towers was bomb-blackened, a simple cross crowning the surviving spire. Its sister tower was shattered, the stairs inside exposed like vertebrae. The exterior walls were smashed and charred. Artillery fire, guessed Winter. The war must have found this place. The basilica had clearly been caught in the Allied push into Bavaria. Now it had been abandoned to the elements. The edifice had already begun to fuse with the landscape, nature merging with masonry. Granite and limestone, ice and mortar, melding into one.
Winter looked down and saw the church mirrored in the lake. The remnants of the towers twisted upon the water, their reflections reaching across the still, flint-dark surface. The sight unsettled him. He had felt an unease in his gut for hours now, ever since they had followed the long curve of the lake into the valley of Daltzenwalt. It was an apprehension that seemed to find solid form in the ruined bulk of the basilica.
He returned to the business of preparing his gun. The weapon was dry now and he racked the slide to return the cartridge to the chamber. It was a familiar ritual and there was something reassuring in the weight of the parts as they slotted into place. The tremor in his hand? He told himself it was purely from the cold.
‘Is this really a plan?’ he asked, without glancing up.
Karina had been tossing her stolen knife from palm to palm, still preoccupied by the blade’s dynamics. Now she paused.
‘You have an alternative, Christopher? Tell me.’
Winter shrugged. ‘No backup. No contingency. No idea of the ground plan. No sense of how many of them there might be. And, yes, no alternative. I think that covers it, don’t you?’
She placed a hand on his arm. As ever her touch surprised him.
‘You’re frightened, aren’t you?’
Winter was about to dismiss her with a flash of his eyes. And then, to his own surprise, he chose to be honest.
‘Yes. I bloody am. And I have no idea why.’
‘So tell me what you can.’
He took a breath, determined to make sense of his thoughts.
‘Something happened, back on the train. Something I can’t explain. There was blood coming out of my eyes.’
‘Blood? You were wounded?’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. It’s like I was weeping blood. Just like Kelly said happened to him. It was streaming down my face. I couldn’t stop it. And here’s the thing. It didn’t hurt. Not for one moment. I felt… powerful. Like it made me stronger, somehow. And I saw it scare her. It scared the demon. And if it scared a demon then just what the hell was happening to me?’
He met Karina’s gaze, almost daring her to answer.
‘The Widow says I have another name. She also tells me I should be dead. I’ve seen a photograph of a man who looked just like me, and it was like looking at a picture of a stranger. Your friend Malykh says I’m hollow, that there’s nothing inside me, nothing at all. My entire life in London feels like a lie. God knows who my wife was. And I stand there and I weep blood and it feels good, because just for a moment I feel stronger than the man I am.’
He was shuddering now. Karina’s hand tightened around his arm. ‘You came back for me,’ she said, gently. ‘That’s the man you are, Christopher.’
Winter drew another, deeper breath. And then he nodded, briskly, impatient to end the conversation and focus on the mission at hand.
‘Come on, then. Let’s retrieve this bloody book of yours.’
Karina released her grip. She kept her eyes on him a moment longer.
They set off into the dusk, moving with purpose as they followed the pebble-strewn path that clung to the lip of the shoreline. The sun had just set, leaving only grey light on the lake. Fragments of ice glinted in the water. There was a profound stillness in the air this evening. No wind disturbed the trees.
The path led them directly to the basilica. They slid around the back of the building, stealing past the bulge of the apse, the part of the church that held the sacred altar. It was windowless, a solid expanse of limestone, pitted by bullet scars, scorched by shell-fire. Good cover.
Karina killed the single sentry.
There was a stone wall. A small door stood in the centre, the wood warped and rotten. Winter pushed it open, taking care to deaden the groan of the hinges. They had to stoop as they squeezed through the low, tight opening.
The cloister courtyard lay before them, its flagstones riddled with weeds. They crossed it quickly, hugging the twilight as they passed the shattered remains of a fountain. There was snow on the ground. Just ahead was the cloister itself, the two-storeyed walkway that adjoined the south wall of the monastery. They slipped inside its deep, cold shadows.
