Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  ‘Unless you can help us,’ Guy said. ‘Do you know of any connection between the Vril and Crete?’

  ‘Not off hand,’ Crowley admitted. ‘There are various sources I can consult. If I do find anything, I shall be sure to let you know.’

  ‘And is your back no longer itching?’ Brinkman asked.

  ‘It has eased. But there is still one matter you can perhaps help me with.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A term I have come across. Perhaps I heard it from one of you, I forget. Tell me, what exactly is an Ubermensch?’

  Brinkman glanced at Guy, and found the major was looking back at him for guidance. Brinkman nodded.

  ‘We don’t really know,’ Guy said. ‘They are people who are somehow infected by the Vril. They become subservient to the creatures. But they also gain in strength and resilience as the infection or whatever it is spreads through their body.’

  ‘I see.’ Crowley nodded. ‘Hence the name. Could this infection be spread through physical contact?’

  ‘That is our best theory,’ Brinkman agreed. ‘It doesn’t seem to be passed on by an Ubermensch to other humans, but direct contact with the Vril themselves could instigate the change.’

  ‘And how can you spot these Ubermensch? Are there many of them?’

  ‘To be honest, we don’t know how many there are,’ Brinkman said. ‘We do know that at least one was working with the Germans, but how the alliance was arrived at or whether there was an element of coercion on either side…’ He shrugged.

  ‘And the only way to spot them,’ Guy said, ‘the only way we’ve found, is that when you kill them, they don’t die.’

  * * *

  When he had found her standing over the body of Ralph Rutherford, Crowley had confined Jane to the cellars. He had no idea how dangerous she really was, but Brinkman and Pentecross had said nothing to allay his fears.

  For the moment, Jane seemed docile. She lay on the altar table, wrists manacled to the sides as before. Her legs were free, and she was wearing a plain white robe of thin cotton as she did for séances and ceremonies.

  Crowley wouldn’t say that the young woman was back to herself exactly. But she was far more communicative, far more like the Jane she used to be than she had been when she killed Rutherford. He could only assume this was connected to the degree of infection. Was the restoration of self-will and individuality a stage in whatever process of transformation she was undergoing? Or was it a side effect of her not being directly controlled by the Vril?

  Standing on the dais, looking down at her supine body, it occurred to Crowley for the first time that the answer might be obvious.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. Would she simply tell him what he wanted to know? Could it be that straightforward?

  Jane turned her head to look up at him. ‘Unchain me,’ she said, her voice devoid of intonation.

  ‘Perhaps if you answer my questions. But I can make no promises.’

  ‘You always used to make promises,’ she said. ‘Promises you then broke.’

  ‘I wasn’t afraid of you then,’ he admitted.

  ‘If I tell you I could leave here whenever I wish, does that make you more afraid?’

  He caught his breath. But she was lying, bluffing. Wasn’t she?

  ‘I see,’ she said, turning away. She had her answer.

  ‘If you can leave, why don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I have no instructions,’ she said simply.

  ‘Jane? Are you still Jane?’

  ‘Who else would I be?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  She turned back, staring at him angrily. ‘You did this to me,’ she said, her voice suddenly laced with emotion. ‘And now you ask me what is happening? I am Jane – of course I’m Jane. But I’m not alone in here. I can feel them inside my mind. Always there, waiting to tell me what to do. It took a while to get used to it. To deaden their voices. But I’ve always heard them – in séances and ceremonies. When I wore the bracelet … Now I tell myself they’re just talking louder and I can ignore them.’ She stared up at the ceiling. ‘I can ignore them,’ she insisted through gritted teeth. ‘I can.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘When they speak to you…’ Crowley licked his thin lips with a bloodless tongue. ‘Do they ever mention Greece? The island of Crete?’

  ‘That’s not how they speak. I see in my mind what they are thinking. It’s like voices, but it’s also pictures. Thoughts…’ She closed her eyes, the muscles in her face relaxing.

