Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  ‘The Kremlin is like a city,’ Vasilov told her. ‘Built for the whole population of Moscow to retreat into and take shelter if necessary.’

  Finally they reached another stairway, this one made of iron, spiralling down into the cellarage. At the bottom was a large iron gate, secured with a heavy padlock. As Larisa opened it, Vasilov explained they were below the Arsenal Tower.

  ‘There are many tunnels beneath the Kremlin, and several converge below this tower. There are underground rivers too, all manner of secret ways. Most of them have been blocked off now, for security reasons.’

  The other side of the gate was a wide, low passage. There was no light here, so they turned on the torches. Larisa and Vasilov concentrated their beams on a large flagstone a short way along the passage. Under the old man’s instructions, Sarah helped Larisa slide the flagstone to one side, revealing a dark cavity below.

  ‘Down there?’ she said.

  ‘There is more room than there seems.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I shall go first.’

  In fact, there were steps down, leading into another tunnel. But the opening was narrow, and Sarah felt the gun tucked into her waistband catch on the edge as she climbed down. She paused for a moment at the bottom to reposition it. The walls, floor, and arched roof were lined with white stone that almost glowed under the glare of the torch beams.

  ‘There are other ways in,’ Vasilov said as he led the way down the tunnel. ‘But this way is unguarded. Even Stalin does not know it exists.’

  ‘We’re avoiding the guards?’

  ‘The less they know the better,’ Vasilov said.

  Larisa caught her grandfather’s arm, speaking rapidly and urgently to him. The old man frowned and glanced back at Sarah before answering.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Larisa is worried that there may be guards at the Archive. But I have assured her this is unlikely. They guard the entranceways, the other access tunnels, but not the Archive itself.’

  ‘The Archive? Like Elizabeth’s department at the British Museum?’

  ‘It was a library originally,’ Vasilov explained as he led the way along the tunnel.

  The air was damp and close. Somewhere Sarah could hear water dripping.

  ‘Don’t the books get damp?’

  ‘The Archive itself is dry enough. But you are right, it is a worry, especially as the books are so old. They come from Constantinople.’ He glanced back at Sarah, who shrugged.

  ‘Sorry, ancient history isn’t really my thing.’

  ‘The city fell in 1453,’ Vasilov explained. ‘The library was said to be unsurpassed. But the only books that survived were taken by the Emperor’s niece Sofia, and brought here to Moscow.’

  ‘Why Moscow?’ Sarah wondered.

  ‘She married a Russian prince. Her grandson was cruel and sadistic, but also learned and well read. He added to the library, and kept it hidden and secret. He created these tunnels by diverting underground rivers. Anyone who knew of the library’s location was put to death.’

  ‘That seems a bit extreme,’ Sarah said.

  ‘They did not call him Ivan the Terrible for nothing.’

  They walked on in silence for a while.

  ‘For many years the library was lost,’ Vasilov said. ‘Most people think it still is, if it ever really existed. But we maintain it, and we have added to it, as you shall soon see.’

  The tunnel ended in two enormous metal doors. Vasilov produced a large key, which he handed to Larisa, who unlocked one of the doors. It swung open easily. Vasilov went inside first. Sarah saw him reaching for a switch on the side wall, and a light came on overhead.

  The chamber it illuminated had been made by blocking off a section of the tunnel. It extended into the distance, fading into darkness and shadow. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with metal strong boxes. The floor was a maze of wooden crates and packing cases. Sarah could see an immediate and obvious similarity with the vault beneath the British Museum, although this was on a smaller scale. And unlike the Museum vault, everything here seemed to be packed away, nothing left out on display. She guessed this was to protect the artefacts, books and papers from the damp, as Vasilov had said.

  Larisa pushed past Sarah, heading for one of the nearest crates. She murmured something to Vasilov as she passed, and he nodded grimly.

  ‘This is impressive,’ Sarah said.

  ‘And now that you are here,’ Vasilov said, his voice suddenly harsh and angry, ‘now that we have brought you where you wanted to come, I think you should tell us who you really are and what you want here.’

