Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  ‘There goes the radio,’ Brinkman said. ‘Not to mention our papers and guns.’

  ‘And Dimitry,’ Guy told him.

  Brinkman sighed. ‘Really? I’d hoped he was further along these cliffs.’

  ‘Went overboard. Didn’t resurface. He may have survived, but it’d be a miracle.’

  ‘Then we’re on our own.’

  ‘What about your friend the shepherd?’

  Brinkman shook his head. ‘Dimitry knew how to make contact with Mihali. And without the radio we can’t ask London for any help finding him.’ He glanced up at the cliff rising steeply above them. ‘But we’ll worry about that later. For now, we’d better concentrate on getting our breath back – there’s some climbing to do.’

  The cliff was steep, but there were plenty of hand and foot holds. The rain was easing as the better weather and clearer sky arrived at last. As they got higher, there were tufts of grass and spiky shrubs. They had to be careful, though, as some of them were rooted so shallowly that they just pulled out from the rock face. But others were secure enough to take their weight as Guy and Brinkman hauled themselves ever higher.

  Finally, as the last of the light was fading, they reached the top. The cliff became a shallow grassy slope leading upwards. They crested the top, and flopped down on the grass. Guy’s rasping breaths became laughs of relief.

  But the relief was short-lived.

  ‘There’s someone there,’ Brinkman said quietly.

  Guy sat up. It was an effort even to keep his eyes open, he was so exhausted. Several dark figures were approaching through the gloom. One of them called out:

  ‘Who’s there? What are you doing?’

  Guy understood what the man said perfectly, but there was something odd about his voice. Only when the figures were close enough for him to make out their uniforms and their guns did he realise what was strange.

  They were speaking not Greek, but German.

  CHAPTER 22

  The large desk seemed tiny in such a vast space. It took Nachten a long time to cross the room. Long enough for his nerves to pique, which was no doubt the intention.

  Himmler had demanded a report as soon as he returned to Wewelsburg. He did not look up as Nachten approached his desk, though he must have heard the man’s boots ringing on the stone floor. Another technique for putting people at their unease.

  Eventually, the Reichsfuhrer-SS glanced up. He switched on a thin smile that did not reach much further than his thin lips. ‘You have made progress?’

  Nachten clicked his heels and gave a formal nod. ‘The research progresses, sir.’

  Himmler leaned back, pressing the tips of his fingers together. ‘I am pleased to hear it.’

  ‘It seems the axe in the United States was indeed stolen. We did wonder if it was a ploy by the Allies to mask the fact that they have it. But the story seems genuine.’

  ‘And have you traced the others?’

  ‘Not yet. Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman is following a lead on the second axe, the one linked to the Black Forest.’

  ‘What lead?’

  Nachten shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I’m afraid I do not know. He mentioned to Kruger that he had found a clue to its current whereabouts, and he left here a few days ago. He did not say where he was going.’

  Himmler considered. ‘Hoffman is clever and Hoffman is efficient. But he is also a cautious man. He will report as soon as he has something tangible to tell us. And what of your own researches? You suggested that the third axe might be connected to ancient Greek myths.’ Himmler leaned forward, his eyes glinting behind his spectacles. ‘But, of course, Greece is a large country.’

  ‘I am narrowing down the possibilities. I do have a theory…’ His voice tailed away. Perhaps Hoffman was wise not giving away how much he had actually discovered.

  But Nachten was not to be given the chance to keep his idea to himself. Himmler’s smile was still fixed in place. ‘And would you care to elaborate on that theory?’

  ‘It is, you understand, only a theory. But the axe is important in particular to Minoan society. The Minoans lived in ancient—’

  ‘Crete. I know.’ The smile seemed more genuine now. ‘The birthplace of civilisation, older even than the Greeks. According to Sir Arthur Evans, anyway. Yes … Yes,’ Himmler decided. ‘Crete is most certainly a possibility. Perhaps you should go there.’

