Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Justin Richards
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Copyright
The Germans have lost control of their most deadly discovery. The alien Vril have awakened and are scouring the Earth for ancient relics.
From the Hollywood lights of LA to the bloody devastation of Stalingrad, Major Guy Pentecross and the team at Station Z must uncover the mystery and stop the Vril and Nazis alike.
Failure will mean the end of life as we know it.
A celebrated writer and Creative Consultant to the BBC Books range of Doctor Who books, Justin Richards lives and works in Warwick with his wife and two children. When he’s not writing, he can be found indulging his passion for inventing, reading and watching far too much television.
The Never War
Book One
THE SUICIDE EXHIBITION
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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Epub ISBN 9781448177059
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Del Rey, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
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A Penguin Random House Company
Del Rey is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © Justin Richards, 2014
Justin Richards has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in 2014 by Del Rey, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Penguin Random House Group Company
www.eburypublishing.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780091955984
Designed and set by Steve Tribe
For Julian & Chris
2/26/42
REF: POTUS A-DIST 422602-1/H
CONFIDENTIAL – FOR DISTRIBUTION LIST ‘A’ PERSONNEL ONLY
RE: Los Angeles Incident 24 February 1942
The President has asked me to inform you that while we still have no tangible evidence of an airborne incursion it seems likely that the incident the press have called “The Battle of Los Angeles” was triggered by an unidentified aircraft.
The airplane was probably Japanese and may be connected to the submarine that shelled the Ellwood fuel facility, north of Santa Barbara, on 23 Feb. Reports that the plane maneuvered and departed at extremely high speed and was of an unusual design cannot yet be discounted. Following that initial alert, RADAR later detected a trace 120 miles west of LA at 02:15 on night of 24/25 and tracked it in to the coast, where it was lost as it headed inland.
The positive news is that our emergency plan was operated as soon as the potential hostile was reported. A total blackout was enforced throughout the city and the 37th Coast Artillery Brigade responded with machine guns and anti-aircraft fire. In excess of 1400 shells were fired.
The all-clear was sounded at 07:21 on morning of 25 Feb.
We now know as well as minor material damage to buildings and vehicles, there were 5 fatalities as an indirect result of the incident. 2 were heart attacks, the other 3 due to traffic accidents.
Although local press sources are already announcing a cover-up, our official position, as articulated by the Secretary of the Navy yesterday, remains that the incident was a false alarm due to anxiety and war nerves. The differing opinion of Secretary Stimson and the Army is noted.
No further action.
OFFICIALLY, IT WAS not a battle at all. But to Jed Haines, watching from the safety of his apartment, it certainly looked like one. He’d been up late, planning to finish notes for an article on the shelling of Ellwood. But now it looked like that would take second place as evidence of the USA’s lack of readiness for war on its own mainland.
Another shell exploded high above the city, the smoke caught like clouds in the misty glare of the searchlights. The windows of the apartment rattled alarmingly. He had lost count of the number of percussions and flashes. He’d given up taking photographs – everyone in the city must be awake, and every other newspaperman in Los Angeles who possessed a camera must be taking photos. There would be nothing special about his own snapshots.
Unless, Jed thought, he managed to get a photo that no one else could. He had a good view from the apartment – at the top of one of the higher blocks in the area and on raised ground. Maybe from the roof he’d even see one of the attacking planes.
The night was cold and bitter. Smoke drifted across the roof of the apartment block, making the air taste acrid. Searchlights intersected above Jed as he negotiated a low brick wall and made his way along a lead-lined gulley to find the best vantage point.
He couldn’t hear the planes, just the crump of exploding anti-aircraft shells and the distant chatter of heavy machine guns. Now he thought about it, although the sky was aglow with light and fire, he hadn’t seen a single airplane. Was it just some sort of false alarm brought on by panic? Or a drill for the air defences?
Jed only had the camera for the occasional portrait shot to accompany one of his pieces for the paper. Anything important and they sent out a photographer along with Jed. He discarded the flash – it wouldn’t help tonight.
He scoured the searchlight beams for a sign of anything other than smoke, taking a couple of shots that would probably be completely black. He should have grabbed a coat, but there was no point in staying here long. Give it five minutes and he’d head back inside and make coffee.
When the five minutes was up, or near enough, Jed took another photo. He might have been lucky enough to catch an explosion right overhead. Or he might not. He was too cold to care any more. He was turning to go when he saw it.
Just at the edge of a searchlight beam, off to the east. A dark shape moved smoothly through the night. It looked as if it was part of the night. Darkness given shape. Jed tried to focus on it, but the shadowy form seemed to slip from his vision just as it slipped from the beams of light. It wasn’t an airplane – there were no wings, just a stunted, oval fuselage. Its shape was defined only by what it obscured.
Instinctively he raised the camera. From here, high up and off to the side, he actually had a perfect shot. He clicked the shutter, wound the film on, clicked again. And again.
Through the tiny viewfinder he saw the dark shape moving away, gathering speed. He lowered the camera, and watched as it accelerated suddenly into the distance – inland towards the desert.
The air continue to crackle and explode around him, but Jed barely noticed. He clutched the camera like it was his most valuable possession – which it quite possibly was.
