The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (33 page)

Further down the corridor, he found an unlocked door. A storeroom. He dumped the soldier’s body inside. There was no key, so he broke off the door handle.

There was no sign of the target when the Ubermensch turned the corner. There had not been time for the man to get to the end of this corridor. Therefore he was in one of the rooms. The Ubermensch started with the first door. The room was an office – empty.

In the second room a man was working at a desk. Not the target. The Ubermensch murmured an apology and moved on.

The man in the third room asked questions. When the
Ubermensch didn’t answer, he reached for a telephone on his desk. As the man glanced down, the Ubermensch grabbed the telephone receiver from him.

‘What the hell?’

The heavy Bakelite made a good bludgeon. The Ubermensch weighed the receiver in his hand, then smashed it down on the man’s head. He pushed the corpse into a cupboard. The space was small, not designed for the purpose. The Ubermensch had to break several of the man’s bones to fit the body inside.

In the fourth room, the Ubermensch found the target. He closed the door behind him and approached the desk.

The target looked up. ‘And what can I do for you?’ he asked warily.

The Ubermensch sat down opposite the man. ‘You can tell me everything,’ he said.

Hoffman backed up Guy’s insistence that Davenport should not speak a word.

‘I managed all right in the bar,’ Davenport protested.

‘You didn’t,’ Hoffman told him. ‘Your vocabulary is basic and your accent is awful.’

‘Just let us do any talking,’ Guy said.

Hoffman had brought the SS uniforms of a captain – a hauptsturmfuhrer – and a lieutenant – an obersturmfuhrer. Guy became the lieutenant, as the uniform was a better size. Even so, it was tight and the trousers were slightly short. But the boots were a good fit. Davenport squeezed his slightly fuller form into the captain’s uniform.

‘I’ve had worse-fitting costumes,’ he said.

He put on the uniform cap and turned to Guy. The transformation was instant and complete – Davenport’s expression hardened, his eyes seemed deeper and darker. His features were somehow thinner and he exuded an air of callous indifference. Then, just as suddenly, it all vanished as he grinned. ‘What do you think?’

Guy and Hoffman exchanged glances. Hoffman too had been surprised and impressed.

‘Very good,’ Guy said.

‘But still say nothing,’ Hoffman added.

‘Anything we need to know about saluting and stuff?’ Davenport asked.

‘If I do it, you do it,’ Hoffman said. ‘If I don’t, you don’t.’

The castle was huge – much larger than it had appeared from a distant view. Up close it was also obvious just how much of it was of recent construction. Guy couldn’t help feeling that it was an expensive and impressive waste of effort. In an age where the most deadly attack was likely to come from the air in the form of high explosives, building a stone castle was of limited military value.

But the purpose was primarily to impress, and in that it excelled.

They passed along a wide causeway and into the main courtyard without incident. The guards recognised Hoffman, and that seemed to be enough to allow Guy and Davenport unhindered access. Once inside, Hoffman led them through corridors and down winding stone steps.

Eventually he stopped, and said quietly: ‘We’ve come a rather roundabout route as I wanted to be sure no one was following or saw where we are headed.’

‘And where are we headed?’ Davenport asked.

‘There is a restricted area in the cellars, deep underground – below Himmler’s Crypt.’

‘His what?’ Guy said.

‘A nickname, but don’t worry about that for the moment. Where we are going is far more dangerous and unpleasant.’

He led them down more steps, and along a wide passageway to a set of double doors. Through the doors was another world. Guy blinked in the sudden bright light. They seemed to have stepped into a hospital ward. Rows of beds were arranged under the vaulted ceiling, most of them occupied. All the patients – if they were patients – seemed unconscious or asleep, covered only by thin sheets despite the chill in the air.

‘Who are these people?’ Guy wondered. ‘Are they ill?’

‘Sedated, that is all,’ Hoffman explained. ‘Some are
volunteers, others were brought here from across the Reich. From Germany and Poland, Italy and France. Even Russia.’

He led them through the room, pausing beside the bed where a young woman lay sleeping peacefully. Hoffman paused, looking down at the girl. He brushed a stray strand of fair hair from her forehead.

‘They are here because they have certain… abilities,’ Hoffman said.

‘What abilities?’ Davenport asked in a whisper.