To one side were the windows that overlooked the courtyard, each arch bisected by a tall stone mullion. On the other side was a row of gloomy wooden doors, leading to long-abandoned monastic cells. Karina was about to walk past them when Winter raised a hand. He tilted his head in the direction of the nearest door.
There was a crackle of static, faint but discernible. Electric light fell upon the flagstone, illuminating the crack beneath the door.
They exchanged a look. And then a nod.
Karina nudged the door with her fingertips. It swung inwards, disclosing the back of a Russian radio operator. He was hunched over the dials of a squat wireless set, a pair of thick felt headphones fixed to his ears. A tall aerial sprouted from the top of the box, its silver length quivering as the man spun the controls, shuffling through the wavelengths.
Karina brandished her knife in the half-light. Once again Winter paused her. He stepped into the cramped, spartan cell and curled his forearm around the radio operator’s throat. The Russian was large and he struggled, reaching in vain for his sudden assailant. Winter gave a final, tidy twist and the man slumped forward. A lit cigarette fell from his mouth and rolled across the trestle table. Winter picked it up and took a guilty but grateful drag.
Karina had caught the tumbling headphones. Now she watched as Winter leaned over the Soviet soldier’s prone body. He was studying the controls of the radio set.
‘You’re going to use that?’ she asked.
Winter gave the main dial an exploratory twirl. The mutter of static increased. He turned it again and the sound faded. ‘We have listening stations throughout this region. They’ll be earwigging Soviet military chatter. Someone’s bound to pick us up.’
‘You told me you didn’t entirely trust your people. Now you want to make contact with them?’
Winter kept his eyes on the dial. There was little choice now. ‘I think we could do with some backup, don’t you?’
‘I’ve never believed in backup. I think I may have a philosophical problem with it.’
Winter didn’t acknowledge her. He hooked the headphones over his ears. The dial turned in quarterinches, prowling the kilohertz as Winter hunted for the emergency protocol frequency. Finally he located it. He brought the microphone to his mouth, keeping his voice as low as he could.
‘Knightsbridge to Royal Oak. Knightsbridge to Royal Oak.’
He heard only the whisper of dead air.
‘Knightsbridge to Royal Oak,’ he stated again, the words as loud as he dared. ‘Knightsbridge to Royal Oak. Mercury protocol. Repeat. Mercury protocol. Location: the Basilica of Saint Cenric, Daltzenwalt. Engaging the opposition. Support urge
ntly required. Acknowledge.’
A crunch of static filled the headphones.
‘Engaging the opposition. Acknowledge. Please acknowledge.’
Again there was no reply, only the sputter and hiss of long wave.
‘Knightsbridge to Royal Oak. Knightsbridge to Royal Oak. Mercury protocol. Acknowledge.’
No voice came.
Frustrated, Winter tore off the headphones. He had the feeling he had flung his words into the dark.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, tossing the microphone on to the table.
They exited the cell, taking care to close the door and bolt it. And then they moved into the arcaded walkway, heading for the holy heart of the church. They could feel the weight of the building around them, its accumulated centuries of dust and worship. The hush of the ancient stones was total. It threatened to betray their footfalls at any moment.
Karina killed the next sentry.
The walkway led to the south side of the vaulted nave. They stole past the remains of the chapel, avoiding the rubble that lay underfoot. The altar was ahead of them. And there was Malykh, unmistakable in his distressed leather trenchcoat. He had his back turned, conversing with two armed troopers.
They paused in the shadows of the sepulchre. Winter assessed what he saw, strategising as best he could. Rows of empty pews cluttered the nave, haphazardly arranged. They would afford limited cover and a tight, tricky exit.
He looked up. Tiers of galleries flanked the side aisles, their tall, austere arches buttressed by sturdy limestone columns. Superior cover, excellent sightlines. You could see the entire church from up there, he imagined. Exit potential? Problematic.