The battle, if it was a battle, continued for several more hours. Jed changed the film in the camera and snapped a few more pictures from the relative warmth of his apartment. Light and confusion, sound and fury.
When he arrived at the office next morning, calm restored, the talk was of nothing else. But Felix, Jed’s editor, was less than enthusiastic. He had already got the official story that the night’s fireworks had been nothing more than panic and nerves.
‘I called a friend who worked in London last year,’ he told Jed wearily. ‘He said, if you have to ask if it’s an air raid, then it ain’t an air raid.’
‘It wasn’t just panic,’ Jed countered. ‘They were shooting at something.’
‘Shadows and ghosts. That’s what the military say, that’s what the government say. I know because some guy from Washington called to tell me first thing so this morning. No bombs fell, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I say so. No bombs, no raid. No planes even. End of story.’
‘There was a plane,’ Jed said. ‘A weird one. I got pictures.’ He brandished the camera as if that proved it.
Felix frowned. ‘You sure?’
‘Won’t know for certain till the film’s developed. But I think so.’
Felix gestured for him to hand over the camera. ‘The army want any pictures we have. They don’t want people thinking the Japs can bomb mainland USA when it was all just a false alarm.’
Reluctantly, Jed handed Felix the camera. ‘If it was a false alarm, why do they want the pictures?’
‘Hey, don’t get smart with me. Because they’re the military. You may not like it, and I certainly don’t like it. But there’s a war on, so what they say goes if we want to keep publishing.’
‘You think they could close us down?’
‘They could stop giving us war news.’
‘So much for a free press,’ Jed muttered.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ Felix told him. ‘Now get out of here and do something useful. Mike’s running the story about the false alarm. Help him with that, and if there’s anything good on this –’ he waved Jed’s camera – ‘I’ll let you know.’
If there was, Jed reckoned the military would keep it to themselves. But he knew there was nothing of interest on the film in the camera. The plane or whatever it was that he’d photographed was on the film he still had in his pocket. He sure as hell wasn’t giving that up.
‘Mike says you saw something,’ Cynthia called out to Jed as he passed.
‘We all saw something.’ He forced a smile.
She took off her glasses, letting them dangle on their chain across her impressive bosom, and leaned forwards across her desk. ‘I mean really saw something. That what you told him? What did Felix say?’
‘He doesn’t want to know.’ Jed perched on the other side of her desk. ‘But yeah, I saw a plane or something all right. Don’t believe me?’ he added, seeing her smile.
She looked round before she answered, her voice low and conspiratorial. ‘Had a few people phone in and say they saw something moving northeast over the city. Must have passed right over your place.’
‘Nerves and panic,’ Jed said warily. ‘Mass hysteria.’
‘That’d be it.’ She leaned back, rolling a pencil between her forefinger and thumb.
‘So what else are people saying?’ Jed asked.
‘It’ll cost you dinner.’ She tapped the end of the pencil against her lips.
‘OK. Dinner.’
‘Got one guy says he reckons this mass hysteria came down somewhere out past Pasadena.’
‘You told Felix about this?’
She put down the pencil and retrieved her glasses. ‘Like you said, he’s not interested. But I thought you might be.’
‘Yeah,’ Jed murmured. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, holding the roll of film from last night. ‘Yeah, I’m interested.’
The cellar was lit only by candles. The flickering light did little to dispel the shadows. Darkness clung to the edges of the chamber like a shroud, spilling out of arched alcoves across the flagstoned floor. The stone table in the centre of the vaulted space was like an altar. The figures’ faces were concealed by shadow within the hoods of their cloaks as they processed round the table, their chanting voices echoing off the brickwork.
The young woman lying on the table stared up at the ceiling, watching the smoke drift and shimmer in the flickering light. The stone was cold through the red velvet sheet draped over it and the thin white cotton dress that was all she wore. It reached down to her knees, her bare legs and feet stretching out towards the corners of the table.
As the chanting reached its peak, she blinked, and slowly sat up. Her dark hair was cut short, reaching to the nape of her neck at the back and fringed like a schoolboy’s over her green eyes as she stared into the distance. Her pale face was expressionless.
The chanting died away. The cloaked figures bowed and stepped back, moving to the edges of the room.
The leading figure pushed back his hood to reveal the bald scalp and craggy features beneath. ‘It is done,’ he said with grim anticipation. ‘Now we can only watch and learn.’
A wide trail was scorched through the scrubby woodland. Although it was right next to the road, Davy almost missed it. He drove past, Buster beside him with his head stuck out of the window as usual. Davy saw the damage in the rear-view mirror.
‘Hold on there, buddy,’ he said to the dog as he slewed to a halt. ‘Let’s take a look at that.’
He jumped down, Buster following, tongue hanging out as he trotted after his master. Davy stood by the edge of the road, putting his hand out for the black Labrador to lick at as they both stared into the woodland.
It looked like someone had driven a truck through. But a truck thirty feet wide and so hot it had charred the ends of the broken branches and the dry grass and undergrowth. Lucky it hadn’t started a fire, Davy thought. Whatever it was.
Walking slowly along the pathway that had been created, he examined the ends of the branches. Brittle and burned. The woodland would soon recover. A good fire could clear out and revitalise a forest. But this was something different.