  For a while there was silence. Crowley was about to leave when she suddenly opened her eyes again, staring unfocused at the vaulted stone above.

  ‘I see darkness in the shape of the axe, carved into the living rock. Tunnels where the shadows dance on the rough-hewn walls. Passageways and steps, closing in around me, stale suffocating air that no one has breathed in centuries. In millennia.’

  ‘In Crete?’ Crowley breathed.

  ‘A pathway that leads through hidden depths, down into the earth itself. The lair of the Guardians. The place where they sleep, patiently awaiting the time of awakening. The time when they will spew forth across the world and take what they believe is theirs.’

  ‘Where?’ Crowley demanded. ‘Where is this place?’

  She drew a sudden rasping breath, her chest convulsing with the effort. Her head rose from the stone, straining at the chains as she stared across at him.

  Her voice was angry snarl of contempt: ‘It is the gateway to Hell.’

  CHAPTER 19

  The pilot was more used to flying over Germany and occupied France. It had taken over a week for Colonel Brinkman’s request to be actioned. The converted Spitfire was flown first to Malta. The island, close to German shipping lanes, was effectively under siege, the bravery and stamina of its small population recognised in April 1942 when they were collectively awarded the George Cross. It was still just as dangerous a place several months later when the Spitfire used Malta’s airfield as the base from which to fly its mission over Crete.

  Flying at a height of thirty thousand feet, the tiny plane was far above most other aircraft. Stripped of its weaponry, it relied for its survival on going unnoticed, and on the fact that its cruising speed was greater than anything else it was likely to meet in the sky. It was helped by the fact that the whole plane was painted a uniform pale blue, making it all but invisible as it flew high over the island. The five cameras under the wings and in the fuselage took stereoscopic photographs that would be delivered within days to a country house thirty miles to the west of London.

  * * *

  On the journey, they went over the notes from Brinkman’s meeting with Crowley.

  ‘What sources did he say he’d consulted?’ Leo Davenport wondered. ‘We’ve come across nothing like this at the British Museum.’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ Miss Manners replied. The two of them were sitting in the back of a staff car driven by Sarah Diamond. ‘In fact he was quite vague about the whole thing.’

  ‘You think he was making it up?’ Sarah asked over her shoulder.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He was too hesitant. Like he wasn’t really sure if he wanted to tell us about it at all.’

  ‘It’s not a lot to go on, to be honest,’ Leo pointed out. ‘He confirms a connection with Crete – which we told him we suspected anyway. But he can’t say what that connection really is or how he knows it exists. Instead he just waffles on about underground tunnels and the gateway to Hell, whatever that means.’

  ‘But the Vril do seem to be subterranean by nature,’ Miss Manners said.

  ‘As Crowley probably knows. If nothing else, The Coming Race tells us that.’

  ‘It’s just a novel,’ Sarah said.

  ‘But a prescient one,’ Miss Manners told her.

  ‘Whatever the case,’ Leo said, ‘given that we suspect a connection between the axe and Crete, it’s sensible to take a look. And the RAF can do that quicker and
easier and more safely than we can.’

  * * *

  The grounds of Danesfield House were now dotted with temporary wooden buildings. Even so, the drive up to the main house was still impressive.

  Sarah drove them towards the wide white frontage with its large central tower and prominent chimneys before following signs to park over to one side of the main building.

  They were greeted at the main entrance by a thin man in a crumpled suit. His mass of hair was almost entirely white, and his eyes were pale and grey and watery. He introduced himself as Alan Blithe.

  ‘Welcome to Danesfield House. Or RAF Medmenham as we now have to refer to it,’ he said in a reedy voice as they shook hands. ‘They asked me to look after you as I’m an archaeologist by profession. If archaeology is indeed a profession,’ he added, leading them inside. ‘I sometimes wonder.’

  ‘Isn’t this a strange place for an archaeologist to end up?’ Miss Manners asked as Blithe led them through the house.