They had dealt with three Soviet soldiers. Now three more were grouped in front of them, the two troopers cradling Garanin machine guns, their commander armed with a semi-automatic and a knife, both holstered for the moment. Winter judged the combat possibilities, calculating angles and advantages, estimating likely response speeds.
They had passed the empty helicopter on their approach to the basilica. How many men could it hold? Six? Or Eight? Winter tightened his eyes in concentration, desperately trying to recall the schematics of the Mil Mi-4. There had been a technical briefing, a couple of years ago…
Karina had already flung her blade.
Winter barely saw the knife slice the air before it embedded itself in the gun arm of the nearest soldier. The man howled in shock. His hand spasmed, reflexively dropping the weapon, which fell with a clatter of steel on stone. The other trooper spun, instantly alert, aiming his own gun at the shadows.
Damn her impulsiveness, thought Winter, hotly.
Karina tore into the nave, her body a lethal arc of limbs. The second trooper tried to squeeze his trigger but Karina’s heel had already connected with his jaw, executing a perfect spin kick that smashed the teeth from his mouth. He staggered back, his gun stammering bullets at the ground.
Malykh reached for his pistol, the motion cool and assured. Winter levelled his own gun and ran into the nave.
A single bullet pierced a flagstone in front of him. A wisp of dust rose from the hole. The impact had been inches from his foot. An expert shot.
Winter looked up. Two snipers waited in the upper galleries that watched over the sacred hub of the church. They had been positioned on opposite aisles, hidden behind the broad marble colonnades. Now they had emerged, long-barrelled Dragunov rifles in hand, heads nestled next to their weapons as they peered through mounted sights. Winter could feel the stare of the guns upon him, almost pricking his skin.
So it had been eight men after all.
Karina was about to tear the knife from the trooper’s arm. Winter nodded to her. And then, reluctantly, he let his pistol tumble from his hand. Karina hesitated for a moment, her eyes furious. And then, acknowledging him, she stepped away from the wounded man, raising her hands in a grudging show of surrender.
Malykh clapped his gloves together, the slap of the leather slow and derisory. The sound echoed among the arches. The snipers in the upper galleries remained fixed on target, one gun on Winter, one on Karina.
‘Look at the pair of you. Two lambs hungry for the knife.’
He stepped closer, the scar tissue creasing around his eye as he smiled. ‘I imagined you would find a way to join us. I was informed of your escape. As you see, we are quite prepared for guests. But I am curious. How did you learn of this monastery’s location?’
Karina glowered at him. He had stepped provocatively close to her. She stayed silent, defiant, keeping her gaze on him as he circled her.
‘Your dedication impresses me,’ said Malykh. The words sounded genuine. ‘But then you are nothing if not resourceful. Such obsession is a remarkable fuel, clearly.’
He turned, dispassionately plucking her weapon from the trooper’s arm. The man grimaced and clutched the wound, blood rushing through the sleeve of his tunic, running over his knuckles.
Malykh revolved the blade in his hand, vaguely incredulous.
‘This,’ he declared, solemnly, ‘is a steak knife.’
Karina said nothing.
‘Oh, you brave little soldier,’ he smiled. ‘Scrabbling in your mother’s kitchen drawer for weapons. Fighting a war of attrition. Such spirit you have.’
‘I take it you’re going to kill us,’ said Winter, bluntly.
Malykh was still amused by the knife. ‘After you have made such an exceptional effort to be here? You must think me unkind. No, I intend for you to witness the culmination of your quest. Why would I deny you that?’
Winter compelled Malykh to meet his eyes. ‘You’re going ahead with it, then? You intend to use the book?’
‘Of course. Modern psychology tells us we must face our demons, must we not?’
He gestured to the snipers. They hoisted their rifles and began to make their way down from the upper tiers. In the nave the soldier with the bloodied jaw raised his machine gun. There was satisfaction on his face as he levelled it at Karina.
