The War in the Dark Read online

  He found the makeshift opening, neatly snipped into the wire. There was a darkened road beyond it, and beyond the road the promise of the Vienna Woods.

  On the other side of the fence a pair of headlights flashed. And then they flashed again in sequence.

  Winter frowned, nonplussed. There was a black fat-tyred truck parked on the road, its windows in shadow. As he stared, a troop of men swarmed from the rear of the vehicle. They held machine guns in their hands. Garanin 2B-P-10s. Standard Soviet military issue. One of the men gave a low shout and waved the others forward with an officer’s practised slash of the hand. They weren’t in uniform but Winter knew soldiers when he saw them.

  He became aware of a small but insistent pressure at his ribs. He glanced down. The bitch had the blade on him.

  ‘Move,’ she said.

  He had no choice. The two of them squeezed through the snarl of wire and emerged on the other side. The men met them on the road, their weapons levelled at Winter. Making a show of his compliance he raised his hands in the air.

  ‘I’m not armed. My gun is empty.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said the woman.

  One of the troops came forward and flicked Winter’s jacket open. He snatched the Webley from its holster and chucked it to the side of the road. It landed with a clang of metal on rock.

  The men circled him. The tallest of their number – the one who had given the order – broke rank and walked towards Winter. He appeared to be in his late forties, his greying hair buzzed short and retreating at the temples. There was something sour and reptilian in his features. He seized Winter by the lapels and pushed him down, forcing his head to the wet road. He was strong. His fists pressed like weights on Winter’s chest.

  As he struggled for breath Winter found himself staring at the man’s left eye. He couldn’t look away from it. It was surrounded by crossfires of scar tissue, trajectories of wounds where the flesh had refused to heal. In the iris itself was a pale, cloudlike formation. As Winter watched this cloud began to swirl, spiralling around the pupil.

  The eye pierced him. The Russian said nothing but Winter could hear words, closer and louder than a voice. They seemed to collide and echo inside him, ricocheting in his skull. Who are you? Why are you here? What is your mission? The words were inside him and they felt like punches.

  The Russian hauled Winter up by the jacket. Again the milky iris spun. What is your mission? Why are you here? Tell me your name!

  The words faded. Frustrated, the man slung Winter to the road.

  ‘Enough. I cannot read him.’ There was a note of genuine exasperation in his voice.

  He unzipped his jacket and removed a Tokarev semi-automatic. He casually levelled the weapon at the Englishman.

  Winter faced the gun unflinchingly. It wasn’t a show of resolve, he knew. Nothing heroic. He was simply exhausted, resigned to the moment. He had always suspected death would take him in just such an offhand way. An indifferent bullet on an unmapped back road in Vienna, the act of a man whose name he would never know. He had killed other men in exactly the same way. There was an inevitable balance to it.

  ‘Malykh, no!’ The woman had spoken. ‘He’s British Intelligence! That makes him currency.’

  ‘A liability.’

  ‘We can trade him. The British will want him back.’

  The Soviet officer considered this. Persuaded, he lowered his gun. And then he put a swift boot into Winter’s face.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He gestured to a couple of the men. ‘Put him in the back. Secure him.’

  Half conscious, exhausted, Winter felt himself dragged to the rear of the truck. He glimpsed canvas and leather fastenings. And then he was pitched into darkness, landing in a sprawl of limbs on the floor. As he lay there his senses began to ebb, almost hungry for the dark. The last thing he noticed was a scent of gun oil and boot polish, the universal smell of the military. And then the world was black and still and untroubling.

  The truck’s engine turned. With a grind of wheels the unmarked vehicle rolled into the night.

  13

  The Thames looked sickly tonight.

  Hart regarded the river as he crossed the wrought-iron span of Blackfriars Bridge. The water that moved between the great arches was sluggish, weighed down by silt and thickets of weed. It swilled to the mudbanks that flanked the river’s edges, piled with clay and shingle. A few small boats swayed on the tide, tethered to the Embankment by fat cords of rope. To the east the dome of St Paul’s shone like a crown.

