Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  Even so, the notepaper in front of him was scattered with unconscious sketches of the axe-head, or runic symbols, or the intricate spiralling circular pattern that invaded his thoughts. There was another pattern too – short dashes radiating out from a central point. Was it a variation of the spiral pattern, he wondered? The problem was that while he could sense what the Vril were transmitting to him, he had no idea what it meant. The only way to put it into context would be to surrender himself to them completely – put on a bracelet and lose his mind. That was not an option.

  Even so, as he struggled to keep himself free of their influence, he was only too aware that his body was changing. He was conscious that he needed to keep these changes hidden. He retired to his room when he was expected to sleep, though he needed almost none. He made a show of appearing at meal times, even though he ate and drank hardly anything and had no appetite at all.

  Having a focus, something to concentrate on, certainly helped. A note on one of the inventory sheets was signed ‘GK’. Could that stand for Georg Kruger, Hoffman wondered. Was the man here back when the artefacts from the 1936 crash were catalogued? There was an easy way to find out.

  * * *

  ‘I came here in ’38,’ Kruger told him. ‘We were still sorting through the debris to see what we could salvage. I wasn’t involved with the stuff that went to the Vault.’

  ‘But you worked with the Ubermensch?’

  They were in the Hall of Supreme Generals on the ground floor of the North Tower of the castle. With Himmler away, they could be sure they had the place to themselves. Hoffman was leaning against one of the twelve pillars round the outer edge of the room. Light streamed in through the recessed window behind him, illuminating the black ‘sun wheel’ symbol inlaid into the floor. With its central hub and twelve jointed ‘arms’ projecting to the outer circle it looked to Hoffman like a stylised image of one of the Vril. Like the grotesque spider-like creature had been crossed with a swastika.

  Kruger seemed happy enough to talk about the past. For the most part he merely confirmed things that Hoffman already knew.

  ‘We sorted the debris into what might have technical value and what was more esoteric.’

  ‘And then what happened to it?’ Hoffman asked.

  ‘Much of it remains in the Vault, as you know. Catalogued and archived. Including the … organic material.’ Kruger couldn’t disguise the disgust he felt as he thought of the Vril.

  ‘But not all. I know Streicher removed some items, back in 1938.’

  ‘That would be about right. Some items were deemed of historical value. I wasn’t involved with them; as you say, Streicher was responsible. There was a feeling that they were not connected to the crash. Though I always thought…’ He shrugged. ‘What I thought didn’t matter back then. I was very junior. I’d only just arrived. You’d have to ask Streicher or Meklen. They were in charge back then.’

  ‘And both of them are now dead,’ Hoffman pointed out.

  ‘This is war. It happens.’

  He couldn’t argue with that. ‘What did you think? At the time, when no one listened? Because they’ll listen to you now.’

  Kruger nodded. ‘It doesn’t really matter now. Probably didn’t matter back then. But I thought it was a hell of a coincidence that the craft came down on top of a previously undiscovered archaeological site.’

  ‘Though that would explain the ancient artefacts that were found.’

  ‘True.’ Kruger took out a cigarette. He didn’t light it, but jabbed it towards Hoffman as he made his point. ‘But isn’t it more plausible that the artefacts were on board the craft? That they were cargo?’

  ‘You think the Vril were collecting them?’ Hoffman waited while Kruger lit the cigarette.

  ‘It seems likely.’

  Hoffman had to agree. ‘There is another possibility,’ he realised. ‘Did you consider that they might not have been collecting those artefacts, but delivering them?’

  Kruger blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘That had not occurred to me. It should have done. We know the Vril have been here before, long ago. Perhaps they never left.’

  ‘So what did Streicher do with them? Where did the archaeological materials go?’ Hoffman asked. He had the man interested – intrigued, even. Hopefully enough to help Hoffman trace the axe-head.

  ‘There were several consignments sent out, as far as I remember. Not all archaeological. One consisted of anything we could salvage from the propulsion systems. That was sent to the Army Research Centre.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Kruger shrugged. ‘Some island on the Baltic. They set it up after the crash, once they realised von Braun’s work actually had some potential. Peenemunde, I think it’s called. Run by the Army Weapons Office, though the Luftwaffe are also trying to get in on the act, as you can imagine.’