The trees got taller and denser further in. Soon there was a canopy over them – the lower branches ripped and burned away, leaving the upper layers still intact. The weak winter sunlight filtered through dappling the charred ground. Unsettled, Buster kept close to Davy, making small whimpering noises.
There was something there, at the end of the trail. The scattered sunlight glinted on metal. Maybe it was a truck. Except it looked smooth, rounded, like a structure rather than a vehicle. Had it always been here, whatever it was?
Davy stopped, peering at it from a distance. He wasn’t one to get nervous or scared. He’d been farming this land, or as much of it as could be farmed, for over thirty years. He reckoned there was nothing left that could surprise him. He was wrong.
But nervous or not, there was something unsettling about what he could see. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Davy could make out a dark patch on the curved side of the structure. An opening. Something moved in the darkness. He was aware of Buster tensing beside him, teeth bared and a deep growl emanating from the dog’s throat.
The shape detached itself lazily from the darkness, slowly approaching. Picking its way carefully through the damaged undergrowth. Eyes gleamed as they caught the filtered light, and Davy almost laughed.
It was a cat. Probably one of the farm cats wandering in search of food. This time of year, there weren’t so many mice in the barns or out in the fields. Black as a shadow, the cat didn’t seem at all intimidated by Davy and Buster. It continued towards them, eyes flicking from side to side before stopping abruptly. Suddenly alert.
Buster was still growling. The dog took a shuffled step backwards and gave a bark. Buster never barked.
‘What’s wrong, lad? It’s just a cat.’
She swung her legs off the side of the stone table and leaned forward. She half jumped, half fell forwards to the floor, landing on feet and hands together. The cloaked figures retreated to the edges of the chamber, giving her room. But she seemed oblivious to their presence.
For a moment the woman was still, looking round, exploring a landscape only she could see through the smoky haze. Candlelight played across her features as they contorted, lips drawn back from her teeth. Shadows elongated and sharpened her features, made her curled fingers more like claws as she scratched at the floor in front of her.
Slowly she moved forwards, on all fours. The muscles of her shoulders tensed through the thin cotton of the dress. Her body seemed to elongate as she arched her back. Her mouth opened in a hiss of satisfaction.
She moved slowly through the dim light, eyes flicking from side to side before stopping abruptly. Suddenly alert. She stretched out her arms in front of her, leaning backwards, mouth opening. Her eyes glittered as they caught the light.
The cat was right in front of them now. It stretched out its front legs, leaning backwards and yawning. It shook its head suddenly, as if to rid itself of fleas. Something glittered as it moved, something behind the head. A collar, perhaps?
Davy stepped towards the cat. None of the farm cats had collars. Maybe this was a pet. An expensive collar might mean a reward. He could see it now, as the cat stared back at him through unblinking emerald eyes. The collar looked heavy, dark metal inlaid with a tracery of intricate silver lines which caught and reflected the light.
Crouching down, Davy reached out his hand, encouraging the cat towards him. It stared back, eyes narrowing slightly. At the edge of his vision, Davy was aware of sudden movement. Noise – the sudden barking as Buster shot past him. Straight at the cat.
‘No – Buster, leave!’
But Davy’s voice was drowned out by the dog’s barks and the screech of the cat. The two animals were a rolling mass of fur and claws. The poor cat wouldn’t stand a chance against the large gundog. All Davy could do was shout at Buster to stop.
A blur of motion in the guttering light as she rolled backwards. Her hands curled into claws, slashing at the air.
The bald man licked his pale lips as he watched, eyes gleaming.
Her face was a mask of anger and determination as she lashed out again at the invisible attacker. A red streak appeared in the front of the white dress, blood seeping through from inside, as if a knife had been drawn from her shoulder down to her navel. Another stain close to the hem. Patches of blood diffused through the white cotton.
The thin dress was soaked red, clinging wetly to her body, emphasising every curve in scarlet. Her hands were slick with blood, grasping it out of the empty air…
Something splashed against his cheek and Davy instinctively glanced up to see if it was raining. He wiped his hand across his face. It came away red. Blood.
The dog’s barks were howls. The cat’s screeches unabated. Somehow the cat was on top of the dog, raking its elongated claws down as Buster rolled and thrashed, desperate to throw the cat off. But it clung on with its hind legs, claws deep in the dog’s fur, biting into its flesh with unnatural strength and determination.
Fur slick with blood, the dog was weakening – losing blood from a ripped artery. It collapsed panting on its back. The cat forced its way from underneath, then suddenly it was on top of the dog again, forepaws whipping out and claws slashing across the dog’s exposed throat, where the fur was thinnest. Barks became liquid howls. The cat jumped down, arching its back as it watched the lifeblood pumping from its opponent’s neck.
Davy stared in horror, rooted to the spot, sick from what he’d just seen. The cat tilted its head slightly, staring up at him. Its fur was matted and stained and damp. Davy took a step towards it, rage building within him. He’d stamp on the bastard thing. He’d rip its scrawny head off.
The anger mixed with sorrow as he watched Buster’s frantic panting slow to a halt. Became fear as he realised he couldn’t move his leg. He looked down – and saw the dark, bulbous shape like a huge spider that held him tightly wrapped between its front legs.
Then he was falling, legs pulled from under him. His face was level with the cat’s, staring into the image of his own terrified face reflected in its unblinking green eyes. Behind the cat, another of the dark spider-like creatures scuttled through the burned undergrowth towards him.
