Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  ‘It just struck me that we don’t know what we’ll find in Russia. But run into an Ubermensch, and this might just convince it I’m on its side. At least for a while. Call it insurance.’

  Guy nodded. That made sense. ‘Just so long as I’m covered as well.’

  ‘I’d offer to help,’ Leo said, looking over the papers spread out across Elizabeth’s desk, ‘but sadly we have to be going.’

  ‘That’s all right. Penelope Manners said she’d spend the afternoon here with me. She’s a bit more tidy and a lot more responsible than you are, Leo.’

  ‘And rather more clued up about all things pertaining to the occult,’ Leo agreed.

  ‘Why not ask her if her friend Jane can help too?’ Guy said. ‘Sarah says the woman’s at a loose end, a bit withdrawn. Doing something useful might help.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘I’ll suggest it. Now be on your way, you two. I don’t want you missing your plane and blaming me.’

  * * *

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be OK?’ Sarah asked, pulling on her coat. She had to hurry to make it to the plane.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m feeling a lot better,’ Jane told her. ‘Really I am. Tell Penelope I’m looking forward to seeing her this evening.’

  With Sarah away, Miss Manners had asked Jane to join her for supper.

  ‘Make yourself at home while I’m away. You’re welcome to whatever food you can find, but I’m afraid there’s precious little. And I’ve no idea when I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Jane promised. ‘And thank you.’

  Jane watched the door close behind Sarah. Her left hand went unconsciously to her right upper arm, just above the elbow. She could feel the heavy bracelet through the material of her jacket, hidden beneath the sleeve. She waited for several minutes, then she started in Sarah’s bedroom.

  She emptied each drawer carefully, replacing the contents exactly as they had been once she had looked through them. Once she had searched the drawer thoroughly for any clue as to how much Sarah and her colleagues knew about the Vril, or where the axe-head might be.

  * * *

  Hoffman had long since lost track of time. But it was the evening of 6 September when it found him.

  He was working his way through a maze of buildings. They were little more than burned-out shells. The upper floors had collapsed into the basements, leaving the remains of joists and beams like broken ribs above him. There was machine-gun fire from somewhere nearby, the solid crump of explosions from further off.

  The axe-head was heavy in his coat pocket as he moved through the buildings – a constant reminder of who he was. He had found no trace of Alina, but she was still uppermost in his thoughts as he searched through the city. Soon he would head for the square and see if the Englishman had arrived yet. It would take him time to get here – if he ever came. But perhaps, just perhaps it might be today.

  He didn’t tire easily, but he stopped to get his bearings, staring out through a shattered hole that used to be a doorway, working out the best route to the Square of Fallen Heroes. He heard they’d renamed it Red Square. He hoped that wasn’t true. The fallen heroes of Russia deserved better than that.

  A moment longer and he would have been too late. But he turned just as the darkness leaped at him. A black shape coalesced out of the shadows, leaping towards him. Gnarled limbs extended, claws snapping at their ends. A single eye staring hungrily at him. If Hoffman could die, then this was what could kill him. It knew what he was, and what he had.

  He lashed out with his arm, out of pure instinct. The sharp spikes down the creature’s leg ripped through the sleeve of his heavy coat, but his fist connected with its bloated body and knocked it aside. It landed amongst the dust and rubble, squatting, pulsing, staring back at him, tensing on its limbs ready to leap at him again.

  Hoffman grabbed a length of broken, charred wood, maybe a broken floorboard, dragging it out of the rubble. The creature was on him before he could swing it, clamped to his shoulder, its eye staring into his own. A cold, twisted leg clawed and tore at the small rucksack on his back. He dropped the length of wood and dug his fingers into the creature’s body, feeling it squelch and squirm as he struggled to tear it away.

  It shrieked and squealed as he somehow managed to break its grip. He heard his coat tearing, felt the burning of it lacerating his flesh as he finally dragged the creature off his shoulder and hurled it away.