  ‘It’s where they are developing the A4,’ Hoffman said. He had heard of the place. The A4 was a ballistic rocket, also known as ‘Vengeance Weapon 2’, or just V2 for short.

  ‘Then some stuff went to Messerschmitt. There was an idea it could help with new aircraft engine designs.’

  ‘And the artefacts?’ Hoffman prompted.

  Kruger shook his head. ‘Don’t recall. Several places, I think. Museums and so on, depending on what it was. We did show the items to the Ubermensch,’ he added. ‘In case there was anything important we’d missed. Once it had agreed to help us, of course. Just before we crated everything up and shipped it off, that I do remember. It would have been in late 1938, I suppose.’

  That fitted with the note Hoffman had seen saying Streicher had removed the axe-head in October 1938. ‘Did it pick anything out?’

  ‘Again, I couldn’t say.’ Kruger was apologetic. ‘But you could check the film.’

  ‘I’ve looked at all the films in the archive.’

  ‘Ah, but not all the films are in the archive,’ Kruger said with a smile. ‘The films we made of the Ubermensch being interrogated and trained, those are in my office. Including the film of it examining the artefacts.’

  * * *

  There was no sound on the film. The first time through, Hoffman saw nothing remarkable. It was taken in the Vault. One of the long tables filled the foreground, covered with artefacts laid out neatly and labelled. The angle was such that it was difficult to distinguish the artefacts, but one of them looked as though it could be the stone axe-head that Hoffman was looking for.

  The Ubermensch, dressed now in the uniform of an SS officer, walked slowly across the frame. The image flickered occasionally as it had before, flashing up glimpses of how the Ubermensch appeared in the still photographs. It examined the artefacts, even picked one up. Hoffman leaned closed, but he could see that the Ubermensch had picked up something far smaller than what he was after – a flint arrowhead perhaps? Several had been found and catalogued.

  He ran the film again. And again.

  The fourth time through, he saw it. He rewound it, played it through once more. The Ubermensch reached out, and picked up the arrowhead or whatever it was. But there was a hesitation. A change of direction. Again the angle didn’t help, but the Ubermensch reached out for an object, hesitated, moved its hand to the side and selected instead the object next to the one it had initially reached for.

  It had been about to pick up the axe-head. Then it changed its mind – not wanting to draw attention to the one item on the table that it was interested in. Hoffman was certain of it. He froze the film, with the Ubermensch’s hand hovering above the artefact he was now sure must be the stone axe. He stared at the frame for several seconds before letting the film continue. Freeze it for too long and the film would melt under the hot light of the projector.

  Relaxed now, having found what he was looking for, Hoffman nearly missed the more important clue in the film.

  He was standing up, turning to shut off the projector when he saw it. Behind the Ubermensch, on a table at the back of the Vault: a wooden crate. The l
id was propped against it. A bundle of straw on the table beside it. And on the front of the crate, a label with writing stencilled across it.

  Another run of the film, and Hoffman stood as close to the screen as he could get without masking the crate. It was close enough to make out the writing on the label: ‘Sonderauftrag Linz’.

  So the artefacts had been crated up and sent to the Special Commission set up in 1939 to establish a Fuhrermuseum in the name of Adolf Hitler in the Austrian city of Linz. These must have been the first artefacts delivered to the commission, selected when its formation was still being debated. Hoffman knew that Speer was still working on plans for the museum. Eventually the museum would house artwork and artefacts looted from across Europe. But for now, the collection was curated by the Dresden Picture Gallery.

  * * *

  Back in his room, Hoffman put his notebook on his desk. He had actually made no notes during the film. Instead, he realised, he had sketched a detailed drawing of the circular, spiralling pattern. It took up a whole page of the book. He took hold of the page, about to tear it out and throw it away, when his eyes settled on a particular tile behind the washstand further along the wall.