  ‘Perhaps, Herr Reichsfuhrer.’ As soon as he said it, he realised his mistake. ‘Of course,’ he went on quickly. ‘An excellent suggestion. I shall make arrangements immediately.’

  As soon as he was out of the huge office, Nachten wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and took a deep breath. So he was going to Crete. Well, he consoled himself, Himmler was probably right, he could continue his researches more easily there than stuck here in the castle. It would be useful to talk to Hoffman before he left, but he had no idea when the man would be back.

  There might be some clue in Hoffman’s room as to where he had gone, Nachten thought. Of course it was hardly ethical to enter the man’s quarters uninvited. But he should leave Hoffman a note, telling him of these latest developments and asking him to get in touch as soon as possible so they could compare their progress.

  Hoffman’s room was as impersonal and tidy as Nachten had expected. There were several books piled up on the side of a small desk. A notebook and pen. Little else, apart from the soap and towel by the washstand, to suggest the room was even inhabited.

  Nachten picked up the pen and opened the notebook, riffling through to find a blank page. There were notes and sketches of the axe-head and its runic symbols. What Nachten could decipher was hardly useful. Mainly questions, but if Hoffman had discovered the answers he had not committed them to paper.

  The last used page was a diagram or drawing. A complicated matrix of spiralling lines inside a circular boundary. Nachten turned past it, and wrote a brief note to Hoffman. When he was finished, he tore out the page and placed it prominently in the centre of the desk. Before replacing the notebook, he turned back a page to the circular diagram.

  There was something about it that seemed vaguely familiar. He traced his finger along the lines as he thought. ‘Of course,’ he murmured as he realised what he was looking at. ‘I was right. It has to be Crete.’

  He tore the page from the notebook, folded it carefully, and put it in his jacket pocket.

  * * *

  There was a truck parked on a narrow track at the bottom of the hill. Guy and Brinkman were pushed roughly in front of it, so that the headlights dazzled them.

  ‘Your papers,’ one of the soldiers demanded in German.

  Guy and Brinkman both feigned ignorance, shrugging.

  ‘Papers,’ the soldier said again, this time in passable, but accented Greek.

  It seemed best for the moment to pretend they just didn’t understand what was happening. It looked to Guy as if they’d been spotted on the skyline by a passing patrol – rotten luck that meant their mission was probably over before they’d even begun. If they were lucky they were off to rot in some POW camp for the duration. If not, they were off to rot in a shallow grave.

  Confident that their prisoners didn’t understand them, the soldiers debated what to do.

  ‘Just shoot the idiots and be done with it,’ one of them suggested.

  Guy and Brinkman exchanged glances. Guy tensed, ready to run if he had to. There wasn’t much chance either of them would get far, but that was better than just standing and waiting for the bullet.

  ‘No,’ the corporal in charge decided. ‘We’ll take them back to headquarters, and let someone else decide what to do. Then at least it’s not our fault.’

  Resigned to a long, arduous and most likely painful interrogation, Guy and Brinkman followed the mimed instructions to climb into the back of the truck. But before they reached the tailgate, there was a shout from further down the track. The Germans turned, weapons raised, as another figure appeared out of the gloom of the evening.

 
It was a tall man with wild, dark hair and several days of stubble. He was dressed like Guy and Brinkman in a crudely-stitched sheepskin jacket and shapeless trousers.

  ‘Thank God you found them,’ he exclaimed in Greek. Without further explanation he enfolded first Brinkman and then Guy in an enormous bear-hug.

  ‘Stand back,’ the German who spoke some Greek ordered. ‘These men have no papers. We are taking them to headquarters.’

  ‘No papers?’ the Greek was outraged. ‘Look at them – they’re wet through. Half drowned. Who worries about their papers at times like this? But they don’t need papers. They’re Dimitry’s cousins.’ His eyes widened in sudden anxiety. ‘But – where is Dimitry? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said, doing his best to match the man’s rural accent. ‘The storm – Dimitry was swept overboard when the boat hit the rocks. We were both lucky to escape with our lives, though of course we lost our papers. We managed to climb the cliff, and then the soldiers found us.’