‘We must do it at dawn,’ stated Malykh. ‘There is precise ritual to be observed. And so much to prepare.’
Winter exchanged a glance with Karina. This threatened to be a long night.
* * *
‘I shall share a story with you as we wait for the sun.’
Winter stirred from a flimsy slumber. Malykh crouched in front of him, the edges of his coat brushing the flagstones. He was in semi-shadow, lit by the glow of a portable lamp that had been positioned close to the altar. The Russian’s voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial, but loud enough to cut into Winter’s thoughts.
‘Oh, good,’ replied Winter, his words powdery in his mouth. He realised he badly needed some water. ‘I like a story.’
It had to be the empty hours between night and morning, he guessed. Perhaps two or three o’clock at most. Winter’s watch had shattered on the train but he could see sharp Alpine stars through a gap in the basilica’s roof. The sky was deep black. There was no hint of dawn. For a moment he remembered glimpsing London’s stars through the ruined ceiling of the Fairbridge Hotel. That seemed a century ago.
It was bitter in the church. A nocturnal cold had penetrated the building and seeped into the stones. Winter sat up, sliding his back against the wall of the nave. He placed a hand on a flagstone. It was icy to the touch.
He looked across at Karina. She was wide awake, unruffled by the muzzle of the machine gun that had been aimed at her head for the last few hours. Her confiscated knife lay on a military-issue canvas table. There was an armed man behind Winter, too, his gun held at pointblank range. No wonder the Russians hadn’t bothered to cuff them.
‘So what’s the story, Colonel?’
Malykh balanced on his haunches. ‘It is the story of a child,’ he began, his voice low and resonant in the vast, vaulted space of the nave. ‘A boy who lived in a village in the Great Steppe, north of the Caspian Sea. A credulous, dreaming boy who was told of a spirit that walked the grasslands and the rivers. A creature with a
heart like black apples, dead upon the branch. It had many names, for it had many faces, for there were many children. Some said its skin was like old leaves, carried on the wind. Others claimed it was an animal, almost a bird. A great crow with the eyes of a cat. My grandfather said its wings were as wide as the night. But I knew he was only trying to scare me. Grandfathers enjoy that, don’t they? Especially with boys who shudder at the sight of their own shadow.’
Malykh spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. They were clearly weighted with memory.
‘I knew it as the Eyes of the Harvest, though that translation is inadequate. Words so easily grow weak between our languages. It was the name my family had always called it. A bad spirit. A demon, of a kind. As old as the seasons. Its touch would take your memories, they told us. Every precious moment of your childhood, every mother’s kiss, every Christmas morning. All of them stolen, lost forever. Your mind would be left like an empty well. Can you imagine anything more frightening to a child? Some nights I was so sure I could hear it breathing in my room, close to my bed, come to drink my memories.’
Malykh smiled, ruefully. ‘And then I grew older. And I was no longer afraid of it. I knew it for what it was. A peasant’s tale. Something to make children run home early from the fields, before the sun sank. What word do you have for it in the West? A bogeyman. Strashilische.’
The smile faded. ‘But I knew nothing of the truth of this world. One warm autumn night it came to my family’s farm. It feasted. And I ran. I ran from the screams of my parents, my sister.’
Malykh’s expression hardened. A muscle moved beneath his skin.
‘Many years later I came back to my village. I looked for this creature and I found it, deep in the woods, living in a hovel of stones. It seemed very much like a man to me. I had my knife and I took its eye. I took it for my own. And I heard it scream as I cut the eye from its head. I knew then that these things could be small and afraid, just like us. I would not let them hide in the dark any longer.’
Winter found himself focusing on Malykh’s left eye, the one surrounded by scar tissue. He saw the clouded pupil contract in the half-light, almost as if it was cowering. Now, more than ever, that eye seemed out of place, a stolen thing. It belonged to another face. A face as old as the seasons…
The War in the Dark Page 25