Blood Red City (34 page)

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

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

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

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

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

 

CHAPTER 34

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are there still civilians there?' Sarah asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

‘Miss Diamond?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What is it you want?' Sarah asked.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

*   *   *

It was signed ‘Feyodor Vasilov'.

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked up at this, head tilted, questioning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It's all right. You can do it.'

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

 

CHAPTER 35

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

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

Elizabeth Archer was expecting them, waiting at her desk in the middle of the maze of shelves and storage. She had already prepared a collection of volumes and manuscripts that were worth checking for any reference to the axes and the associated legends, or for the symbols carved into the artefact. It helped that Jane knew something about the axe already.

‘So far, we haven't made an awful lot of progress,' Elizabeth confessed. ‘I can't even tell you what sort of stone the thing is made from. In fact, I'm beginning to think it might not be cut from stone at all, but manufactured.'

‘Really?' Miss Manners said. ‘You think it might have been cast rather than carved?'

‘It's possible. The material seems more like a durable ceramic in some ways. And it is so remarkably well preserved.'

‘May I see it?' Jane asked.

‘Of course,' Elizabeth told her. ‘I'll get it later, I have to put some of these notes and drawings away in the same section when I've finished with them.'

They worked steadily and quietly through the morning. Jane took meticulous notes on any reference she felt might be relevant and added them to the notes that Miss Manners and Elizabeth Archer were compiling. It was almost noon when they were joined by Sergeant Green.

‘I've just come from the meeting,' he told Miss Manners. ‘Alban's on his way too. He took notes which the colonel wants typed up – a copy for us and one for Alban and MI5. I'm afraid I volunteered your services as everyone else is rather under the gun.'