  ‘And thank heavens they did.’ The Greek grabbed the nearest German’s hand and shook it. He hugged another, tears in his eyes. ‘You have saved them. Poor, poor Dimitry. But at least his cousins are safe.’

  ‘Dimitry the fisherman?’ the Greek-speaking soldier asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had cousins.’

  ‘Everyone has cousins.’

  ‘We help with the fishing sometimes,’ Guy explained.

  ‘You know Dimitry?’ the Greek demanded. ‘Because if you do, perhaps you can tell his wife what has happened? While I get these two into the dry and warm before the rain starts again.’

  ‘Not me,’ the German said quickly. ‘I only knew him by sight. Better that it comes from a friend.’ He glanced at Guy. ‘Or a relative.’

  The Greek sighed and nodded. ‘I’m sure you are right. Thank you again. I’ll make sure they apply for replacement papers as soon as they have recovered from their ordeal.’

  The German nodded. ‘See that you do. Or they really will be in trouble.’ He turned to Guy and Brinkman. ‘This is your last warning.’

  ‘Yes,’ Guy muttered. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Brinkman made a vaguely appreciative sound.

  As the lights of the truck disappeared into the distance, the Greek man started to laugh.

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Brinkman told him. ‘Though your dress sense has improved.’

  The man gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Nor have you, old man,’ he replied in English. His voice was surprisingly cultured – a contrast to the rural Greek accent he had adopted earlier.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Guy said. ‘How did you know we’d be here?’

  ‘I was watching for Dimitry’s boat from the cliffs further along, by the cove. So I saw what happened, and came as fast as I could.’ The man reached out to shake Guy’s hand. ‘Call me Mihali,’ he said.

  * * *

  They slept in a barn. It was cool but dry, if rather draughty. ‘Mihali’ had a stack of blankets ready for them as well as a couple of buckets of clean water for them to wash in. A pot of stew was bubbling on a small fire just outside the barn.

  ‘Mutton,’ he told them. ‘Well, I am a shepherd. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something hot. There’s no tea, I’m afraid.’

  He told them he had seen what had happened to Dimitry, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘Will you tell his wife?’ Brinkman asked. ‘Do you want us to come with you?’

  Mihali waved his hand. ‘Dimitry wasn’t married. No relatives. Not even cousins,’ he added with a sad smile. ‘But his friends will miss him.’

  Guy slept well despite the conditions. He was completely worn out by the day’s exertions. His sleep was deep and mostly dreamless. When he did dream, it was a confused version of his usual nightmare of struggling through the water at Dunkirk. But now Brinkman was with him, and Dimitry’s lifeless body floated past – the man’s cold, dead eyes staring up at the smoky sky.

  Breakfast was water and hunks of coarse bread and hard cheese. Mihali laid a map out on top of a bale of straw. He showed them where the barn was in relation to the area they wanted to explore.

  ‘It’s not too far. Dimitry deliberately chose the cove because it’s the closest we could safely get you.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Safely…’

  ‘How long will it take to get there?’ Brinkman wondered.

  ‘Three hours if we take it fairly swiftly, I’d say. It’s not that far, but the terrain is quite rough. And we’ll need to take a bit of a roundabout route to avoid any patrols. Especially as you have no papers.’

  ‘Will that be a problem?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Probably not. I think they only asked you for them last night because they were bored and thought you might be British spies sneaking ashore.’

  Guy smiled. ‘As if.’

  ‘Well, quite.’ Mihali folded up the map and stuffed it into a backpack. ‘If we start now, we can be there in time for a picnic lunch.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ Brinkman said.

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ Mihali told him. ‘It’s the rest of the bread and cheese.’

  * * *

  The weather was a complete contrast to the day before. The only clouds were pale wisps against the deep blue of the sky. It was already getting mercilessly hot as they set off. Mihali suggested they take their coats, stuffed into backpacks, as it would get cold in the evening and as they again approached the sea.