Norma Wiles was dozing by the fire when she heard the familiar sound of the truck pulling up outside. She went through to the kitchen to put some coffee on for Davy.
He watched her from the doorway, silhouetted by the low afternoon sun behind him.
‘You’ve been gone a while,’ Norma said. ‘Reckon you’ll be feeling the cold.’
His reply was dry and devoid of inflection. A simple ‘No’.
Norma frowned. It didn’t sound like Davy at all.
A black cat pushed between her husband’s feet and padded into the kitchen, looking up at Norma. Its fur was matted, a thick metal collar gleaming beneath.
‘Where’s Buster?’ she asked. The dog was usually into the kitchen before its master, looking for food and water.
‘We don’t need the dog.’
Davy stepped into the light and Norma gasped. ‘What’s happened to you. Look at your clothes – and you’ve got blood across your face. Are you all right?’
‘Never better.’
‘That’s not how it looks, let me tell you.’
He shook his head. ‘You can’t tell me anything. I already know everything you do. Everything I need to know.’
He reached out for her, and she let him put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her towards him. She felt his familiar callused hand on her cheek, stroking. Down to her throat.
The cat jumped up onto the kitchen table in a single elegant movement, as if to get a better view of them. It tilted its head slightly, watching.
As Davy Wiles held his wife’s neck carefully between his hands. Then twisted.
She padded across the floor, hands and feet stained red. At the stone table, she paused, then jumped easily up in a single elegant movement, as if she weighed almost nothing, landing on all fours.
Norma’s body slumped to the floor. The cat closed its eyes and lay down on the table. It understood that it needed to rest. Soon it would start on a long journey.
Blood was streaked across her face, running down her chin and neck, trickling between her breasts where the sodden fabric clung to her body. The dress was as scarlet as the velvet sheet over the stone table.
Head tilted slightly to one side, she seemed to be watching something. Her bloodied mouth twisted into a cruel smile. Then her eyes blinked rapidly and she toppled sideways in a dead faint. She lay across the table, one arm thrown out over the edge, legs twisted under her. Her chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, in peaceful sleep. Bloodstained scarlet across crimson velvet in the dying light of the candles.
FEBRUARY WAS COLD in London, with a hint of snow in the air. Major Guy Pentecross and Colonel Oliver Brinkman walked the short distance from the car through the darkness of the blackout, taking the chance to discuss their imminent meeting. In the months since he had been recruited to Station Z, Guy Pentecross had seen things he never would have imagined. But the prospect of meeting Aleister Crowley again still made his skin crawl.
‘It’s not just the fact that he’s a practising expert in the occult,’ Guy told his commanding officer. ‘I just find him so…’ He struggled to think of a word to describe it.
‘Reptilian?’ Brinkman suggested.
Guy nodded. ‘You can see how he got the reputation of being the most evil man in the world.’
‘That was before Hitler and his cronies came on the scene,’ Brinkman pointed out. ‘And the competition is confined to humans.’
A year ago, even a few months ago, before joining Station Z, Guy would have thought that Brinkman was joking. But now he knew all too well that there were creatures that were far from human which could be described as ‘evil’. Station Z’s mission was to discover all they could about the Vril, as the creatures were called, and formulate a strategy to deal with them.
Fighting a war at the same time made it more complicated. Much more complicated, since they knew Himmler and the SS also had a group dedicated to learning about the Vril. But the Nazis planned to exploit the creatures, using whatever they learned and perhaps even the creatures themselves to their advantage, harnessing Vril knowledge and technology against the Allies.
Though the threat of the Vril was real and serious, Station Z’s resources were limited and their mission kept secret. Seconded from his job at the Foreign Office after being wounded serving in the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk, Guy was now second in command at Station Z.
Not that there were many people under his command. The entire staff consisted of Brinkman’s secretary Miss Manners, though she was far more than a mere filing clerk; Segeant Green, who was responsible for liaising with the regular military forces when necessary; Leo Davenport from the Special Operations Executive; and Sarah Diamond, a pilot from the Air Transport Auxiliary, who had joined at the same time as Guy.
There were others too whose expertise Brinkman and his team could call on – like David Alban at MI5, Elizabeth Archer at the British Museum, and Dr Wiles at the top secret code-breaking centre at Bletchley Park.
And Aleister Crowley.
Guy tried to keep his disgust hidden as he sat in Crowley’s office with Colonel Brinkman a few minutes later.
Crowley faced them across his desk, chubby fingers laced together on the blotter. He wore a dark robe, hood pushed back from his craggy, bald head. Behind him the unpleasant figure of Ralph Rutherford leaned against a bookcase, arms folded, watching Guy and Brinkman without disguising his own contempt.
‘The results were rather ambiguous, I’m afraid,’ Crowley said. He unlaced his fingers and opened his hands briefly in an apology that didn’t reach his face. ‘But I shall tell you what I can.’
‘Why?’ Rutherford said. ‘Why tell them anything?’
‘Ralph, Ralph, Ralph,’ Crowley soothed without turning. He pronounced it ‘Rafe’.
‘Any help you can give us will be greatly appreciated, sir,’ Brinkman said. ‘For the war effort.’
