Department 19: Zero Hour

by Will Hill

  “Why not?” asked Tim Albertsson, smiling narrowly.

  Larissa shrugged. “It was Jamie’s call,” she said. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Jamie?” asked the American.

  “Do I have to explain my decisions to you?” he asked.

  Albertsson held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just asking,” he said, his tone light. “We’re all friends here, right?”

  “Right,” said Jamie. “Sure we are.”

  Engel frowned deeply, then turned to Tim. “What about you?” she asked.

  “Hard to pick one for me too,” said Albertsson. “I led the squad that searched for Adam, the supposedly cured vampire, and lost three men in the process. Did you hear about that?”

  The Operators nodded; word of the disastrous mission in the Californian desert had got around, despite its classified status.

  “The toughest, though?” continued Albertsson. “That would have to be Mexico, after Valeri’s vamps broke the jails. The leadership of a cartel in Nuevo Laredo were in the Florence Supermax when it was cracked, and were all turned. They went home, murdered everyone who had taken their places while they were inside, and took everything back over. We went in to get them before they got too settled.” He looked over at Larissa and smiled. “Didn’t we?”

  The vampire shifted uneasily as attention swung her way. “We did,” she said. “I was attached to Tim’s squad for the operation.”

  “And we were glad to have her,” said Tim. “We entered the house and did a sweep, but they were waiting under the floor for us in the basement. We engaged them, and destroyed what we thought was all of them, but there was no sign of their leader, a General called Garcia Rejon. He ambushed us, blasted a hole in Larissa, and fled. I ordered everyone to hold, but she went after him anyway.”

  “It didn’t really register that I’d been shot,” said Larissa, quietly.

  “Right,” said Albertsson. “I got the rest of my squad together and we climbed up through the hole Rejon had made to escape, and all the time there’s shrieking and screaming outside. By the time we got there, all that was left of him was a streak of blood across the lawn.”

  “That doesn’t sound that bad,” said Jamie. “It sounds like Larissa did most of the work.”

  “She did,” said Albertsson, and smiled widely. “What makes it the toughest op I’ve been on was what happened in Rejon’s garden, after the fighting was over. When it was just Larissa and me left.”

  Ice crept up Jamie’s spine. He looked over at Larissa and flinched; her face had turned so pale it was almost translucent, and she was staring at Albertsson not with anger, but with eyes full of pleading.

  “What happened?” asked Engel.

  Albertsson looked around, savouring the attention. “Nothing,” he said. “That was the problem.”

  Silence descended, thick and awkward and full of unasked questions. Jamie felt the rage he had been trying to control since the squad first stepped into the forest roar through him; it took every iota of his willpower to hold it at bay. Larissa had dropped her eyes and was staring into the fire, shock written across her face. The rest of the squad were looking uneasily at one another, unsure how to respond to Albertsson’s story, the point of which had simultaneously been ambiguous and utterly obvious.

  “Petrov?” asked Engel, trying for a light, cheerful tone, but getting nowhere near it. “What about you?”

  The Russian gave her a long look, then shook his head.

  “No more talk,” said Albertsson. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be our day, I can feel it.”

  Within a minute, Van Orel, Petrov, Engel and Albertsson were asleep; a symphony of deep breathing and gentle snoring rose into the freezing night air. Jamie had closed his eyes, but was wide awake, his head spinning, his stomach churning with anger and bitter, frustrated confusion. As a result, he was the only member of the squad who heard Larissa shake Tim Albertsson awake and whisper that they needed to talk, urgently. He lay as still as a corpse in his sleeping bag, his heart pounding, scarcely able to believe what he had heard.

  “Sure,” said Tim. “It’s well overdue. Let’s talk.”

  “Keep your voice down,” whispered Larissa. “Not here. Let’s take a walk.”

  “Fine,” whispered Tim.

  There was a shuffling noise, which Jamie assumed was Albertsson extricating himself from his sleeping bag. Then he heard the soft crunching of icy grass and tiny twigs as his girlfriend and the American Special Operator stole away into the night.