  ‘Oh we’ve all sorts here. Academics, of course. Geologists. Archaeologists like me. Even some bods from Hollywood, would you believe,’ he said, turning to smile at Leo. ‘But you’ll know more about them than I do, I suspect.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Leo told him. ‘But I guess they’re experts on photography and film.’

  ‘Absolutely. We’ll take anyone who can examine an aerial photograph and have some understanding of what the hell they’re looking at, really. Horses for courses, as they say. The geologists look at the landscape, and maybe spot a feature that’s out of place and might be artificial or camouflaged. I’m used to looking at how the face of the earth has changed over time, and making deductions based on partial evidence. But generally we all muck in together.’

  ‘Analysing photographs,’ Sarah said.

  ‘That’s what we do. “Image Intelligence” it’s called. Or IMINT for short. Ah, here we are.’

  Blithe ushered them into a large room with a high ceiling. Several large tables were set up down the length of the room. Round each, men and women sat poring over photographs. Some were staring at them fixedly. Others looked through jeweller’s glass magnifiers. As Blithe led them towards a table at the back of the room, Leo saw that the magnifiers had two lenses so that the analysts looked through them with both eyes.

  A man and a woman were already at Blithe’s table. The woman was spreading out photographs while the man examined one through a double magnifier. Both wore RAF uniform.

  ‘June, Philip, meet our friends from…’ Blithe broke off. ‘Well, I’m not sure quite where they’re from, actually. So probably best not to ask. But this is Miss Manners, Miss Diamond, and Mr Davenport. I think that’s right.’

  Leo nodded. ‘So what have we here?’

  ‘These are all the photographs of Crete,’ the woman, June, explained. ‘We have pretty good coverage. Obviously we’re most interested in the ports and the troop deployments usually. But I gather you’re looking for geological features, is that right?’

  ‘Or archaeological ones,’ Miss Manners said.

  ‘No shortage of those,’ Philip said. His voice was clipped and sharp, but not unfriendly. ‘Whole damned island is one big ruin. Well, up to a point.’

  ‘Something of an exaggeration,’ Blithe confessed. ‘We discarded any images that really were just countryside. Oh, we checked them all meticulously first, of course. You can take a look if you like. But it’s mainly grass and sheep and hills.’

  Miss Manners picked up one of the photographs. There were two pictures on the same sheet, both looked identical. ‘You can identify sheep on these?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Philip took the photo from her and pulled a different one across the table. ‘Here, take a look at this one. Through here.’ He placed one of the dual magnifiers over the sheet. It covered both photographs, a lens over each.

  Miss Manners lowered her head and peered through. After a moment, she straightened up, removed her spectacles, and tried again. ‘That is very impressive,’ she said. ‘There’s a man on a bicycle. You can make out his shadow and everything.’

  Leo gestured for Sarah to go next. From the positioning of the lenses over the two photographs he had already guessed what she’d see.

  ‘How’s it done?’ Sarah asked in surprise.

  ‘Stereographic, I assume?’ Leo asked, taking Sarah’s place.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Philip told him. ‘The pictures are taken from slightly different angles. Look at them both, one eye seeing each, and…’

  ‘Three dimensions,’ Leo said. It was impressive – both the detail and the three-dimensional perspective.

  ‘Size and depth are still the tricky things to work out,’ Blithe said. ‘The bicycle on that one means we can work out the scale. Shadows help too.’

  ‘It’s a shame the Germans don’t play cricket,’ Miss Manners said.

  Blithe laughed. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Sarah asked Leo quietly.

  ‘A cricket pitch is a standard size,’ he told her. ‘One chain – that’s 22 yards – between the wickets.’

  ‘Now then,’ Blithe was saying, ‘there are three of you and three of us. So I suggest we pair up to examine the photographs together. June and Philip and I can help interpret what you’re seeing. And I’m assuming you people will know what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Leo admitted. ‘But hopefully we shall know it when we see it.’