  The landscape was rugged. It seemed to be composed entirely of hills covered with coarse grass and punctuated by outcrops of jagged rock. To Mihali the journey appeared to be a casual stroll. When Guy and Brinkman rested, Mihali stood impatiently, ready to get moving again almost immediately.

  ‘I don’t really know this area,’ he confessed as they approached their destination.

  Approaching the top of yet another hill, Guy could feel the sea breeze, and fancied he could hear the waves, though that might just be the wind. There was something else too, he realised as they got closer – metallic, industrial sounds, and voices. Brinkman had heard it too, and gestured for them to slow.

  ‘Wait here,’ Mihali said. ‘I’ll check ahead.’

  He ducked down as he reached the top of the hill, crawling the last few yards. After a moment he beckoned for them to follow. Guy and Brinkman crawled up to join him.

  Mihali had produced a pair of binoculars from his backpack and handed them to Brinkman. But Guy didn’t need them to see they were in trouble.

  On the other side of the hill, the ground sloped sharply down before levelling out. The sea was perhaps half a mile away, across the rocky plain below. Guy could see the vague outline of the axe-shaped indentation in the ground. But from this angle, he would never have noticed it if he had not seen the aerial photographs.

  That wasn’t the problem. The photographs had also shown what looked like a fuel depot close by. It had not been clear from the photographs just how close the depot was. The huge tanks of petrol and diesel were a good distance away, but a set of narrow pipelines ran across the plain to a jetty. They were laid right along the edge of the indented ground, curving round it. There was a huge ship at the jetty, either taking on fuel or delivering it.

  Surrounding the whole installation – pipeline, fuel tanks, and jetty – was a wire fence. It looked to be about ten feet high, maybe more. Guy didn’t need the binoculars to see that there were several guards patrolling the fence. And it was between them and where they needed to go.

  ‘Looks like we’ll be doing our archaeological investigations right under the nose of the Germans,’ Brinkman said.

  ‘I can arrange a distraction for a while,’ Mihali offered. ‘But you still need to get through that fence.’

  ‘Do you have spare weapons?’ Guy asked. ‘I don’t fancy going in there unarmed.’

  ‘For this sort of operation we’ll want quite a bit of equipment,’ Brinkman said.

  ‘I’ll ask SOE to send
us what we need,’ Mihali said. ‘I’m due to report in tonight. We don’t keep in close contact, because the Germans monitor the radio and if they pick us up they try to triangulate where we are. Not very healthy if they find out. But let’s make a Christmas list and I’ll ask Santa if he can deliver it all.’

  * * *

  To her surprise, Sarah had discovered from her father that J.D. Sumner still had the photographer’s camera from the night the man was killed. Sumner was happy to send it over, and it arrived on one of the ferry flights from Canada.

  Miss Manners made arrangements to deliver the camera directly to Blithe at RAF Medmenham. Sarah drove them down, and they waited in the corner of the room where Blithe and his colleagues worked while he supervised developing the film.

  June brought them black coffee, apologising that she had to get back to work. ‘We’re just getting pictures of the U-boat yards at Danzig. They used that new heavy bomber, the Lancaster, last night. We’re all rather keen to see what sort of damage they inflicted.’

  Blithe was back within an hour, clutching a handful of prints still wet with fluid. He laid the prints out one by one out on the table.

  ‘Most, as you can see, are just shots of people partying like there’s no tomorrow. Which, of course, is always possible these days.’

  He put down a shot of a man and a much younger woman holding wine glasses and laughing. It was an informal shot, catching them unawares.

  ‘I rather like this one,’ Blithe said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘He’s my father,’ Sarah told him. ‘And if we seem to be having fun, we didn’t know the man who took these photographs would be dead within the hour.’

  Blithe’s smile faded. ‘I didn’t realise that, I’m sorry.’

  The next photograph was more posed – two couples, facing the camera, smiles fixed and practised.