  Larissa walked beside Tim Albertsson, ordering herself to stay calm.

  In the years since she had been turned, years in which she had seen some of the very worst that humanity had to offer, she had come to think of herself as extremely difficult to shock, if not borderline impossible. Nonetheless, she was utterly astonished by Tim’s behaviour; the American was acting like a petty, jealous schoolboy, rather than a man in charge of one of the most important operations that had ever been ordered.

  She had spent a great deal of time since she left Nevada wondering what would happen if she met Tim again; the prospect had always been a real one, given the insular nature of what they did. She had allowed for the possibility that he might be angry with her, might even hate her for what she had done, for the promise she had broken. But she had not been prepared for his sheer vindictiveness; as far as she could see, he was quite deliberately attempting to ruin her relationship with Jamie, and humiliate her into the bargain.

  Jamie had instantly noticed Tim’s apparent agenda against him, his sly digs and provocative comments, and Larissa had promised to tell him the truth when the operation was over. It had placated him – or at least, she hoped it had – but had made her absolutely furious; she had never intended to tell him anything about Tim, had made that decision as she sat in the Mina II on her way back from Nevada. But at this point, it would actually be something of a relief to do so; she knew Jamie well enough to know that what he was imagining in his head would be far worse than the actual reality.

  But beyond the impact of Tim’s behaviour on herself, and Jamie, she was genuinely concerned about his continuing ability to lead the operation; he seemed to be so obsessed with what had happened, or rather hadn’t happened, between them that she was not at all sure he was thinking clearly. And that was dangerous, for everyone.

  After five silent minutes, they arrived in a small clearing. Larissa turned to face the Special Operator, red flooding into her eyes as she felt her self-control threatening to desert her.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she said, her voice little more than a growl. “Do you think this is clever, what you’re doing? Are you having fun?”

  Albertsson looked incredulously at her, then laughed and shook his head. “That’s great,” he said. “Play the victim, why don’t you? Again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Drag your head out of your ass, Larissa,” said Tim, his voice filling with anger. “How do you think it looked when you left Nevada the way you did? Danny and Kara and the others, they all thought they were going to Blacklight with you when you went. So did I, as a matter of fact, because you promised. You said the actual words to our faces. And then you just left, without bothering to tell us that you’d changed your mind, without even saying goodbye. What do you think that did to my relationships with them, Larissa? They blame me for you leaving and not taking them with you. They think I did something to scare you away.”

  “You did,” hissed Larissa. “You kissed me. And in Vegas you told me you wanted to, even after I’d warned you not to do it again. How was I supposed to take you back to the Loop with me after that? How would I have been able to sit in briefings and meetings every day with you and Jamie, after you’d made it very clear that you can’t take no for an answer? You’re an idiot if you can’t see that.”

  “The Director asked me why you didn’t take me,” said Tim, his face colouring crimson. “He knows something happened. You
damaged my career, Larissa, and you turned my friends against me. So am I just supposed to let you off the hook for that? Act like it never happened?”

  Larissa rolled her eyes. “Oh please,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “If your career is so damaged, then why did General Allen put you in charge of this operation? And if the others think less of you now, well, I’m sorry, but that’s really not my problem. I did leave because of you, and I didn’t take them because of you, even though it broke my heart not to. You don’t think I would be happier at Blacklight if they were there with me? You don’t think I wish it had all ended differently? Believe me, I do. So you don’t just get to make me out to be the bad guy and pretend that you didn’t do anything, because this, all of this, is your fault. You selfish prick.”

  Albertsson stared at her, his eyes narrow. “Maybe I should just tell Jamie,” he said. “About Mexico and Vegas. Just get it all out in the open and let him decide for himself. He’s a grown man, and secrets are never good.”

  Larissa was moving before she knew she was going to, her eyes blazing crimson. She closed a gloved hand round Tim’s neck, lifted him into the air, and hurtled across the clearing, a guttural roar rising from her throat. She slammed him against a wide tree trunk and held him there, five metres above the ground.