  The creature smacked wetly to the ground, rolling and skidding, legs flexing and skittering as it righted itself. But before it could come at him again, Hoffman had grabbed the wooden strut and slammed it down, sharp end first, like a stake into a vampire’s heart.

  Its whole body seemed to compress. Then the wood pierced the bulbous, gelatinous flesh, rupturing the creature’s body. Dark, viscous liquid squirted out. It shrieked louder, legs drumming desperately on the ground. The eye stared up angrily at Hoffman. As he watched, it clouded over, becoming as dark as the deflated body. The legs stuttered to a halt.

  He pulled out the makeshift stake. The creature spasmed once, then seemed to contract, the legs drawn in, curling up like the husk of a dead spider.

  Hoffman kicked it out of sight, into a gap in the rubble, tossing the wooden strut after it. He stood for a moment, catching his breath. Then he crouched down and shrugged off the rucksack. He took out the teacup and the pieces of paper, looking for a flat area to spread them out. It was close enough to the right time and this was as good a place as any.

  The girl watched from the other side of the building. He saw her as he laid out the paper, weighing each piece down with a stone to stop it blowing away. She realised he had seen her, but she didn’t run.

  ‘You can help me if you like,’ he called.

  Warily, she edged out from the shadows and he saw she was only about nine years old. Maybe less. Her hair had been blonde but was now lank and greasy, and her eyes were incredibly dark.

  ‘You want some company?’ he asked. ‘I like company. It’s no fun being alone, especially here.’

  She edged closer, to see what he was doing as he set down the upturned teacup in the middle of the circle of letters. He leaned forward and put his finger on top of the cup, ready to move it. She still said nothing. Maybe she was too traumatised to speak – that wouldn’t be surprising.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said quietly. ‘I only hurt men with guns.’

  Her face cracked into a half smile. She sat down next to Hoffman, and reached out to put her own finger on the top of the cup next to his.

  CHAPTER 34

  The previous year, the Germans had got to within sixty miles of Moscow. But Russian reinforcements brought in to defend the city drove the enemy back. There was still danger, but the Germans were over 150 miles away, and increasingly preoccupied with the battle for Stalingrad.

  ‘Not the place I’d choose for my holidays,’ Paul Tustrum told Guy and Leo.

  Tustrum was the man Chivers had told Guy to contact. He was a veteran of the diplomatic service, in his mid fifties but fit and healthy with a full head of greying hair and an impressive moustache.

  Sarah was with them, sitting in Tustrum’s office at the British Embassy. He had arranged for her letter to be delivered to the Kremlin – though he made it clear he had no control over what happened to it once there. He had also provided Sarah with a small room on the residential floor in the Embassy building. As Tustrum apologetically pointed out, it was hardly the Ritz, but there was a bed, a small wardrobe, and access to a shared bathroom. Guy and Leo got to share a room on the same floor for their single night’s stay.

  Warned of their arrival, Tustrum had already investigated how best to get to Stalingrad. ‘You’ll have to loop round behind the city,’ he explained. ‘Stalingrad’s south-east of us here, and the only way in is from the east, across the river Volga. The Germans control everything on this side.’

  ‘I hope we don’t need to swim across,’ Guy said.

  ‘I hope so too,’ Tustru
m said. He smiled. ‘No, they resupply the city across the river. So long as the Red Army controls the landing stages in the city side, they can keep ferrying in men and munitions. Food too, though they seem less worried about that.’

  ‘Are there still civilians there?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Fewer every day, of course. Stalin could have evacuated them, but he reckons the soldiers will fight harder if they’re defending real people. Plus he had them digging defences and setting up barricades right up until Jerry arrived. Then the Luftwaffe bombed the hell out of the place and created far more effective barricades of their own. We’ll fly you down tomorrow morning on a freight plane and you can catch a ride across the river on an ammunition box or something.’ His smile widened. ‘Nothing safer.’

  ‘Sounds delightful,’ Leo told him. ‘So, do we get to have dinner with Uncle Joe before we leave?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ Tustrum said. ‘Between you and me, you’re safer on that ammunition box.’

