Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  Several burning torches laying on the stone floor flared brightly through his night-vision goggles, nearly blinding him, so he lifted them up onto his forehead and blinked rapidly to clear his sight. Arranged in a circle were about a dozen chairs, and he saw the corpse seated in one, its slumped posture giving it an obscene appearance. Dyatlov stepped forward for a closer look, and saw just how old it was, the bones and skull and ragged garments looking all dry and dusty.

  The room was small. In one wall, several feet above the surface of the floor, was a tiny square opening, like the mouth of a tunnel. Other than the old corpse the place was unoccupied, and Dyatlov was about to turn away and re-join his men when the sound of splashing water reached his ears, above the din of battle overhead.

  He turned back, and then noticed the circular pit in the floor, which he now saw was filling with water.

  Crouching forward for a better view, he was shocked to see a man chained up beneath the surface, kicking and grappling with his bonds, and by the looks of it, about to breathe his last gasp. He was further dismayed when he recognized the person.

  “Holy fucking Christ!” he blurted out.

  What the heck was Van Dijk doing here? And more to the point, was he too late to get him out?

  Dyatlov leaped down into the hole and rammed his hand into the water to grab the Inspector by the front of his jacket, then heaved upwards. Which was silly. The policeman wasn’t going anywhere tied up like this. So he looked around in desperation, his eyes quickly falling on the metal plate near his shoes. Slipping his finger through the ring, he again heaved upwards, and lifted the heavy plate clear, and the water immediately started to drain away, the level dropping quickly. Van Dijk’s face came clear as the pit emptied, and he was coughing and puking up water, and looking very blue as he inhaled huge mouthfuls of air.

  “This is no time to be having a bath Van Dijk. Stay there, I’ll find something to break those chains.” He grinned from ear to ear, looking like a madman no doubt.

  “I’m not going anywhere Dyatlov.”

  Racing out into the passage, the assault leader rooted about amidst the wreckage from the collapsed ceiling and came up with a short length of iron pipe. Rushing back through the doorway he used it to twist and turn at the manacles locked around Van Dijk’s wrists and ankles, eventually snapping them open. He helped the Inspector out of the pit. He stood there dripping wet, but at least he looked to have recovered his breathing and his strength.

  “You took your damn time getting here,” he said as he straightened up.

  “You should thank Adolf. He was the one who finally found out about them using this place.”

  Somewhere above them the firefight seemed to be intensifying, the building shaking again as more explosive blasts rumbled the walls.

  Pieter nodded at the ceiling. “How are we doing?”

  “It’s a fucking nightmare. This place is like a fucking maze.” As he answered, he flicked a switch and spoke into his comms mike. “Black Team, Red here. Give me a fucking update.”

  He listened to the response in his ear-piece, leaving Pieter waiting.

  “Ok, we’re clear down here… I think. Hold them at the top, we’ll link up.” He turned back to Pieter. “It’s a warzone up there, worse than yesterday. But it looks like we have the final few pinned down and cornered right at the top.” He reached into his body armour and pulled out a handgun, then offered it to Pieter, along with a couple of spare clips. “We could do with all the help we can get.”

  Pieter took the proffered weapon. Before they moved out he pointed at the tiny tunnel entrance behind them. “You might want to leave someone covering that. It’s a way in and out.”

  “Yes, I wondered about that. Whoever is in charge of this bunch, they were fucking well prepared.”

  Pieter grinned an unpleasant grin. “Oh I know who’s running the show. And they’re fucking mine.”

  “Be my guest. What about through the curtain down the corridor? What’s in there?”

  Pieter told him briefly, about the catacombs, and the crazy ceremony, and of course Officer Joos. This last bit made Dyatlov wince. He patted Pieter on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. The bastards aren’t getting away this time.”

  It soon became clear that Lotte’s deranged followers had no intention of trying to escape. Their fanaticism and total obedience was absolute, and they fought tooth and nail for every room and staircase, every landing and corridor and square foot of ground, regardless of the cost to them. Perhaps they had been pumped full of drugs or maybe they were just utterly brainwashed. Whatever the case, surrender was not an option for them. So it fell to Dyatlov and his men, with Pieter’s help, to prise them out and neutralize them one by one.

  In the large room containing Officer Joos’ butchered remains, hidden at the back of one of the archways, they quickly located another staircase, this one leading upwards. They followed it up, heading towards the sound of gunfire.

  Signs of fighting were everywhere, the wood-panelled walls and balustrade splintered with gunshot and grenade. On one landing they stepped over another masked corpse still gripping on to its assault rifle. A little further up, another body sitting slumped over, again dressed in those sinister dark robes. From the looks of it he had ripped away his wood-carved mask and taken his own life by placing a handgun into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

  Smoke was everywhere, catching in the back of Pieter’s throat, and his eyes watered from the tear gas, but he pushed on just behind Dyatlov.

  Over his comms suite Dyatlov was informed that the last of the holdouts were now contained on the upper landing. They reached the spot moments later, amid the fierce firefight taking place.

  One end of the hallway was occupied by members of Black and Red Team, the other by a handful of the enemy. Every now and then a robed gunman would pop out from a doorway and fire towards the police, and the police would respond in kind.