Brinkman and Guy had agreed they would focus only on the advantages Crowley’s information might give them against the Germans. There would be no mention of the Vril, since Crowley seemed to regard them with something approaching reverence. He saw them as higher beings, if they existed, that promised power and enlightenment.
But Guy knew from his own experience that what they brought was blood and death. What Station Z lacked most was information about the Vril, knowledge they could turn to their advantage. They tracked the strange wingless aircraft that the Vril used. They had survived attacks by the superhuman Ubermensch creatures into which the Vril could somehow convert ordinary people. But they still didn’t really know where the Vril came from or what they intended. They were hostile, and they had bases of operations hidden below ground around the world.
Some of the Vril’s technology apparently relied on a form of science that humanity did not yet understand – closer to the occult or psychic and paranormal than conventional science. Their communications could be picked up not only by the listening Y Stations around the British Empire where enemy radio signals were intercepted, but also by more arcane means. Which was why they were here, talking to Crowley. Or rather, listening to him.
‘We held a ceremony – a form of séance – as I promised,’ Crowley was saying. ‘A connection was formed, though whether directly with the Vril I cannot say.’
‘Were you able to discern their intentions?’ Guy asked. He didn’t add ‘sir’.
Crowley fixed him with his dark, deep-set eyes. ‘The Vril are the benefactors of humanity. The Coming Race, the bringers of power and enlightenment. If our enemies crave their secrets, then the Vril and we are of one mind, one purpose.’
Guy was aware of Brinkman’s warning glance. ‘But did you discover anything that might help that purpose?’ he said, careful not to contradict anything Crowley had said.
In answer, Crowley turned slightly to address Rutherford. It was an awkward movement, as Crowley’s neck was almost as thick as his head. ‘See if Miss Roylston has recovered enough to see us, would you, Ralph?’
Rutherford pushed himself away from the bookcase. ‘She should have tidied herself up a bit by now,’ he said as he strode from the room.
‘I’m afraid Ralph is not convinced we should be helping you,’ Crowley said as they waited.
‘We’re very grateful that you are,’ Brinkman said.
Crowley’s lips curled into a thin bloodless smile. ‘We all do what little we can. I imagine life under the Reich would be a rather tedious proposition.’
‘I thought Hitler was a devotee of the occult and all that sort of thing,’ Guy countered.
‘He surrounds himself with people who have some knowledge and vision, but no – the Fuhrer himself believes only in the tangible aspects of power. Only in himself. I gather he is one of those unimaginative people who has to see to believe. What about you, Major Pentecross?’ Crowley asked, smile still fixed in place. ‘Can you believe in things you cannot prove? Are you a churchgoer?’ He made it sound like an insult.
Guy was saved from answering by the return of Rutherford, accompanied by a slim young woman with short, black hair. She wore a simple grey dress that seemed plain and ordinary in contrast to Crowley’s robes. Guy recognised Jane Roylston from a previous meeting.
‘Miss Roylston is our most sensitive colleague,’ Crowley said, gesturing for her to sit.
Jane perched nervously on the edge of an upright chair. Rutherford returned to his position at the bookcase, watching her with ill-disguised loathing as she spoke.
‘I established a connection,’ she said, voice trembling slightly. ‘But what I saw…’
She paused, glancing at Crowley. He nodded for her to go on, but Guy sensed there was more to it than simple encouragement.
‘Just snatches, images, I’m afraid. I don’t think it was anything useful.’
‘Tell us anyway,’ Brinkman said gently. ‘Let us decide.’
‘I had no sense of place,’ she said. ‘A wooded area, but it could have been anywhere. Trees, undergrowth…’ She waved her hand. ‘I’m sorry, does anyone have a cigarette?’
Crowley snapped his fingers impatiently at Rutherford, who scowled and produced a packet of Pall Mall. Jane took one, and Rutherford held his lighter awkwardly for her, so she had to twist uncomfortably to light the cigarette.
She seemed calmer after inhaling the smoke. ‘Sorry. As I said, just images really. A fight – with a dog, I think, But it seemed very big. Then a man, in a car. Or maybe a lorry.’
‘Were you with him, or did he drive past you?’ Guy asked.
‘I was with him. We drove to a house. Hardly more than a wooden shack. We went inside, and there was a woman.’ She blew out a long stream of smoke and looked away. ‘That’s all.’ She glanced again at Crowley. ‘That’s all.’
Crowley nodded. ‘Thank you, Jane. That is most helpful.’
Guy and Brinkman did not linger. Rutherford showed them out, all but slamming the door of the house in Jermyn Street behind them.
The evening was drawing in, a chill in the late February air. Further down the street, a car flashed its lights, their beams mitigated by dark hoods that allowed only a thin slit of light through.
Sarah Diamond got out of the car to open the door for Brinkman. Even in the gathering darkness, Guy saw that she looked immaculate in her dark suit. She closed the door behind Brinkman and smiled at Guy.
‘You can open your own door.’ Her voice was accented, American. Guy knew her father was English, though he lived in the States, where Sarah had grown up. She and Guy had both started at Station Z at the same time – having worked together to try to find out what Brinkman’s team was up to. They would never have guessed the truth. Guy still found it hard to believe.