  ‘Not a pleasant character?’ Guy asked. That was certainly received opinion about Stalin.

  ‘This is a man who entertains himself by listening to records of dogs barking,’ Tustrum said. ‘And right now he’s pretty hacked off with us. The Arctic convoys have been suspended, though he sort of understands why. He’s happy that the Yanks have agreed the “Germany First” policy rather than concentrating their attention on the Far East and Japan. But he’s impatient. He thinks we should be invading mainland Europe in the next few months and certainly by the summer of next year, rather than pissing about in Northern Africa and making noises about Italy.’

  ‘I guess he wants the pressure taken off,’ Sarah said.

  ‘He certainly does. They’re suffering huge losses – the enemy too, I’m happy to say. But if casualties in Europe are in the thousands, here they’re in hundreds of thousands. Millions even. And the very worst of it, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear, is in Stalingrad.’

  ‘I hope we won’t be staying long,’ Leo said. ‘So, any good news for us?’

  ‘I’ve got you a street map, as requested,’ Tustrum said. ‘But I doubt it’ll bear much relation to what you actually find when you get there.’

  * * *

  Sarah went with Tustrum to see Guy and Leo off on their plane. It was early in the morning and she had hardly slept. Her bed was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. She almost dozed off in the car back to the Embassy. She had already decided to return to her room on the pretext of working and try to catch up on her sleep.

  Tustrum dropped Sarah at the front of the building and then went on to park the car. As she entered the foyer, the woman on the front desk called Sarah over.

  ‘Miss Diamond?’

  ‘That’s right. Is there a message?’ Could Vasilov have got back to her already? Elizabeth’s letter of introduction had only been delivered the previous afternoon.

  ‘Not exactly, miss. Someone to see you.’ The woman nodded to a young woman sitting in the waiting area nearby.

  She was in her early twenties with dark hair and narrow features. She looked pale and undernourished, but there was a hint of fire in her eyes as she came over.

  ‘Sarah?’ she asked in a heavily accented voice. She sounded nervous, glancing round as she spoke.

  Sarah nodded. ‘That’s me. Who are you?’

  ‘Sarah,’ the woman repeated, heading back to the empty waiting area, obviously intending Sarah to follow her.

  ‘What is it you want?’ Sarah asked.

  The woman sat down and gestured for Sarah to sit opposite. She said something in Russian – a question.

  ‘If you’re asking if I understand you, then no, I don’t.’ She shook her head emphatically to make the point.

  The woman frowned. Then she pointed at herself. ‘Larisa.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s your name,’ Sarah said. ‘And that this could be a long conversation.’

  But the conversation, such as it was, had finished. Larisa handed Sarah a folded piece of paper. She watched as Sarah opened it and read the brief note inside.

  I have received the letter of Elizabeth Archer. Forgive me for not coming to you in person but my absence would be noted. Our meeting should not be noticed if I am to help you as Elizabeth asks.

  Please meet Larisa tonight at 9. She will wait for you in the narrow street opposite the Embassy. She will bring you to me.

  I hope you will have news of Elizabeth and that she is in good health. Also George, to whom I owe my life and more.

  * * *

  It was signed ‘Feyodor Vasilov’.

  Sarah refolded the piece of paper. She had no idea who George was, but she would worry about that when she saw Vasilov later.

  Larisa was watching Sarah as she read the letter, waiting for her response. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Sarah?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘I’ll be there,’ she said.

  In response, Larisa stood up. When Sarah stood up too, the young woman offered her hand. There was the first hint of a smile on her face as they shook hands.

  * * *

  She ate as little as Hoffman did, and she never spoke. But she evidently understood what he said to her. They evolved their own way of dealing with the Germans. Meeting the little girl had impressed upon him more than anything the horror and the injustice of what the Germans were doing to the city. To Alina’s city – his city.

  Every day he checked the square. Every evening he and the girl found a secluded place to hold their séance and send the message again. And every day they sought out enemy soldiers to kill.