  He couldn’t have replaced it properly, he realised. Gently, Hoffman prised the tile from the wall, and pulled out the roll of cloth behind it. He stared at the photograph curled inside the material. Brushed the tips of his fingers across the young woman’s face. Yes, he must go to Dresden, he thought.

  And after that, eastwards, to Russia. He wanted to go home.

  CHAPTER 21

  The submarine was incredibly small and cramped. Guy could not imagine spending more than a few days on board, let alone the months that the submariners spent on duty. He and Brinkman shared a cabin, which gave them considerably more privacy than most of the others on board.

  ‘I’m surprised they let you come,’ Guy said to Brinkman as they lay on their tiny bunks the first night.

  ‘I didn’t give them an option,’ Brinkman replied. ‘It’s time I got out of the office and did something useful for once. That said, as you speak Greek and I happen to have a contact in Crete, we’re obviously the best choices for the job.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Though I have to admit that General Ismay wasn’t entirely convinced.’

  Guy could hear the smile in the man’s voice. He could imagine how much he wanted to see some action. Guy too found it frustrating to be spending so much time in offices or libraries or museums rather than actively engaging the enemy in battle – whether that enemy be the Vril, or the Germans and their allies.

  It took the best part of a week to reach the waters off Crete. The weather was turning as the submarine broke the surface on schedule and in position. The vessel they were rendezvousing with was less punctual. By the time the fishing boat appeared over the horizon, dark clouds were massing ominously overhead.

  ‘So tell me about this contact of yours,’ Guy said as they waited at the top of the conning tower. They could see how rough it was getting by the way the approaching boat was being tossed and tumbled by the waves.

  ‘An old friend. British, but he’s spent a lot of time in this part of the world. For our purposes, and as far as the Germans are concerned, he’s a shepherd called Mihali.’

  ‘I’m guessing he doesn’t have that many sheep,’ Guy said.

  ‘I really couldn’t say. Though knowing Patrick, he’s probably set up his own farm and is turning a tidy profit.’

  ‘And the fisherman?’

  ‘One of the local resistance. Man called Dimitry. He can take us to Mihali.’

  ‘And Mihali can show us the area we’re interested in.’

  ‘If the weather holds,’ Brinkman agreed. As he spoke, the first spattering of rain fell across them.

  * * *

  Dimitry’s face was suntanned and weather-beaten. He was short but stocky and communicated his greeting mainly in grunts. Guy put this down largely to the weather, which was deteriorating by the minute. As soon as Guy and Brinkman were on board, Dimitry thrust a bundle of ragged, scruffy clothes at them and pointed to a narrow set of steps leading down below the small deck.

  ‘You’re shepherds,’ he said. ‘So look like shepherds.’ He didn’t wait to see if they replied, but stomped off to the tiny wheelhouse.

  The pitch and yaw of the boat seemed even worse below deck. Guy changed quickly in the confined space. Despite looking old and worn, the thick jumper and cotton trousers turned out to be warm and dry. Two rather scruffy-looking sheepskin coats and two pairs of scuffed boots were dumped in a corner and Guy guessed these were also for them.

  ‘I think I’d rather be on deck,’ Brinkman said, pulling on one pair of boots. He and Guy had put down the bags of equipment they’d brought in the corner where the boots had been. They contained rations, weapons, and a radio. There were false papers in waterproof oilskin bags, but it seemed sensible to leave those in the dry.

  It was almost dark on deck. Their arrival had been timed so that the evening was drawing in when they reached the shore – fishermen returning at the end of the day. But the storm clouds had hastened the arrival of twilight. The other fishermen had probably returned hours ago when the weather first started to worsen. The island was a dark wall in front of the boat, much closer than Guy had expected.

  ‘Looks like we’re nearly there.’ Guy had to shout above the sound of the rain and the sea. As he spoke, a spike of lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder exploded round them and the rain became torrential in an instant.

  At the same moment, the front of the boat dipped down alarmingly. Guy grabbed for a handrail, catching hold of Brinkman’s arm. Water washed over the deck and almost swept their feet from under them.