  “You will not say one word to Jamie about this,” she growled. “Not now, not ever. Do you understand me?”

  Albertsson glanced down at the ground, then grinned widely. “I’m not afraid of you, Larissa,” he said.

  She moved her face in closer to his, her breath clouding the freezing air, her fangs huge and razor-sharp. “You should be,” she said, and released her grip. Albertsson’s eyes widened, and he cried out as he slid down the tree trunk and hit the ground, hard.

  Larissa didn’t wait to see him get up; she rocketed away through the dark forest, her mind pounding with the desire to get away from everything, and everyone.

  Including herself.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cal Holmwood. “You’re going to have to run that by me again. I don’t think I heard you right the first time.”

  “I think you did, Cal,” said Colonel Ovechkin.

  “No,” said Holmwood, shaking his head and smiling wildly at his Russian counterpart. “I can’t have. Because what I thought I heard you say was that one of my Operators, a man who actively tried to kill my Security Officer and one of my best young Lieutenants, was a spy for your Department. But that can’t be what you said, surely? It just can’t be.”

  The Blacklight Director’s voice had risen steadily as he spoke; he was shouting as he said the final words. The SPC Director looked back at him, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and anger; he was clearly not used to being spoken to in such a way, regardless of the circumstances.

  “That is what I said,” said Ovechkin. “And I have already told you that this is also news to me, Cal. I would appreciate it if you keep your temper under control.”

  Holmwood stared at the screen, temporarily struck dumb with outrage.

  My temper? he screamed inside his head. You’re telling me you had a spy in my Department and you’re worried about my temper? HOW DARE YOU?

  Mercifully, before he managed to speak, to say something that he would almost certainly later regret, Paul Turner stepped in.

  “The Director’s temper is hardly the issue here, Colonel,” said the Security Officer. “Please can you tell us exactly what it is you have discovered?”

  Ovechkin stared at Cal Holmwood for a long moment, then switched his attention to Turner. “Of course, Major,” he said, each word sounding as though it caused him physical pain. “The records that we have found show that in the early 1980s Demidov was charged by our Director at the time, a man by the name of Zellev who I do not think either of you ever met, to compile intelligence reports on the other supernatural Departments. These were standard strategic documents: strengths, weaknesses, equipment, command structures, etc. Very similar, I have no doubt, to the files that you kept on us.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Turner. “The Cold War is not a period that any of us should look back on with pride.”

  “On that point, you and I are in complete agreement, Major Turner,” said Ovechkin, his face twisting momentarily into a hard, narrow smile. “It is much better now that we are all friends.”

  “Indeed,” said Turner. “Go on.”

  Ovechkin nodded, and continued. “After the intelligence reports had been completed, Demidov made a proposal to Zellev, a proposal that appears to have been known only to the two of them. It related to advances in techniques of psychological conditioning, and centred on Demidov’s belief that a combination of psychotropic drugs and hypnotic suggestion could implant instructions within a human being so deeply that they would follow them without question. The proposal was a request for permission to explore his theory, which was granted.”

  “Who were the test subjects?” asked Turner.

  “Political prisoners,” said Ovechkin. “Enemies of the state. The experiments were carried out in the gulags of Siberia and Chukotka, under Demidov’s supervision. After less than two years, he reported to Zellev that the techniques had been perfected.”

  “What happened to the subjects of his experiments?”

  “There are no records of them, Major Turner,” said Ovechkin. “I’m sure you are capable of drawing the same conclusion from that as I have.”

  No shit, thought Holmwood. Experimented on like rats, used up, disposed of.

  “I am,” said Turner. “Unfortunately.”