  The city’s bells struck eight. As if in response a horn sounded from a distant Thameside wharf. The wind carried the scent of chestnuts and bitter tea.

  London itself seemed ill this evening, thought Hart. It was the kind of illness that lingered in damp, cheerless rooms, bred by the rain. Something nagging and bronchial. The soot alone was inescapable in this city. It stained the buildings like the grime that lodged beneath your nails or the tobacco smoke that filled the cramped, rattling carriages of the Underground.

  He looked up and saw gulls break the thick fog. On a night like this walking through London felt like navigating a filthy lung.

  Giorgio’s Café was just ahead, on the corner of an alley in need of a streetlamp. The steam on its windows gave the light within a smudgy, homely glow. The word EATS burned in pink neon, next to the sticker declaring LUNCHEON VOUCHERS ACCEPTED. There was a photograph sellotaped to the pane. It showed a smiling Italian family, their faces bleached yellow by years of exposure to daylight.

  Hart felt a mild shudder of distaste as he reached for the door. Such a common choice for a rendezvous. He’d expected a touch more class from these people.

  The café welcomed him with a sudden, greasy heat. Hart made his way past the tight throng of tables with their citrus-bright Formica tops, hearing the sizzle of fry-ups and the hiss of tea-boilers as he edged around the other diners. The man he had come to meet was waiting in a booth at the far end. Hart slid into a green leatherette chair and joined him.

  ‘Dreadful business, isn’t it?’

  The man glanced up with a frown, clearly confused by this introduction. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The girl,’ said Hart. ‘The one in the news.’

  There was a ketchup-spattered copy of the Evening Standard on the table. The headline read MISSING BARONESS – RIVIERA MYSTERY DEEPENS. Hart lifted a salt shaker from the front of the paper, revealing a grainy photograph of a smiling, elegant woman, a chiffon scarf at her throat.

  ‘She’s pretty, too. Such exquisite bone structure.’

  He brushed a small spill of salt from the picture, his fingers tracing the contours of the woman’s face.

  ‘Antonia. Yes, that was her name. She looks like an Antonia, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the man in the booth, nonplussed.

  Hart gave what seemed like a private smile. And then he ordered a cup of tea from the glum pinafored waitress at his shoulder. He picked at a palmful of coins, as if unused to such tiny transactions. The waitress took the payment and walked away.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Hart. ‘Here we are.’

  He studied his companion, noting the blunt cut and dull fabric of his suit. The man sat across from him had an earnest, distracted, academic air. Oxbridge, perhaps? Yes, there was a distinct reek of debating society and suppressed sexuality about him. Hart spotted a nervous sheen on his upper lip. This pleased him.

  ‘I must say I was intrigued by your invitation. Less intrigued by your choice of venue, but then I suppose you chaps inevitably prefer a low profile. Still, there’s a fine line between keeping a low profile and simply slumming it.’

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ said the man, doing his best to cover his evident unease. ‘I’m Charles, by the way. Charles Bridelford.’

  He extended a hand across the table. Hart ignored it.

  ‘Hello, Charles. One of the Norfolk Bridelfords, are we?’

  The man lowered his hand, unsure how to withdraw it with any dignity. ‘I�
�m not sure. I don’t think so. Not much into genealogy, to be honest. More concerned with the future.’

  ‘Oh, quite right. But then the future’s an ongoing negotiation. At least you know where you are with your ancestors. Can I help you to the sugar?’

  Hart indicated the bowl next to the copy of the Standard. Bridelford shook his head and took a quick sip of tea before settling the mug on the Formica.

  ‘I’ll get to the point, Mr Hart. We’ve been observing you for some time now—’

  Hart cut across him. ‘Did you think I hadn’t noticed? You boys are charmingly clumsy.’

  Bridelford acknowledged the interruption with a wan smile and continued. ‘Naturally, the people I represent are very impressed. You have quite remarkable talents.’

  ‘Talents? You make me sound like a child violinist.’

  ‘Gifts, then.’

  Hart reclined against the leatherette. There was amusement in his bright green eyes. ‘Personally I’m rather partial to the word “powers”.’