He had been working at the Foreign Office, after being wounded at the Dunkirk evacuation and invalided out of the army. But Sarah was a ferry pilot with the Air Transport Auxiliary – technically a civilian, responsible for helping to deliver aircraft where they were needed all round Britain. She drove the staff car on sufferance, and almost as fast as she flew planes.
As soon as they were all in the car, Sarah twisted round in the driver’s seat. ‘You get anything out of the old goat?’
‘Nothing useful,’ Guy confessed.
‘He doesn’t trust us,’ Brinkman said. ‘He thinks the Vril are coming to save the human race, though I’m not sure what from.’
‘Hitler, maybe?’ Sarah suggested.
Brinkman shrugged. ‘Whatever he thinks, Crowley will help us against the Germans, but he won’t do anything to disadvantage the Vril.’
‘The woman – Jane Roylston,’ Guy said. ‘I think she knows more than she was saying.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Brinkman agreed. ‘But perhaps Miss Manners will get more out of her.’
The room was small, but there was just enough space for a narrow upright chair between the tiny dressing table and the door. This was where Jane Roylston found Miss Manners sitting when she returned to the room. As well as being Brinkman’s secretary at Station Z, Miss Manners was well versed in the occult practices of Crowley and his colleagues. For a time, she had been one of his acolytes – which was where she had met Jane. But that life was behind her now, and she never regretted escaping from it.
‘Penny,’ Jane exclaimed in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced nervously over her shoulder before shutting the door quickly behind her. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she hissed.
‘You shouldn’t stay,’ Miss Manners countered, peering at her friend over the top of her severe spectacles. ‘We can look after you. Keep you safe.’
‘No one can keep me safe. You know that. Not even Colonel Brinkman or your friend Pentecross. Of course,’ she realised, ‘you came with them.’
‘And they’re waiting for me outside now. You could come too. You can get away from him, you know. I did.’
Jane sat on the narrow bed, hands clasped in front of her. ‘Perhaps you’re braver than me. But no, I have to stay. Anyway, while I’m here I can help you. Crowley won’t help, you know. Oh, he says he will. I’m sure he seems very cooperative. But he won’t help unless he thinks he’s getting something in return.’
‘He told us about the ceremony.’
‘Keeping you sweet.’
‘He let you talk to Brinkman.’
‘He told me not to say anything. Or as little as possible. I probably told them more than Crowley wanted. That bastard Ralph would rather I said nothing at all. I’ll pay for it later, I’m sure.’ She looked away, eyes glistening.
‘All the more reason to come with me now.’
Jane shook her head. ‘I was seeing through the eyes of a cat, but Crowley told me not to tell Brinkman that. And there was an image. I didn’t tell Crowley about that, though. It was in my mind when I was… connected. That was the overriding impression – a shape.’
‘What shape?’
‘A bit like a figure of eight on its side, but flattened rather than rounded. Two inward facing triangles, with their tips overlapping. Symmetrical.’
Jane looked round for inspiration. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
The room was so small that the bed itself served as a stool for the dressing table. Leaning forward, she could reach the mirror. She breathed heavily on it, misting the glass, then drew the shape she had described with her finger.
Miss Manners turned in the chair to see. ‘What is it?’
Jane shrugged, wiping her hand across the mirror and smearing away the image. ‘A shape. I don’t know. It’s tangible, though, not symbolic. Not a letter or a drawing. An actual thing. And whatever it is, it’s important to them. Very important. They want it.’ She frowned, struggling to remember. ‘No, more than that – they need it.’
‘Do you know why?’
Jane shook her head. ‘I could see details, symbols engraved on it, whatever it is. I’ll make a drawing and send it to you.’ She glanced nervously at the door. ‘You should go. It’s not safe here.’
Miss Manners stood up. ‘I know.’ Her voice was tinged with sadness. She reached out and took Jane’s hands between her own. ‘Last chance.’
Jane smiled weakly. ‘I’ve had so many last chances. But I have to stay. And one day I’ll get even with Rutherford, even if I never get away from Crowley.’
Miss Manners sighed. ‘You know where to find me.’
He watched her leave from the shadows of a doorway across the landing. Rutherford knew Penelope Manners, of course. The one that got away – that thought fuelled his anger.
He gave her time to get down the stairs. So quiet, so certain she had not been seen. Rutherford doubted that Jane had told her anything. He doubted she had anything useful to tell. But she’d pay for it even so. Without really thinking about it, he had unbuckled his belt. He slid it out of the loops and wrapped it several times round his fist, gripping the buckle and letting the length of leather hang free.
Nearly five and half thousand miles away, a black cat melted into the shadows beside the highway. It paused for a moment, an image fixed firmly in its mind – the thing it was hunting for. It could feel it, getting closer, stronger with every step.
But the cat still had a long way to go. The heavy metal collar round its neck glinted in the sunlight as it emerged from the shadows. It had a long way to go, but it would get there. Soon the hunt would be over.
It stopped for a moment to stretch in the weak winter sunlight, reached out its front paws and scraped at the hard ground beside the road.
The sleepers all had numbers. The nurse doing her rounds spared each of them little more than a glance. Her heels echoed on the stone floor of Wewelsburg Castle, headquarters of the Nazi SS, as she walked between the rows of beds. She stopped at one to adjust the drip feeding into the old man’s wrist.