  Ovechkin nodded. “Demidov’s report outlined the idea for Safeguard. It was hypothetical at the time, as only the most cordial of relationships existed between us and the other Departments, but Demidov claimed that, if he was given access to foreign Operators, he could condition them to provide us with intelligence without compromising themselves in the process. When we began to re-engage more fully with the supernatural community in 1992, Demidov asked for permission to revive the project. Zellev gave it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Holmwood. “I can’t believe this, Aleksandr. I can’t believe the SPC would sanction such a project, no matter who the Director was.”

  “I can imagine,” said Ovechkin, his thin smile returning. “Just like I find it hard to believe that NS9 would attempt to weaponise the vampire virus, or that Blacklight would conduct operations inside SPC territory and deny having done so. It is all very hard to believe. But that was the world.”

  “If these were sleeper spies,” said Turner, dragging the conversation back on track, “why did Brennan plant bombs designed to kill myself and Lieutenant Randall?”

  “The Safeguards were programmed to avoid detection at all costs,” said Ovechkin. “I would speculate that Brennan was concerned that the investigation you and Lieutenant Randall were conducting was likely to lead to his discovery, so he attempted to halt it. It appears that when his attempt failed, he ran.”

  “And came home,” said Holmwood, his voice thick with anger. “Right?”

  Ovechkin didn’t respond.

  Silence settled uneasily over the Blacklight Director’s quarters, full of dark corners and half-truths, of history far from fully buried. Eventually, it was Paul Turner who spoke.

  “Do you know how Demidov got to Brennan?”

  “Yes,” said Ovechkin. “The Safeguard records are extremely comprehensive. Brennan attended a strategy symposium here in Polyarny.”

  “When?” asked Turner.

  “Nine years ago.”

  “So what the hell actually happened?” asked Holmwood. “Demidov had him dragged out of his bed, hypnotised, pumped full of drugs and sent home? Why wouldn’t Brennan have resisted? Or reported it when he got back here?”

  “The techniques appear to have been extremely sophisticated,” replied Ovechkin. “Subjects were left with no awareness of anything unusual, as the process itself was deleted from their memories. When the technique was correctly applie
d, the new instructions would appear to be things the subject had always known. They would know they were spies, but as far as they knew they always had been, and had chosen to be. They would have no understanding that anything had changed.”

  “Victims,” said Turner.

  “I’m sorry, Major?”

  “You keep referring to them as subjects,” said the Security Officer. “Let’s call them what they were. Victims of an appalling, unjustifiable violation.”

  “Of course you are correct,” said Ovechkin. “Although I do not think that terminology is of the highest importance at this point.”

  “No,” said Holmwood. “So let’s get down to what is. How many of these Safeguards did your predecessors send into my Department, Aleksandr?”

  “Six,” said Ovechkin. “I am sorry, Cal.”

  For a seemingly endless moment, Holmwood didn’t respond; he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t collect the thoughts that were rushing through the filters in his mind.

  Six. Six of our Operators, reporting our every move to the SPC. For how many years? And why the hell didn’t ISAT pick the rest of them up?

  He glanced over at Paul Turner. The Security Officer’s face was paler than ever, and the Interim Director guessed that he was asking himself the same questions.

  “Who?” managed Holmwood. “Tell me their names.”

  “I have a list, as well as every report they ever submitted. I am sending it all to you now, as a gesture of the friendship between our Departments that we greatly value, especially during these troubled times. I do not know whether it will make you feel better or worse, but I can tell you that the other five names on the list are all deceased. Brennan was the last.”

  Holmwood considered this, but all he felt was numb. He had devoted the vast majority of his adult life to Blacklight, and had spent most of those years as a dyed-in-the-wool true believer, as a proud soldier of the forces for good. Now that view of the world, which had once been so clear, so sharp and solid, was mired in endless shades of grey. The very fabric of what his Department and its equivalents did felt as though it was unravelling; lie piled upon lie, secret upon secret, horror upon horror. If they somehow managed to prevent the rise of Dracula, he was no longer sure that there remained a future for Blacklight, or for NS9, the SPC, or any of the others. There had been so much blood, so much death, and the cracks were finally beginning to show.