  A nerve pulsed on his forehead, blue and urgent against the skin.

  Bridelford began to cough. He put his hand to his mouth to cover it. Spluttering into the fist he tugged a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pressed it to his lips. The coughing eased. He glanced down at the crumpled cotton square. It was dark with soot.

  ‘Such an unhealthy city,’ said Hart. ‘I dread to think what our pipes must look like. We’re probably black as factory chimneys inside, aren’t we?’

  The waitress returned, placing Hart’s mug of tea on the table. He took a sip of the milky swill and pinched his mouth in disdain. He put the mug down and did his best to ignore its existence.

  ‘I should tell you, Charles, that this isn’t the only offer I’ve received.’

  Bridelford was still dabbing at his mouth. He scrutinised Hart with pink, watery eyes.

  ‘The service?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And they’re appealing to your patriotism, I suppose?’

  Hart twinkled. ‘I do feel a faint stirring, I must admit. Must have been all that “God save the King” business at school.’

  Bridelford leaned across the Formica. ‘This isn’t about patriotism. This is about ideology. It’s about finding a better way. A way to make things fairer for everyone.’

  Hart waved at the smoky cluster of tables that filled the café. ‘Omelette and chips for all? Greasy tea doled out among the great proletariat? Or do we all get champagne and oysters?’

  There was a sudden flash of conviction in Bridelford’s gaze. In that moment he wasn’t afraid of Hart. ‘Communism will define this century.’

  Hart snorted. ‘Is that right? I don’t believe in political ideologies, Charles. Compared to the oldest truths of this world they have the lifespan of flies. You’ll have to find another way to persuade me, I’m afraid. You might want to try self-interest. That usually works.’

  Bridelford bristled. ‘That’s not our way, Mr Hart. I really hoped you might share our ideals.’

  ‘So sorry to disappoint. Perhaps if I felt any kinship whatsoever with my fellow man I might give a damn. But dear God, they do tend to be tedious creatures.’

  Hart rose from his seat as a kettle sang at the café’s counter. He gave a tight, sardonic smile. ‘No offence, comrade.’

  Squeezing out of the booth he indicated the copy of the Standard, tapping the photograph of the missing baroness. ‘She’s still alive, by the way. I only required her hand for the ritual. I suppose I could have used the bones of a single finger but no sense in cutting corners.’

  Hart strolled to the door, savouring the look he had seen on Bridelford’s face. The bell tinkled as he stepped out into the Thameside chill, reaching for the packet of Woodbines in his overcoat pocket.

  ‘Will you at least consider our proposal? Properly consider it?’

  Hart sighed. The dull little man had followed him out. He turned into the lightless alley at the side of the café, hearing Bridelford keeping pace behind him.

  ‘If you want money we have money. That’s no problem.’

  Hart kept walking as the wind from the river stirred the gutter. There was no moon above London tonight and the fog hid the stars. The only light to be seen came from the surrounding streets and the glitter of the city beyond Blackfriars Bridge.

  ‘Seriously, Mr Hart. We can accommodate you.’

  Hart stopped, a lit cigarette between his lips, the flaring red dot the brightest thing in the alley.

  ‘Like I said, Charles, I’ve had another offer.’

  Bridelford coughed. For a moment he looked surprised. He tried to form a reply. And then he coughed again and kept coughing, a violent, uncontrollable sputtering that compelled him to clutch his chest. The sound was unbearably raw, as if the flesh of his throat was being torn away with each hacking spasm.

  The man collapsed to the ground. He rocked on his knees for a moment. And then his mouth yawned apart and he vomited lungfuls of soot. It poured out of him, a thick, choking fountain of dust. More soot gushed from his nostrils and streamed from the ducts of his eyes, leaving his face streaked with grime. Soon his eyes were black and sightless, the corneas completely obscured by grit and filth.

  Hart stood over him, a nerve drumming relentlessly on his forehead. He watched as Bridelford keeled onto the cobbles.

  ‘One less Oxbridge Lenin to worry about.’