In the next bed was a young woman, perhaps 20 years old. A single sheet draped over her body, her blonde hair splayed over the pillow. Number Seventeen. The nurse glanced, moved on. Unless they were reacting, unless a sleeper was somehow connected to an Ubermensch and could see what the creature saw, the nurse wasn’t interested. She let them sleep on, oblivious.
If she had passed on the other side of the bed, the nurse might have seen Number Seventeen’s hand moving. Lying on top of the sheet, the woman’s hand was curled into a fist, shaking. As the nurse moved on, the woman’s breathing became ragged, sweat breaking out on her forehead.
Slowly she uncurled her fist, the fingers stretching out and scraping at the cotton. Clawing urgently at the sheet beneath the high vaulted ceiling of the castle room.
IT WAS UNUSUAL for all of Station Z’s main staff to be able to get to a meeting at the same time. But Brinkman was pleased to see that he and Miss Manners were joined not just by Major Guy Pentecross and Sarah Diamond but also by Sergeant Green, recently returned from interviewing a pilot about an Unknown Detected Trace. UDT was the designation given to any aircraft sighted or detected but unidentified.
Many were misreportings or Allied aircraft that were later identified. But some were undoubtedly Vril craft. Sarah Diamond had seen one in her previous job in the ATA ferrying aircraft to where they were needed – that was how she came to the attention of Station Z in the first place. While many UDTs turned out to be conventional planes, barrage balloons, or other easily explained phenomena, some pilots had described similar strange, wingless aircraft. Guy Pentecross and Leo Davenport had seen one hidden in a Vril base beneath the desert of North Africa.
Davenport, a well-known stage and screen actor, had been recruited from the Special Operations Executive – the organisation set up by Winston Churchill to ‘set Europe ablaze’ with acts of sabotage and espionage against the Nazi occupying forces.
Given Davenport’s continuing acting commitments, always in service of the Allied war effort, he was keen to point out, it was surprising he could spare the time. Brinkman thought that Davenport’s frequent absences from briefings were as much down to his low boredom threshold as to his civilian schedule.
‘Just popping in, if that’s all right,’ Davenport announced as he took his place at the table in the main meeting room. He made a point of checking his watch. ‘I’m on the radio at eight-thirty.’ He looked round at everyone, his expression decidedly smug, even for him.
‘It’s Thursday today, isn’t it?’ Green said.
‘Absolutely it is,’ Davenport agreed.
Miss Manners peered over her glasses, unimpressed. ‘Would you like to make a start, sir?’ she said to Brinkman.
He suppressed a smile. Trust her to keep them focused. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said in his most officious tone.
There was a moment’s pause, then Davenport guffawed, pointing at Brinkman. ‘Didn’t have you down as an ITMA listener.’
‘Everyone listens to ITMA,’ Brinkman told him. ‘Even Miss Manners, I suspect.’
‘Occasionally,’ she admitted.
‘Since you are clearly going to be insufferable until we hear all about it, Leo, tell me,’ Brinkman went on, ‘are you by any chance appearing in It’s That Man Again on the wireless this evening?’
‘Oh, I’ve been on it before,’ Davenport said, doing his best to sound offhand.
‘I think you may have mentioned that,’ Guy said. ‘Several times.’
‘I have appeared on it several times. In fact, they’re talking about giving me my own catchphrase.’ He smiled at Brinkman, ‘So in future you can quote me rather than Colonel Chinstrap’s “Don’t mind if I do”.’
Brinkman allowed Davenport a few moments of showing off before he brought them back on track. ‘Since you have to shoot off, Leo, we’d better get started.’
‘Mrs Archer sends her apologies,’ Miss Manners said. ‘She’s busy with something down in her cavern under the British Museum. I didn’t really understand what.’
Brinkman nodded. ‘And I assume Dr Wiles won’t be joining us.’
‘I doubt he even remembers we’re having a meeting,’ Sarah said.
She was right. Henry Wiles was a brilliant cryptographer who headed up a small team at Station X – Britain’s secret code-breaking centre at Bletchley Park. His job was to try to make sense of emissions intercepted from the UDT craft and other Vril sources. The same emissions that Crowley’s séances seemed to pick up.
The main topic of discussion was Crowley’s information from their meeting a couple of days previously. Brinkman summarised the little he and Guy had learned. Then Miss Manners gave a brief account of her subsequent meeting with Jane Roylston.
‘This arrived in this morning’s post,’ she said, unfolding a foolscap sheet of drawing paper and pushing it into the middle of the table.
Everyone leaned forward to see. On the paper was a pencil drawing, just as Jane had described to Miss Manners. But now the shape was shaded, symbols drawn across it as if engraved in whatever material it was fashioned from.
‘What is it?’ Sarah asked.
‘That’s the question,’ Miss Manners replied.
‘Could be Sumerian,’ Davenport mused, rubbing his chin. Of all of them, he was the most versed in history and archaeology. ‘Have you shown Elizabeth?’ he asked. They all knew that his knowledge was minuscule compared with Elizabeth Archer’s expertise.
‘Not yet,’ Miss Manners said. ‘But I shall.’
Curator of the British Museum’s Department of Unclassified Artefacts, Elizabeth Archer was knowledgeable in areas that very few people knew existed. She was also responsible for a collection of artefacts that even fewer people knew existed – a secret archive of whatever could not be explained, or ought not to exist according to conventional science and theory. Her experience, advice and insight were invaluable to Station Z.