  ‘You know who I am,’ Sarah said, surprised at his sudden change of tone.

  ‘We know nothing about you, except what was in the letter that is supposed to come from Elizabeth Archer.’

  ‘It does,’ Sarah protested. ‘She gave it to me herself. She’s a friend, or at least a colleague.’

  Vasilov was shaking his head. Larisa reached into a crate and pulled out a revolver. She trained it on Sarah, gesturing for her to put her hands up.

  ‘You claim Elizabeth sent you,’ Vasilov went on. ‘Yet you do not know George. And you have a gun. Don’t deny it, Larisa saw you reach for it earlier.’

  ‘I wasn’t reaching for it,’ Sarah protested. ‘Look, let’s just talk about this, can we?’

  Larisa was right in front of her now. The gun held steady, aiming at Sarah’s chest.

  ‘Take off your coat,’ Vasilov ordered. ‘Carefully. Slowly.’

  Sarah did as he said, dropping her coat over the nearest crate. The old man reached behind her and removed the small handgun Tustrum had given her. He put the gun down on top of a nearby crate.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Tell us the truth, or Larisa will shoot you.’

  But Sarah barely heard. She was staring past the young woman, into the darkness beyond, watching as a patch of shadow coalesced into a shape. Long, crooked limbs reached out over the top of a crate. A bloated, glistening mass hauled itself up, crouching behind Larisa’s shoulder.

  ‘Tell us,’ Vasilov demanded. ‘Now!’

  Larisa braced herself, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands ready to fire.

  Close behind her, the hideous creature shivered and tensed as it prepared to launch itself at the woman.

  CHAPTER 37

  They crossed under cover of darkness. There was a near-constant stream of boats ferrying men and equipment across the Volga to the wooden landing stages on the other side of the river. As they approached, Guy’s senses were assaulted by the city: the constant noise of gunfire and explosions; the flashes of light and guttering flames; the smell of cordite, smoke, decay, and death.

  ‘I have to confess I’ve never been in a real battle before,’ Davenport said.

  ‘This isn’t like any battle I’ve been in,’ Guy told him.

  They were wearing Russian army uniforms, armed with pistols rather than rifles. Neither of them intended to kill anyone at long range, and up close if they needed to defend themselves a pistol was likely to prove more useful and effective.

  An officer they knew only as Malinov was responsible for getting them across the river and into the city. He shook hands with them in the shadow of the embankment. Several trucks were lined up under cover of the high bank, huge sets of rocket launchers arranged on a framework on the back of each, ready to fire.

  ‘Katyusha,’ Malinov explained. ‘We reverse them back, fire the rockets over the bank at the German positions, then drive forward under cover again before the rockets have even hit.’

  ‘That’s a lot of firepower,’ Guy said. ‘But why the name?’ Katyusha was a form of Katya, equivalent to Katherine in English.

  ‘Katyusha is a girl in a traditional story, who waits for her lover to return from the war.’ He shrugged. ‘I believe the Germans call them “Stalin’s Organ” because of the arrangement of the pipes and the God-awful noise it makes when it fires.’

  Davenport laughed when Guy translated. ‘Well,’ Davenport
said, ‘I guess it rather emphasises the differences between the two peoples, doesn’t it? The Germans with their prosaic bombast and the Russians with their romantic notions of pining lovers.’

  Guy told Malinov what Leo had said, and the Russian grinned. ‘They don’t like the music we play on them, that’s for sure. Now, I have work to do. Maybe I’ll see you on your way back. If you come back,’ he added. ‘I have to tell you that most people don’t.’

  He pointed them in the rough direction of the Square of Fallen Heroes, then returned to supervise the unloading.

  Negotiating the ruined streets took longer than Guy would have imagined. As far as possible they kept to the darkest areas, cutting through the empty shells of half-demolished buildings. It was hard to imagine that anyone still lived in here, but occasionally they caught sight of other shadows flitting through the darkness – Russian soldiers, or civilians struggling to survive?

  ‘Abandon hope,’ Davenport muttered at one point. ‘Dante had it easy compared to the people here.’