  The voice belonged to another man, waiting at the darkened end of the alleyway. He broke from the shadows to inspect the body in the gutter.

  ‘Charles Bridelford. One of our own. Damnably high security clearance, too. Wonder how much he’s told Moscow. Well, you’ve saved us a mole hunt, at least.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Hart threw away his Woodbine, already bored by it.

  The newcomer turned to regard him, his eyes cool and curious beneath the brim of his trilby. ‘So you’ve made your decision? You’ll work with us?’

  Hart smiled, exhaling the last of the smoke between his teeth.

  ‘God save the King, old boy.’

  14

  Winter was locked in what he took to be a disused farm building. As the days passed he came to know every chip and crevice in the stone of the room that held him. He counted the imperfections and saw how the walls darkened on mornings when the rain came, the water finding the cracks and staining the slabs like shadows.

  The Russians hadn’t chained or cuffed him but they hadn’t provided a bed, either. The floor was hard granite. It had a token covering of straw, barely enough to compensate for the chill that arrived once the sun had gone. The straw was stiff and it crawled with cockroaches; Winter suspected there might be mice in the room, too, or possibly some shy rats, scraping in the corners at night. Sometimes he dreamt of their teeth, tiny and insistent.

  The wind found him wherever he lay. There was a single, glassless window. In truth it was more of a break in the stonework than a window – much too small to crawl through but at least it gave him a view. If he stood on his toes he could see a rusting tractor. Everything on the farm had the same ochre patina, brittle and decaying. An abandoned pitchfork lay against a gate and looked as though it might turn to copper dust if you touched it.

  He could see tumbledown wooden buildings, their roofs submerged beneath great thatches of moss, vibrant green against the smoke-white sky. In the distance were the Alps, remote as clouds. At dawn Winter would observe the amount of snow on their peaks, committing to memory each melt or fresh fall. The next morning he would compare the snow level. By the second week of captivity it had become a compulsion.

  He wondered if it was better to go mad gently or quickly.

  More practically, the sight of the mountains gave him a crucial sense of location. He estimated that they were in Hungary, close to the border, perhaps by a matter of miles. It was an ugly, characterless tract of land, wherever it was.

  The Russians had taken his suit, his shirt, his tie and his shoes. And then they had dressed him in coarse khaki
trousers, laceless work boots and a baggy jumper riddled with holes. The wool had a pungent vegetable smell, as if it had been pulled from the soil, but then he was pretty pungent himself. The washing facilities were primitive, after all – a rag, a pail of lukewarm water and an ever-diminishing slice of soap. These amenities didn’t appear every day, either. No one had brought him a razor and so there was a wiry scratch of beard on his jawline.

  Surprisingly, the food wasn’t too shabby. Some days he even found himself craving the chopped sausage with its pinch of paprika. Winter imagined he was being served the same plain yet palatable rations as the Soviet soldiers. After all, it took extra effort to prepare the kind of prisoner’s gruel you expected to receive in these situations. It made sense to let him share the menu with the grunts.

  He also suspected the Russians had a pressing need to keep him healthy. He was currency, ultimately. That’s what the woman had called him. And every day he could feel himself healing, his body belatedly attending to its recent wounds. Yes, the cold that crept in at night still found every last ache and strained muscle but he sensed he was slowly repairing. Each morning, just after waking, he would absently prod the place where Harzner’s ring had split his lip. The gash in the flesh had begun to close.

  Some days he was allowed outside for brief spells of exercise. He would pace a small yard, letting his limbs flex and swing, savouring the autumn sky, the cool touch of air on his skin. The guards were watchful – and armed – but not entirely unfriendly. Winter’s grasp of Russian was a little too basic for banter but he managed to cadge the occasional cigarette. They were a state-manufactured brand and tasted sour enough to cement his distaste for communism.

  Most of his hours were spent in that cold stone room. It allowed him time to think. Altogether too much time. The monotony of his incarceration turned thoughts into scabs, things to be picked at. He found himself mulling the same questions, again and again, his mind cycling through the events of the past few weeks.