Hoffman raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly across to where a nurse was checking the beds. ‘I will show you,’ he murmured.

They descended again. The lights seemed dimmer the deeper they went. A single electric bulb, imprisoned behind a metal cage, illuminated the small area at the bottom of the steps.

‘This is the oldest part of the castle,’ Hoffman said. In front of them was a wooden door, banded with metal.

‘This part is original, then?’ Davenport asked.

‘Oh yes. That may be why… We seem to get better reception down here.’

‘Reception? You mean, like for radio?’ Guy said.

‘Perhaps. See for yourselves.’ Hoffman turned the heavy iron ring that served as handle on the door and pushed it open. He paused to point at Davenport and then put his finger to his lips. The meaning was clear – they were not alone.

The room was lit by burning sconces of oil. It gave the chamber a smoky, heavy atmosphere. Arched alcoves were black smudges in the gloom, perhaps leading to other areas.

Several stone tables stood down the middle of the chamber, a stone bench beside each. At one of the tables, sat a man. He was staring straight ahead, but his eyes seemed unfocused. His right hand held a pencil that scratched over the top sheet of a pile of paper on the desk in front of him.

A woman stood beside the desk, dressed in a dark skirt and jacket – the female equivalent of an SS uniform complete with jackboots. Her fair hair was twisted into a single plait. The
man lifted his pencil from the paper for a moment and she pulled the sheet away. She carried it to the next desk, wrote something in the top left corner, then placed it face-down on another pile of similar pages.

‘Anything of interest?’ Hoffman asked, walking over to the desk where the man sat.

The woman clicked her heels together and stiffened to attention. ‘No, Sturmbannfuhrer. He killed several men, but nothing that seems important.’

Guy looked at Davenport, who shrugged. Did they mean the man at the desk? He looked broad and strong, but emaciated and tired. He continued to stare into space, pencil moving swiftly over the paper.

‘You may leave us,’ Hoffman told the woman. ‘Wait outside. I will tell you when we are done.’

She nodded, and marched briskly from the room, closing the door behind her.

‘What is this place?’ Guy asked as soon as they were alone. ‘What’s he doing? Who did he kill?’

‘Not him,’ Hoffman said. ‘Come and see.’

They watched as the man drew. A sketched drawing of the top of a desk appeared. A blotter, papers, notebook, filing tray – sketched approximations of the real things.

‘This is Number Nine,’ Hoffman told them. ‘They all have numbers. I have no idea of his real name.’

‘And he draws pictures?’ Davenport asked, with evident amusement.

‘All the time.’

Hoffman lifted away the finished drawing, and the man immediately started again.

‘At least,’ Hoffman went on, ‘whenever there is a change of view that is significant.’ He led them over to the stone table where the woman had stacked the previous drawings. Hoffman lifted several sheets to show them. Each had a number neatly written in the top left corner. ‘These will be filed, along with all the others. We have them photographed too, as a precaution.’

Davenport took the sheets from Hoffman and riffled through them. They showed a progression – a view of a door; a view through the open door of a man; several pictures of the man, apparently in conversation across the desk. Then a change – hands around the man’s throat; a confused blur of motion; a knife stabbing forwards; a body lying on the floor, a dark stain forming around it. Then the top of the desk; a closer view of the notebook – a diary; the desk again…

‘He draws what he sees,’ Hoffman said. ‘Or rather, what someone else sees.’

‘This is the same sort of paper as that picture of me was drawn on,’ Davenport said. ‘Are you telling us that he draws what the
Ubermensch
sees?’

‘They are linked somehow,’ Hoffman said. ‘Of course the draughtsman – or woman – needs to have some innate talent. It seems to work with fortune tellers, mediums, people with some psychic ability.’

‘A mental link then?’ Davenport suggested.

‘It seems so. But there has to be some affinity between the viewer and the Ubermensch. We tested several of the candidates before we made this particular connection.’

‘Candidates?’ Guy said. ‘You mean the people in the beds?’

Hoffman nodded. ‘Anyone who seems to have the right ability is tested, and if they pass the test they are brought here.’

‘What sort of test?’ Davenport asked.

‘Simple things – predicting the next card in a sequence. Identifying a symbol chosen by another psychic. That sort of thing.’