‘Wiles may have some idea about these symbols, whatever they are,’ Brinkman said.
‘Runes?’ Green suggested. ‘They remind me of some of the stuff in that burial site in Suffolk.’
‘If it’s something related to the Vril, then that would make sense,’ Guy agreed. ‘We saw some very similar symbols in their base in North Africa.’
Davenport nodded. ‘Several of them were the same, I’m sure.’
Brinkman sat back in his chair. ‘It seems to me that before Leo heads off to entertain the nation, we have a few things to follow up on. We need to know what this drawing represents. So wrack your brains, check any sources you can. Miss Manners will show it to Mrs Archer, and a copy to Dr Wiles too please.’
‘There’s the cat as well,’ Miss Manners said.
‘I’m sorry?’ Sarah said.
‘Jane – she said she was somehow connected to a cat. She saw through its eyes.’
‘So if we knew where this cat is, it might give us a clue as to what it’s doing,’ Guy said.
‘And why it’s important,’ Sergeant Green added. ‘There’s a reason the Vril want this thing, whatever it is. If we knew that, we’d know if we want it, or want to stop them getting it, or really don’t care either way.’
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Miss Manners said as she retrieved the drawing, ‘I shall need your pencil sharpeners.’
‘May I ask why?’ Leo Davenport enquired.
‘There’s a memo going round. Pencil sharpeners are now banned within the civil service, to conserve pencils. There’s a shortage.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Guy said.
‘I don’t make the rules,’ Miss Manners told him. ‘But don’t let me catch you sharpening anything you shouldn’t.’
‘You’re not getting mine,’ Davenport said. ‘For three very good reasons.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘First, I’m not a civil servant. Second I don’t have one, though I do possess a pocket knife. And third, I prefer a fountain pen anyway.’
‘Leaving our pencils to one side for a moment,’ Brinkman said, ‘as usual we have more questions than answers. So let’s see if we can’t find those answers.’
‘Assuming the Germans don’t arrive this evening,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll blame you, Leo, if they do.’
There was a smattering of laughter. It was a national joke that if Britain was invaded on a Thursday evening at 8.30pm, the landings would be unopposed as the whole of Britain – including its armed forces – would be listening to It’s That Man Again on the wireless.
‘A cat?’
It was one of the rare occasions when Sarah had seen Dr Wiles show surprise.
‘You want me to find a cat?’ he repeated. He buttoned his threadbare tweed jacket, then changed his mind and unbuttoned it again before peering at Sarah and Guy over his wire-rimmed spectacles. Then he sniffed, all trace of surprise abruptly gone. ‘Well, I suppose anything’s possible in this game. You’d better tell me all about it. Find yourselves somewhere to sit.’
It wasn’t as easy as he made it sound. Sarah and Guy finally managed to unearth two chairs from beneath piles of papers and message transcripts. Wiles fussed round, making sure the papers were properly transferred to the floor, which was the only other available surface.
‘Debbie,’ he called across to a young woman in army uniform.
‘It’s Eleanor,’ Sarah corrected him, but the woman didn’t seem to mind.
Wiles ignored the comment in any case. ‘I think we’re going to need tea. Lots of tea.’ He frowned as she turned to go, and pointed to the far wall. ‘And whose bicycle is that?’
Eleanor glanced at it. ‘Yours,’ she said.
‘Ah. Good. Well, just leave it there, then, will you, in case I need it? Thank you.’ Wiles slumped down behind his desk. He was almost invisible behind the piles of documents. ‘Now then. Tell me about this cat.’
‘It’s transmitting,’ Guy said.
‘Is it indeed?’ Wiles raised an interested eyebrow. ‘Like a UDT, you mean? We monitor transmissions from them all the time, though we still don’t really understand what their purpose might be.’
‘More like an Ubermensch,’ Sarah said.
‘The men somehow controlled by the mysterious Vril.’ Wiles nodded. ‘Then it’s likely to be a two-way communication. Instructions coming in, and experiential data going out. What the cat sees, hears, smells… How do you know about it?’
‘From some sort of occult ceremony,’ Sarah admitted.
Wiles’s eyebrow rose higher. ‘Glad I asked.’
‘It seems significant,’ Guy explained. ‘The Vril are looking for something, so far as we can tell. Using the cat.’
‘Ah! So that’s why you want to know where this cat is, so you can find out where they are looking.’
‘Exactly.’
Wiles leaned back, staring up at the wooden ceiling of the hut. ‘We haven’t picked anything up. But we can double-check what the Y Stations have been sending in. Can’t we, Eleanor?’ he added as she handed him a mug of tea.
‘He knows who I am really,’ she murmured to Sarah as she passed across another mug. ‘I’d offer you sugar, but even if we had any, I wouldn’t know where to find it.’
‘If the Y Stations didn’t pick it up, but Crowley’s ceremony did, what might that mean?’ Guy asked, accepting his own tea.
‘Could just be bad luck. The coverage is pretty comprehensive, there are Y Stations listening and intercepting enemy traffic all over the Empire. But there are some places we don’t cover very well. Maybe the source – the cat – is in one of those areas.’