  They weren’t the only ones of course. The conflict had moved to a new phase and General Chuikov was sending many more snipers out into the city. They waited on rooftops and in shattered buildings, picking off the enemy. The constant fear and demoralising uncertainty their presence instilled was far more effective than their firepower.

  Hoffman and the girl were more opportunistic. Whereas a sniper set up his – or her – position and waited for a target to present itself, Hoffman simply killed any of the enemy he came across. The girl – small and agile – provided a distraction. Hoffman approached and killed. Occasionally he was wounded, but the girl seemed to take it for granted that he was indestructible.

  ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ he explained in answer to her curious glance as they watched the square over the top of a broken wall. ‘I’m not sure he will come, but I think he will. I hope he will.’

  She leaned her chin on her hands and watched with him as the sun dipped down.

  ‘It’s the same friend as we send the messages to. I have something for him.’

  She looked up at this, head tilted, questioning.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s well hidden. Only I know where it is.’

  She nodded thoughtfully, and returned her attention to the square. Hoffman put his hand on her shoulder – she was so small, so fragile-looking and yet so resilient. He wondered what had happened to her that was so awful she couldn’t bear to speak of it. Or anything else.

  ‘I did carry it with me,’ he explained. She seemed to like to hear his voice, maybe because she had been robbed of her own. ‘But there are others who want it. I don’t want them to get it. One of them found me. I had to kill … him. But if I hadn’t, they would have got it, the thing I have hidden. I want my friend to have it. But better that it stays buried for ever here in the rubble than they get it.’

  She heard them before he did. He had been too busy talking, and hadn’t checked over his shoulder. The girl turned abruptly, eyes widening.

  Hoffman turned just in time to dodge the rifle butt that slammed into the wall beside his head. He grabbed the gun and wrenched it away from the German soldier. Ammunition was valuable. If the Germans could kill without wasting a bullet, that was preferable. And there was the danger of someone hearing the shot.

  The second soldier grabbed the girl, dragging her back, laughing. Hoffman couldn’t let them take her, couldn’t lose her. He had no qualms about wa
sting another man’s bullet, didn’t care who heard. He turned the rifle and fired in one movement. The soldier beside him was slammed backwards, feet skidding from under him on the uneven ground.

  Hoffman stepped over the body, ignored the foaming blood, the rasping curses, the hand that clawed at his ankle as he passed. Focused entirely on the second soldier as the man produced a pistol and pressed it to the girl’s temple. Hoffman shouldered the rifle, but he didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting the girl. The soldier swung the pistol, aiming it at Hoffman, grinning as he pulled the trigger. Hoffman didn’t move. He smiled back.

  The moment the shot rang out, Hoffman ran towards it. The bullet ripped into his shoulder, knocking him off his stride. He stumbled slightly, but kept running. The soldier was about to fire again, but the girl ducked out from under his arm, grabbing his wrist and wrenching it sideways so the shot went wide. Somehow she tripped the man, knocking him to the ground. As he fell, she twisted the gun from his hand.

  He landed on his back, staring up at them, his face now a mask of disbelief and fear. He had underestimated what a child could do in order to survive. The girl looked up at Hoffman. She held out her hands, offering him the pistol. He shook his head.

  ‘It’s all right. You can do it.’

  The shot echoed off the shattered walls. The girl took his hand and together the two survivors walked away through the rubble.

  CHAPTER 35

  She took the Underground to Holborn and walked the few hundred yards from there to the British Museum. Miss Manners had told her to come to the main entrance. Miss Manners did not tell Jane the details of where they were going as she led her friend down into the vault beneath the building. There was no need for her to know anything more than she was helping with some research into an ancient artefact held by the Museum.

  If Jane was surprised to be taken into such an enormous subterranean storage area, filled with crates, boxes, display cabinets and bookshelves all packed with artefacts and manuscripts, she gave no sign of it. Miss Manners was happy for her to believe this was a typical storage area for the Museum, although in fact it was nothing of the sort.