  * * *

  The Vril moved fast. It launched itself from the crate at Larisa. But Sarah was faster. She dived towards the young woman. Larisa fired. The shot grazed past Sarah and ricocheted off the metal door behind her.

  Sarah’s shoulder collided with Larisa, knocking her backwards – out of the way of the Vril. The creature landed on the floor nearby. Vasilov cried out in surprise and terror, backing away. He stumbled, falling to his knees, staring in incredulous horror.

  Larisa hadn’t seen the hideous shape that almost hit her. Her eyes were full of rage as she struggled to hold on to the gun. But Sarah’s training had kicked in, and she twisted the handgun easily out of Larisa’s grasp. She rolled away from the woman, landing on her back and bringing the gun up.

  The Vril was moving again – scuttling rapidly across the floor towards them. Larisa did see it now, and screamed. Her hands came up in front of her face as the grotesque shape leaped straight at her.

  The bullet stopped it in mid-air, knocking the creature sideways. Its ghastly, inhuman scream echoed round the chamber. A trail of dark, viscous liquid hung from its body as it landed awkwardly on the ground, smearing across the pale stone floor.

  Sarah fired again. Two shots in rapid succession hammered into the Vril’s bloated body. The first punctured it, sending out a spray of the dark liquid. The second ripped into the damaged body and out the other side, bursting it like a balloon full of brackish water. Larisa screamed again as the dark sludge spattered across her hands and body. Vasilov crawled across to her, speaking quickly but nervously.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Sarah said. But she turned slowly, checking every shadow for more of the creatures. She clicked her torch back on, holding it aligned with the gun, checking the furthest, darkest corners for any sign of movement.

  Nothing.

  ‘You asked me about the Vril,’ she said, putting the torch down and kneeling beside Vasilov and Larisa. ‘Well, now you know.’ She held the gun out to Larisa. ‘Yours, I think.’

  But Larisa shook her head, wiping her shaking hands on her coat. Sobbing quietly in her grandfather’s arms.

  ‘I know you don’t trust me,’ Sarah said. ‘And I guess I understand that. But everything I told you is true. That letter I sent you really is from Elizabeth Archer.’

  Vasilov was smoothing Larisa’s hair, still speaking gently and quietly to her.

  ‘I don’t know who George is,’ Sarah went on. ‘If he used to work with Elizabeth, then I’m sorry but I’ve never met him. There is someone who helps her. Keeps himself to himself. He’s quite old, but she calls him “Young Eddie” not George.’

  Vasilov looked up at that. ‘Young Eddie,’ he repeated. ‘He would not be so young now. But how can you not know George Archer? He is the Curator of the Department of Unclassified Artefacts.’

  And suddenly it made sense. ‘Elizabeth’s husband?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There was no easy way to tell the old man. ‘Elizabeth has never told me her husband’s name, or if she has mentioned it, I didn’t remember. But – Elizabeth is a widow now.’

  Vasilov looked up at her, a frown creasing his already wrinkled face. He wiped his hand across his eyes and murmured something in Russian.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said.

  ‘So am I,’ Vasilov said. ‘And grateful,’ he added. ‘For the life of my granddaughter.’

  They helped Larisa to her feet and she sat on one of the metal strong boxes, still breathing heavily. She seemed to notice the mess down the front of her coat for the first time, and quickly pulled it off, throwing it away from her.

  ‘That beast,’ Vasilov said. ‘The Vril. What did it want here?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I have no idea. I wasn’t expecting it.’

  ‘You said they live underground.’

  ‘But you’re right, it came here for a purpose. There must be something here that it was after.’

  Vasilov nodded slowly. ‘There are many things here that it might have wanted. One section in particular, stored away from the other artefacts. A section that holds especial interest for Comrade Stalin…’ He paused, letting out a long breath. ‘Yes, that would make sense of many things. I store the items, but I am forbidden from investigating them.’

  ‘What are these things?’

  ‘They were recovered from the same area, the same incident. Thirty-five years ago, it must be now.’

  ‘Can you show me?’

  Vasilov nodded. ‘Of course.’

