The Division of the Damned (4 page)

As the ground rushed up to meet him, his thoughts came back to the technicalities of landing. He managed to steer close to the light but not quite close enough. Though the torch was in a clearing in the wood, he missed the landing area and crashed through the foliage of the trees. He hit the tree heavily and bruised his ribs on a branch. His parachute
caught on a bough and he hung, winded and hurting, in his harness two meters above the ground. He undid the harness and fell, landing heavily in the deep snow. He lay there, gasping like a fish, until a woman’s voice roused him,

"You must stand up quickly. We must get away from here …" Strong hands grabbed him from both sides and pulled him to his feet. He was propelled through the black wood, stumbling on roots and fallen branches. He couldn’t breathe properly and the pace of their flight from the landing area was punishingly fast. Slowly he regained his
breath and
managed to look around at his helpers who were half-carrying, half-pushing him along.

Despite the snow’s luminescence, it was too dark to make out features but he could tell from their posture and build that they were men. Where was the woman who had ordered him to get up? The blackness was cloying and he wondered how they managed to guide him through the undergrowth. After a few minutes they came to another clearing, in the middle of which stood four horses. Wordlessly he was shown to one of the mounts and, without needing to be prompted, he got on.

“
Are you ready?” the woman asked.

"Where are we going? I can’t see a damn thing.”

"The horse knows the way. Just don’t fall off.”

The other two men laughed as they set off in single file, the woman in front. Smith had no problem with
riding;
it was one of the prerequisites of being a cavalry officer. The problem was the lack of light. His face stung from being constantly whipped by branches that would snap out from the pitch-blackness.

Twenty face-scoring minutes later they reached what looked to be a tavern. The inn, which seemed to sit in the middle of the forest, was straight out of pre-war tourist guide. Ivy clung to the walls like a second skin, a thatched roof and small lopsided windows only added to the days-of-yore effect. They had approached from behind the inn and Smith saw a road as they trotted round to the front
. At last, in the light of the
i
nn’s
outside lantern, he saw the face of the woman who had been in charge. After lithely dismounting from her horse, she pulled her hair from her face to tie it back and looked straight at him.

It was Maria, the contact in the photo. She was stunning even in the half-light, the moonlight accentuating her high cheekbones and long neck. She caught him briefly with her eyes and dropped him as she turned to the others. Addressing the two men in her native tongue, she turned back to Smith again. Her dark eyes appraised him openly and it seemed like whole hours flew by before she spoke.

“You will stay here the night. Tomorrow evening we will go to the
c
ount. All is prepared. You go in with Michael here,’’ she indic
ated one
of the two with them
.
“
A
nd you stay here until we come for you. Do you understand?”

"Where are you going?”

"We will come tomorrow
.
H
ere is safe. Michael is also here. Please stay here and do not move until tomorrow night.” She turned her back on him to go.

"Maria
—
” he started to say. Her name seemed strange on his tongue. She turned and waited. "I … I don’t like this. Why am I being left
here?
Why don’t we go to the
c
ount now?” He wanted to say more, to prolong this first contact. He wanted to ask her to stay with him instead of Michael.
He wanted to forget about the c
ount and concentrate on her. It was absurd and ridiculous but he didn’t seem to be in control of himself.

She smiled knowingly
.
"We will meet again tomorrow, Major Smith. But, for now, you must stay here." She turned and was gone, back into the night, leaving him in the capable hands of Michael.

Chapter 7

"Get up, English. You’ve got ten minutes before Maria comes for you,"
Michael
said, kicking Smith’s bed.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, and then recollection seeped slowly back. Sitting up, he swung his legs off of the bed. His mouth was sour and dry, his head felt bruised and delicate.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Twenty-three hundred hours. Well, ten minutes to. Maria will be here in ten minutes, so please hurry. There’s coffee in the bar.”

Smith noticed that Michael was visibly happier. He wondered what could have brought on this magical transformation. Shrugging it off, he went in search of something to sluice out his mouth.

The bar, unlike the night before, was deserted. He saw the jug of coffee and poured some into a cracked cup. The bad taste in his mouth made him aware that he hadn’t washed in two days. His clothes were creased and he hadn’t shaved either. He looked round for a mirror but he couldn’t see one.

Michael came in, carrying Smith’s bag and folded clothes.
"Ready, English?”

"I’m not sure. Is there a bathroom here where I can get cleaned up a bit? I’m meant to be meeting a
c
ount and I must look a right state," he
said with a smile
.

"You’ll do. The c
ount is not one to stand on ceremony. Besides, he’s aware of your situation, so he’ll make allowances.”

Smith wasn’t so sure. He felt conspicuous in his unkempt state. It went against the grain of his military upbringing
to meet someone, especially a c
ount, looking like a scarecrow. However, there was no time. Outside he heard horses. He quickly checked the contents of his bag to make sure it was all there and stuffed his folded overalls into it.

Maria called something in Romanian
from outside
. Micha
el answered and turned to Smith.
"Let’s go."

Smith knocked back the now cold coffee and followed the Romanian outside.

The same four horses as the day before were waiting for them and Smith wordlessly took the
reins
of the horse he had already ridden from the silent third man. Once again, Maria took the lead and Smith fell in line behind her. They headed in the direction of the snow-cov
ered hills that rose up to the e
ast of them. This time they stayed on the road which wasn’t as dark as the forest path they had used the day before.