  Dimitry leaned out of the side of the wheelhouse, shouting at them. But his words were swallowed up by another roll of thunder. Guy pulled himself along, using the handrail at the edge of the deck. Brinkman was close behind him.

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ Dimitry was shouting. Guy translated the Greek’s words for Brinkman.

  ‘Like we hadn’t noticed,’ Brinkman yelled back.

  ‘We’re not going to make the cove,’ Dimitry shouted. ‘We’ll have to try to ride it out. But we’re very close to the rocks.’

  Guy risked a look over the side of the boat. His stomach was pitching almost as much as the frail wooden vessel. Where the steep cliffs descended into the sea, rocks spilled out into the water. They were indeed very close. The waves broke over them in a white spay. The boat was turning, slowly, so that its back was towards the cliff. It looked like Dimitry was trying to put some distance between them and the rocks.

  For a while, he seemed to succeed. The boat struggled forwards, engine whining in protest as it was pushed to the limit. Spray shot up in front of them as the nose of the boat plunged down into an oncoming wave.

  Guy and Brinkman had managed to get to the wheelhouse, but it afforded little shelter. What Guy had assumed was a window was an empty space, the glass – if there had ever been any – was long gone.

  ‘She won’t take much more of this,’ Dimitry told them. He pointed into the distance, to the slightest break in the cloud. ‘Better weather is coming, though. If we can hold on for just a few more minutes.’

  Guy kept his attention fixed on the brighter patch of sky. He tried to ignore the way the ground beneath his feet bucked and reeled. Slowly, the brighter area was widening, spreading towards them.

  Just as he began to hope they were through the worst of it, there was another almighty crack of thunder as the sky was simultaneously splashed with lightning. The front of the boat dropped away like they’d sailed off the end of the world. Water poured across the deck. A wave rose up in front of them like a vicious animal about to pounce. Then it crashed down.

  The sound of splintering wood was audible even above the noise of the sea. The whine of the engine became a stuttering cough, then stopped. The whole boat lurched suddenly backwards. Guy was hurled out of the wh
eelhouse, sliding across the slippery wooden deck, scrabbling desperately to catch hold of something fixed. His legs were over the edge by the time he caught hold of a metal stanchion.

  He could see Brinkman clinging to the outside of the wheelhouse. Another wave burst through the glass-less window and swept him aside. When the water and spray cleared, Guy was amazed and relieved to see the colonel still holding tight, arms wrapped round the wooden roof support.

  More water swept past Guy. Something heavy crashed into him, caught and clawed at him, then was gone. Shocked, he realised it was Dimitry. Guy twisted, staring out into the churning white water below, but there was no sign of the man.

  Then they lurched again. Wood shattered and rock tore through the bottom of the hull. The fishing boat twisted on to its side, breaking to pieces on the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.

  * * *

  Somehow, Guy managed to scramble from the stricken boat to the rocks below. They were slick beneath his feet, water up to his thighs. He fought against the pull of the waves, desperately trying to make headway towards the base of the cliffs.

  But first he had to find Brinkman. Was the colonel still on the boat? The vessel had almost completely broken up under the onslaught of the sea. Waves tore at it, ripping off planking. The main mast had fractured and was lying across the side of the boat, rolled back and forth as if it was a pencil on a desk.

  ‘Guy!’

  He thought at first it was the sound of the wind. But when he heard his name called again, he managed to locate the source. Brinkman was hanging from the side of the boat, his feet almost in the water. As Guy watched, Brinkman dropped into the boiling sea and disappeared from sight.

  A moment later, he surfaced again, and struggled towards Guy – who was now frantically wading towards him. The water was deeper here – up to Guy’s chest. He managed to grab Brinkman’s outstretched arm and together the two of them half staggered, half swam to the cliff.

  There was no beach, no dry land. They had to clamber up the steep side. The rock was firm, but made slippery by the sea spray. They managed to get to a point where there was a ledge wide enough to perch precariously and look down. Saltwater stung their eyes as they watched the boat finally break up. For a few seconds the mast was left dipping in and out of the water. Then it too was swallowed up in the spray and the waves and the deepening twilight.