  He turned to speak to Larisa. She looked pale, but her breathing was back to normal. She stood up, slightly shakily, and walked with them through the chamber.

  They needed their torches again as the back of the area receded into shadows. Sarah was listening keenly for any hint of sound, of movement. There was another set of metal doors. There was a grille above the doors, the bars too close together for anyone to get through. But wide enough for the Vril to have entered from, Sarah assumed, the tunnel beyond. But when Larisa unlocked these and swung them open, she revealed another chamber beyond.

  Lights flickered on, and Sarah saw that this chamber was smaller than the first. Again, it was filled with crates and metal boxes. The centre of the floor was covered with the shattered debris of a broken crate. Straw spilled out of the remains.

  ‘I think we can see what they came for,’ Sarah said.

  ‘And how they got in,’ Vasilov added.

  He nodded towards the side of the chamber. The distinctive white stone had been torn away, leaving a ragged dark hole.

  ‘They took something away with them,’ Sarah said. ‘Something that was inside that crate. But what? And why?’

  * * *

  It was surprising how quickly they got used to the constant background noise, the smell, the need to stay alert at every moment. When the first light of dawn filtered through the haze of dust and smoke, they found themselves in a surreal landscape. Brick chimney stacks stood as industrial sentinels as far as the eye could see, like petrified trees in a desolate winter forest. The ground was uneven, but layered with dust and ash rather than rubble.

  ‘Incendiaries,’ Davenport said. ‘I’ve seen similar in parts of London, but nothing on this scale. The air raids burn out the wooden buildings but leave anything brick or stone almost intact.’

  Beyond the forest of chimneys, they moved back into the shattered remnants of more robust structures. Several buildings they passed were obviously occupied by Russian troops. Guy saw them watching from windows, gun barrels poking out from upper storeys and field guns on the ground floor. With the arrival of a misty daylight, they became even more careful, hugging the shadows and avoiding open ground. They should be safe from the Russian snipers, but as they moved into areas that were not completely controlled by either side, there would be German snipers too. The bodies crawling with rats were a continual reminder that death was never far away.

  They hid on the upper floor of a buildi
ng, watching through a hole punched in the wall, as a group of Germans advanced across one area. Two of them carried flamethrowers, spraying liquid fire across walls and rubble. Guy knew that the fire would find the tiniest way through. If there was a sniper hiding the other side, the flames would find him. Or her.

  But the sniper was further away and higher up, judging by where the shot seemed to come from. One of the soldiers collapsed clutching his chest. The others scattered.

  ‘Didn’t kill him, though,’ Leo pointed out as the other soldiers dragged their comrade into cover.

  ‘Probably didn’t aim to,’ Guy said. ‘A badly wounded man can’t fight, but he ties up resources. Just getting him out of here will slow the others down and make them easier targets.’

  It was late afternoon before they found what they hoped was the Square of Fallen Heroes. It was still recognisable as a square, but the buildings on one side were all but gone and on the other three they were little more than burned-out husks. A tattered red flag fluttered in the breeze, hanging from a pole angled off a shattered balcony. It was the only colour in the whole grey landscape – the colour of blood.

  ‘No street signs, and no policeman to ask,’ Davenport complained. ‘But assuming this is the place, what do we do now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Guy confessed. ‘To be honest, I didn’t really think we’d get this far. I guess we have to hope that Hoffman will be looking out for us.’

  ‘Just so long as he hasn’t given up and gone home.’

  They gathered up enough wood to make a fire in the doorway of one of the buildings. Guy took a charred piece of wood from the fire and scraped a large letter ‘H’ on the wall behind the fire. With luck it would attract Hoffman’s attention. Of course, the fire was likely to attract the attention of anyone else in the area too. So they watched from another building fifty yards away.

  The fire was dying with the sunlight as evening drew in. There was no let-up in the sounds of the battle. If anything it had intensified in the last hour. The figure was so slight they almost missed her – a little girl picking her way round the edge of the square. She paused by the fire, perhaps looking at the ‘H’ on the wall, or perhaps just warming herself. She turned, looking round. Another figure, a man, joined her. He too turned and looked round. It was too dark to make out his features.