Smith studied Maria’s straight back and swan-like neck. Despite the cold, she had pinned her hair up and it made her look elegant and younger. At one point she turned to say something to one of the men behind her and noticed Smith watching her. She gave him a quick
knowing smile, said her piece and carried on looking straight ahead. She didn't look back again for the whole journey, which gave Smith ample time to take in her lines and grace and savour that one quick shared moment.

After a while, Smith saw the shape of a building in the distance. It was too far off to make out properly but, judging by its silhouette against the moon, he could see it was of considerable size.

"Is that where we’re going?” he asked.

"Yes," she answered without looking back.

The moon, hanging over the building in the distance
,
lit up the road and he could follow the path with his eyes as it wound up through the hills.

As they drew nearer, the building started to take shape. Smith could discern towers and, as they came up closer, he saw gargoyles and other mythical creatures carved into and onto the masonry. The walls were made of large stone blocks and the windows held intricately stained glass, depicting scenes that Smith couldn’t make out in the dark. There was no boundary to the land; the road ran straight up to the front door. The Spartan white landscape and the solitary road seemed to magnify the building’s presence and Smith felt a shiver of primitive suspicion at such an alien and foreboding scene.

The doors were massive wooden affairs that would have looked at home on a medieval castle. Two great iron knockers adorned them, shaped like dragon’s heads. Maria jumped down from her horse and offered the reins to Mic
hael. He and the third man (who
s
e
name Smith still did not know), took control of the mounts and they left them alone on the front steps.

Maria raised one of the knockers and let it fall. The crash made Smith jump and he felt an insane urge to tell her not to be so loud. The aura of the building and the strangeness of the situation affected him to the point where he seriously considered leaving. Right there and then, he would take a horse and just go. However, his thoughts of flight were interrupted as one half of the door opened with an unholy creak. Before them stoo
d the man from the picture the b
rigadier had shown him. He wasn’t as tall as he looked in the photo and the sense of arrogance that Smith had perceived in the picture now seemed more like the professional distaste of a manservant or butler.

Maria spoke to him in English to accommodate Smith
.
"Marik, here is the Englishman, Smith. Let us in, it’s cold out here.”

Wordlessly the man turned away from them to allow entrance.

Smith followed Maria into a spacious, yet darkened, hall. An abundance of portraits adorned the walls, with candles providing the only light. Doors led off to the left and right with a wide stairway that branched off in two directions in front of him. The man called Marik
silently picked up a large candle and gestured for them to follow. Smith studied the pictures as he walked. They were old and all were of people, both men and women. A thick layer of dust covered everything and the smell of corruption sullied the air to an almost cloying degree. The filth disgusted Smith and he found it
hard to credit that this was a c
ount’s residence.

Their host opened a door to one of the rooms and held it for them to go in. Once inside he closed it again, leaving them on their own. It was a library, the walls of which were covered in shelves upon shelves of mildewed books.

"What’s going
on?
Was that the count?” Smith asked.
"Why did he just leave us? What in God’s name is going on here?
Is this some kind
—
”

He was cut off by Maria.

"Do not mention that name in this house again!” she shrieked, pointing at him in an apparent rage. "Never say that again in this house, do you understand?”

Her face had visibly blanched and her dark, alluring eyes were now red rimmed and staring. The moment froze and Smith, taken aback by her ferocity, looked away to break the tension.

When he glanced back she was normal and Smith found himself gripped again by the urge to flee. Had he just imagined that? Had she just physically paled at the mention of God’s name? He groped for something to say,

"I didn’t mean to cause offence,” he offered
. "I
t just seems all very odd to me, that’s all.”

Maria didn’t say a word. She looked normal but was breathing heavily and her anger, or fear, was still evident. Then, in a moment, it was gone. Her face brightened and broke into a welcoming smile as she looked at something behind him.

“Master
."
S
he beamed over his shoulder. Smith turned. He hadn’t heard anyone come in and was shocked to see a man standing by the door.

He was even more surprised to find himself looking at a mirror image of himself. The hair was black and long but there the differences ended. A feeling of recognition and kinship washed over him like a warm draft, but bewilderment paralysed him and he could but gape at the stranger.

Maria ran to the
c
ount and knelt before him as if he were royalty. He wore a spotless white shirt and black trousers tucked into Cossack-style boots. His presence was like a beacon of vitality amongst the squalor and filth. It all felt unreal and dreamlike to Smith who could only stare in dumbfounded silence.

Finally, he found his tongue. "Are you,
I mean … I take it you are the
c
ount?” he breathed.

"Yes, B
rother.”

Chapter 8

Berlin Hauptbahnhof

They waited on the platform in a huddle. Anonymous among the sea of uniforms, only Henning’s size and Rohleder’s scars set them apart. Rohleder had brought six volunteers from his troop. Von Struck and Rasch hadn’t yet arrived and, as the station canteen wasn’t yet open, they were forced to wait in the cold.

The wind whistled through the station and whipped their faces raw. Although it was early, there were still a lot of people about and t
he ORPO, the order p
olice, were walking around checking IDs and leave passes to make sure there were no deserters in the crowd.