  Pieter hung back, realizing this was a job for the professionals, and he found himself wondering if Lotte was amongst the group still holding out. Most likely she was. He listened as Dyatlov issued a series of instructions to his men. Enough was enough, it was time to end this, he told them. At his command they would fill the far end of the hallway with as much gunfire as possible together with stun grenades, tear gas and concussion grenades. They would use maximum force. If they wanted to die like crazy fanatics, then they would grant them their wish.

  Pieter moved away and sheltered behind a nearby corner, hunkering down as much as possible, and braced himself.

  When it came the cacophony of noise was frightful. The sound of sustained machine-gun fire, accompanied by a series of violent explosions, ripped apart his world and sucked the air from his lungs. His ears rang like bells in a church tower, and the dust made him cough and splutter, and he lay flat on the floor, and prayed that the building would not split apart.

  Slowly a strange hush settled and Pieter pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his hair and face. He waited a moment, hoping it was over. Then he heard voices, a few muttered words and then a nervous laugh, and he relaxed.

  It was done.

  From further down the landing by the end wall, Bart watched him through the smoke.

  During the fighting, he’d sustained a nasty wound to his scalp, and his face was a mask of red blood. His clothes were torn, and his knuckles were raw from fighting with one of the policemen. He’d lost his gun at some stage and instead had scooped up one of the scythes somebody had dropped onto the floor. Now he stood there, still and silent, with the weapon in his hand and a fury bubbling deep inside, hating this man with a cold fury at what he’d done, the way this interfering fool had wrecked their plans, their years of careful preparations.

  They should have killed him weeks ago, months ago, just like Bart had said. It was too dangerous having a police officer, the main homicide detective investigating their crimes, so near to the heart of their plans. Yet Lotte had insisted, saying
she had everything worked out, that all of the pieces were slipping perfectly into place exactly as she had predicted. So he had gone along with it, trusting her judgement. Totally devoted to her as he was.

  Yet it had all fallen apart. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong. Perhaps his sister’s abilities in the dark arts were not as refined as she thought, in spite of the things he had seen her do, the wonderful feats she had performed.

  Maybe, just maybe, her feelings for the cop had been her undoing.

  Because of that everything was over, their schemes lay in ruins, with most of their followers dead.

  There was still time to put one thing right though. It would not alter the eventual outcome, but it would be a fitting way to exact revenge.

  Lifting the scythe and gripping it in both hands Bart charged at the cop, screaming his hatred.

  Pieter heard the heavy footsteps and then the loud yell, which shattered the stillness. He spun in alarm, and saw the huge figure racing towards him, instantly recognizing Bart, and then registering the wicked-looking blade of the scythe swinging straight towards his head.

  He pulled up his pistol and fired at nearly point-blank range, three rapid shots, all of them finding their target and thudding into Bart’s huge bulk. Bart stumbled slightly, then carried on running, the momentum of his charge propelling him forward, and Pieter’s fourth shot hit him in the throat, and this time he saw him stagger, and a look of shock was etched over the other man’s face as his strength gave way and he went crashing down to the floor, losing his grip on the scythe, which sliced straight through his chest as he landed on it, until the blade burst out of his back.

  Pieter jumped away and stared down at Bart.

  He watched him draw in two deep breaths, which sounded more like a wheezing death rattle, and turn his face to stare up at Pieter, his eyes twin holes of smouldering hate.

  Then with one last grunt his body sagged.

  Shortly after a heavy and cloying stench of burning drifted up the staircase, and within minutes the upper landing was filling with dense, black clouds of smoke. A hurried conversation took place between Dyatlov and his other team leaders, who were positioned at different locations throughout the huge building. News soon spread. There was a fire down in the catacombs, probably started accidentally during the gun and grenade battle, and it was spreading fast.

  So it was time to get out.

  Grabbing their dead and wounded, the various members of each assault team started to evacuate the building. Nobody bothered about removing the corpses of the robed and masked gunmen and gunwomen: they could burn in hell for all anybody cared. Anyway, speed was of the essence.

  On the way down Pieter came across Famke’s body.

  He’d lost track of her amidst all of the mayhem, and it was impossible to tell one masked person from another anyway. As it was, he only spotted her now by chance.

  He and other men from Dyatlov’s unit were hurrying down the stairs when they passed by a small room just off one short hallway, and Pieter just happened to glance into the doorway. He stopped dead and then doubled back, letting the others squeeze by, then he ducked inside.

  Her body lay with a group of three other corpses. The room was riddled with bullet holes and the floor covered with brass cartridge cases, and a heavy smell of cordite permeated the air. Their robes and skin had been torn and ripped in a grenade blast, but Famke’s face was untouched, and her eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. In her hand she held her mask, having removed it in her final moments.

  Pieter stood there, remembering her cruel words as she had gloated over killing his dad, and something sharp stabbed his heart, a mixture of pity, anger and betrayal. There was also a sense of guilt, which he knew was unjustifiable. Nevertheless, he wondered yet again if he had been stupid and naïve to fall for all of Famke’s and Lotte’s lies and deceptions.