  Leo and Philip took one stack of photos. Leo would have welcomed the chance to chat to Blithe about archaeology and find out where the man’s interests lay. But it made sense to spread the expertise. Sarah and June formed the second pair, with Miss Manners starting her partnership with Blithe by giving him a stern stare across the top of her glasses.

  It was slow and methodical work. But they knew it would be, and had arranged to stay overnight if necessary. By mid afternoon when they took a break for tea, Leo was wondering if they might be here for several nights.

  Blithe and his colleagues had other work to catch up on, so Leo, Sarah and Miss Manners took tea on their own. The mess hall had been a ballroom.

  ‘The house isn’t as old as it looks,’ Miss Manners told them. ‘Blithe was telling me it was only built at the turn of the century.’

  ‘They made a good job of the neo-Tudor aspects,’ Leo said appreciatively. The tea was acceptable too. ‘You’re very quiet,’ he remarked to Sarah.

  ‘I didn’t realise just looking at photos would be so tiring,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure I’ll end up boss-eyed from looking through that stereo-whatever it is thing.’ She sipped at her tea. ‘And I was thinking…’

  ‘Yes?’ Miss Manners prompted.

  ‘About that poor fellow in Los Angeles. The reporter who died. He was taking photographs at Sumner’s gallery.’

  ‘Really?’ Miss Manners set down her own cup and leaned forward. ‘What happened to them?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Damned if I know. They confiscated his camera, long before the UDT arrived.’

  ‘Even so, there might be something on the photos. The Ubermensch was there.’

  ‘True,’ Sarah said. ‘You think it’s worth tracking the camera down?’

  ‘Chances are it’s been returned to the newspaper,’ Leo said. ‘Though no one there will know what they’re looking for on the photos, if they ever developed them.’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Sarah promised. ‘I’ll put a call through to Sumner and ask him what happened to the camera.’

  ‘We’d better get back to work,’ Miss Manners decided.

  ‘Good of you to keep us in order,’ Leo said, smiling.

  ‘Someone has to,’ she told him sternly. ‘This could take a while.’

  ‘Even if we knew what we were looking for,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Let’s hope we really do know it when we see it,’ Leo remarked, standing up. ‘And the sooner the better.’

  * * *

  They did.

  ‘The angle’s not very
good,’ Miss Manners said, ‘But I think I may have found something.’

  She moved aside to let Blithe take a look. ‘It’s a narrow opening into the rock face,’ he said. ‘We can estimate the size from the German fuel depot on the coast nearby. There are people there, and vehicles … Yes,’ he decided, ‘it’s probably a cave. Or possibly the way into some ancient ruin. It looks like there might be steps carved into the rock, though I can’t be certain. Probably not as obvious at ground level, though.’

  ‘May I?’ Leo asked.

  Blithe moved aside to let him look through the magnifier. Even though, as Miss Manners said, the angle wasn’t the best, the shape of the opening in the sheer rock face was unmistakeable. There were two shallow depressions impressed into the rocky landscape on the inclined side of a slope leading down to cliffs and the sea. The narrow opening that Blithe had identified was between the two, just where the curved shapes met.

  ‘What do you think?’ Leo asked, making way for Sarah to take a look.

  ‘It’s bigger, obviously. But it looks like the axe-head,’ she said. She straightened up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Remains of an ancient building, probably,’ Blithe said. ‘That depression will be where the floor was. The opening might lead down into the cellars.’

  ‘Or,’ Miss Manners said quietly, ‘like Crowley said, it might lead down into Hell itself.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Himmler was spending more time away from Wewelsburg. The Russian campaign continued and the American influence was beginning to tell. As a result, Hoffman was able to pursue his own researches.

  Himmler’s absence suited Hoffman. He had no intention of telling either Nachten or Himmler what he discovered. He worked long into the night. An advantage of his ‘condition’, as he thought of it, was that he needed far less sleep. The main disadvantage was the distraction of the constant pulling at his mind. But a man used to living a double life – a Russian playing at being a German – was able to compartmentalise that. He could shut away the voices and images that the Vril somehow injected into his thoughts.