‘But – how does it work?’ Pentecross said. ‘How is the link established?’

‘The bracelet,’ Davenport told him. ‘Don’t you see – that man is wearing a bracelet just like the one Sarah recovered from the burial mound. Just like the Ubermensch was wearing.’

‘That’s right,’ Hoffman agreed. ‘The bracelets seem to come in pairs. Although we have had instances of a connection forming without the bracelet. It is never as strong or reliable, but if the two – Ubermensch and viewer – are extremely
compatible…’ He shrugged. ‘Kruger is in charge of the project and he pretends to have answers for the Reichsfuhrer, but he doesn’t really understand. None of us does.’

The place was in turmoil. People were running – not just hurrying, but actually running – across the main concourse. Sarah pushed her way through to the reception desk. The woman at the desk recognised Sarah. She probably didn’t remember why, but it was enough for her to wave Sarah through as soon as she asked for Mr Whitman.

‘It’s urgent,’ Sarah said.

‘Isn’t everything today? He’s in his office. You know the way?’

Sarah nodded.

‘I assume he’s expecting you?’ the woman called after her.

‘Of course,’ Sarah called back, without turning.

She hurried up the stairs and made her way down the corridor to Andrew Whitman’s office. She knocked, not waiting for an answer before she pushed the door open.

‘Andrew – we have to talk.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Oh.’

It wasn’t Whitman. The man in the office was older. He half stood as he saw Sarah, beckoning her in.

‘It’s all right.’ His voice was a lazy drawl, not unlike Whitman’s. ‘Andrew has been detained, you know what it’s like. But he should be here soon.’

‘Perhaps I’d better come back.’

‘Nonsense. Miss Diamond, isn’t it?’ He gave a short laugh at her surprised expression. ‘Andrew’s told me everything about you. Come on in. Take a seat.’ He gestured to the chair opposite.

‘Everything?’ Sarah asked, trying to make light of it. He’d better not have.

‘So what brings you here, Miss Diamond?’ He ran his hand over his bald scalp.

‘I have to talk to Andrew. There are things I need to tell him. Things he should know.’

The man leaned back, swinging gently in the swivel chair behind the desk as he considered this. ‘Is that a fact? You can talk to me, you know. Andrew and I work together. Jeff Wood,’ he said. ‘Call me Jeff. Andrew will be here soon, but if you want to make a start?’

Perhaps because Jeff Wood seemed so casual about it, perhaps because his accent and his tone reminded her of Andrew Whitman, perhaps because she had come here determined to tell her story, Sarah nodded.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Have you ever heard the expression UDT?’

Jeff shook his head. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘When they brought it here, the Ubermensch knew nothing,’ Hoffman said. ‘That was well before I arrived. Before I even existed.’ He smiled. ‘But it had to learn, and it learned quickly.’

‘Where did it come from?’ Davenport asked. ‘A burial site, like the others?’

‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. I have heard talk of it being unearthed in Tibet, but the circumstances are shrouded in secrecy. I don’t like to ask too much, best not to draw attention.’

‘What did it learn?’ Guy asked.

‘Everything. How to speak, how to read… And in return it taught Kruger and the others. It told them how to use the bracelets.’

‘Why would it do that?’ Davenport wondered. ‘Surrender its privacy.’

‘I think it had to, in order to win some freedom. They wouldn’t let it go to England without being able to see what was happening, and be sure it couldn’t escape them.’

‘And why did it go?’ Guy said.

‘You know why. As soon as it could, it tried to recover more of its own kind, its own artefacts. It gave details of several possible sites, including the one in England. It said it wanted to help, that its only ambition was to help Germany win the war.’

‘You didn’t believe it,’ Guy guessed.

‘I’ve deceived enough people for long enough to know when someone – or something – is trying to deceive me,’ Hoffman said. ‘But what its real motives were, I don’t know. Perhaps it just craved company, wanted to find another of its own kind. Or perhaps it thought it could recruit enough Ubermenschen to fight back. Now it is gone, and we shall never know.’

‘So all you have now is this link to the Ubermensch from France,’ Davenport said.

‘Not quite,’ Hoffman said. ‘If that was all, I’d be less concerned.’

‘Then what?’

‘You’ll see.’

They stood watching Number Nine as he completed another picture. A view across the desk towards a door.