  There would be time to answer these doubts later. Time to face up to and work through his anguish.

  He turned away and shut the door.

  Let them burn. Let them all burn.

  The fire consumed the whole building, and it soon became a raging inferno that lit up the city skyline for miles around.

  Out on the market square dozens of onlookers gathered to watch the famous landmark burn to the ground. All of Dyatlov’s men had been accounted for, all of their deceased and injured carried out, and those that could be saved were whisked away by ambulance. Fire crews arrived but it was deemed too dangerous for them to approach and tackle the blaze because of all of the unexploded ordnance still inside. Besides, it felt fitting just to leave it to burn itself out.

  Standing there with the others, Pieter watched the flames soar into the night sky, and his eyes followed the multitude of burning embers drift up towards the bright moon overhead.

  He thought about Lotte.

  Reduced to ashes with the rest.

  Pieter nodded silently to himself.

  CHAPTER 21

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  Leaving the small guest house, Pieter crossed over the main promenade road and started walking along the coastal path through the sand dunes.

  A stiff breeze blew in off the North Sea, and he stood at the top of one grassy hummock looking out at the waves rolling in to the shore. It was early, a little before seven in the morning, and the air had that early-autumn chill, but it looked set to be a crisp but cloudy day. The kind of day that blew away the cobwebs and invigorated him.

  He set off along the sandy beach.

  Back in the spring Pieter had been ordered to take a long sabbatical, by his bosses in the Amsterdam Police and also by his shrink. They’d told him he needed time to readjust, to touch base with life again, and all of that crap. What they’d really meant was that he should go away and let himself heal, and not to return until he was ready.

  So he had done as they suggested. He had escaped from the city for a while, and come here, to the pretty town of Katwijk aan Zee, to enjoy the sea air and admire the views, to soak up some healthy ozone amidst the quaint little houses with their red-tiled roofs and the fancy cobbled streets.

  He’d booked into a small guest house run by two middle-aged men and payed in cash on a week-by-week basis, and he had easily slipped into a new routine.

  Each morning he would rise early and go for a brisk walk along the beach or through the sand dunes, and then double back to the main coast road and circle back to the guest house, perhaps buying a daily newspaper along the way. Then he would enjoy breakfast – toast with marmalade followed by two hard-boiled-eggs – and then sit in one of the wicker chairs in the glass-roofed veranda and watch the world go by. After lunch, weather permitting, he might take an amble along to the yacht marina or maybe down to Katwijk Lighthouse where he would admire the views from the top, or if he fancied a longer hike he would set off southwards along the beach where the coast was quieter, and just keep walking and soaking up the peace and quiet of the open air. He would sit on the sand and eat the packed-lunch that the guest house owners would make up for him, and think a little, but mostly just watch the gulls swoop through the strong offshore winds. Then later in the afternoon, he would catch the bus back and watch a little TV in the lounge.

  He caught little bits of the news regarding events back in Amsterdam, but he tried not to immerse himself in the details too much. Suffice it to say that the city, the whole nation actually, was still coming to terms with events.

  The shock was wearing off and now people were asking serious questions about just what exactly had been going on. The police were typically tight-lipped, but mostly because they didn’t really know much themselves. They desperately tried to play down the more weird and bizarre aspects of the case, denying the rumours of an occult sect, which they described as hocus-pocus nonsense! Instead they stuck to the bare facts: that the murders had stopped, the killers were dead, the police force and public had paid a heavy price in the number of casualties, but the most important thing was that it was over.

  Bu
t what about the murderers? People asked. Just who were they?

  And that was part of the problem.

  Of all of the bodies removed from the burnt out shell that was The Waag, together with those killed during the attack at Schreierstoren Tower, which in total numbered around about forty dead, so far only a handful had been identified. Many had been burned beyond recognition, sure, but still, it was expected that through DNA and dental records they should have been able to ID the vast majority of them. But the simple fact was that very few of them were in the police database, either in The Netherlands or abroad. They were not in the system at all. They were known as clean skins, and finding out who exactly they were might prove impossible. They might never know who these murderous fanatics or their leaders were.

  It was one huge mess.

  Pieter was glad to be out of the loop.

  He arrived back at the guest house just after eight and went straight through to the breakfast area, where he enjoyed a quick hello and chat with Ruben and Max, before they left him to tuck in. The radio was on quietly and he caught the weather forecast: cloudy skies with stiff and cold breezes, before a low front moved in later. Maybe he would catch the bus south and then walk back, just for a change. If he got caught in any showers then he didn’t mind that, it would be fun in a way.

  Finished eating, he headed back up to his room to grab a few things, passing another guest on the stairs, a young lady wearing a baseball hat. She smiled and then slipped by, and he heard the front door click shut.

  Pieter unlocked his room door, and walked in. Then stopped dead.

  He looked across at his bed, and the small object lying on top of his pillow.

  With his heart hammering in his chest, he walked slowly across. He felt his shoes crunching over something on the carpet, which made him pause and look down at the soil there, and even as he saw this, and picked up the small ring with its familiar skull on the front, he understood.