The War in the Dark Read online

  The woman saw Winter out. This time there was no stilted pretence at conversation.

  He stepped gratefully into sunlight.

  9

  Dusk had settled on the Vienna Woods.

  Already dense with shadows, they reached beyond the western bounds of the old city, a sprawl of forest and rolling vineyards that crept to the foothills of the Alps. There was snow on the distant peaks.

  Winter and Griggs had claimed a hill that gave them an optimal view of Harzner’s mansion. They had been there for the best part of an hour now, crouched among the fallen leaves. Winter wore his tweed suit while Griggs was all in black, a knitted commando hat tugged low on his head. The soil had left cold, sodden patches on their knees and elbows.

  Griggs had the field binoculars. He was keeping watch on Krabbehaus.

  ‘What can you see?’ asked Winter, instinctively whispering though they were quite alone on the knoll.

  ‘More cars,’ grunted Griggs. ‘Some smashing birds.’

  ‘Focus,’ snapped Winter.

  ‘Don’t encourage me.’

  Winter snatched the binoculars and put them to his own eyes. Adjusting the focus wheel he brought Krabbehaus into view. It was perfectly named. Whether by accident or architectural whim Harzner’s mansion resembled a squat crab, its brace of turrets rising like vicious pincers. There was something oddly nocturnal about it, even in the fading daylight.

  He let the binoculars range across the view. A tall gate of curved steel guarded the entrance to the drive. It was open now, allowing a coal-dark BMW saloon to access the path. Winter watched it glide in, its tinted windows inscrutable. There were other cars in the expansive parking area, graceful limousines and more discreet vehicles, side by side on the gravel. An off-duty chauffeur slouched by a Volkswagen, the red twinkle of his cigarette picked out by the powerful lenses. Next to him stood a pair of women in evening gowns, as elegant as the car they reclined on. Other figures mingled in the gloom.

  Winter shifted his attention to the mansion itself. There were already lights on in the windows of the great house. He let the binoculars roam across the walls, taking note of potential exits and entrances, assessing the geography as best he could. And then he looked beyond the building, to the grounds that encompassed Krabbehaus.

  ‘Perimeter fence,’ he stated. ‘Ten feet. Maybe twelve. I can’t tell if it’s electrified.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Griggs, patting the canvas knapsack slung around his torso. ‘Crocodile clip, circuit breaker and a change of pants.’

  ‘There are dogs, too. Pinschers.’

  ‘I’ll bullet the buggers if need be.’

  Winter passed the binoculars back to Griggs. He stole a glance at his watch, squinting at the clock face in the fast-dimming light. It was almost time.

  ‘Wait here until eight. Then find a way in round the back. Have a rummage. See what you can find. Photograph as many faces as you can. Basic intelligence sweep. We’ll rendezvous at my hotel.’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ said Griggs. ‘Shall I bring you some tea in the morning?’

  ‘Just do your bloody job.’

  Winter picked himself up, brushing soil from his suit. He peeled off his gloves and jammed them into his pockets. Griggs regarded him wryly.

  ‘Some real flash gits at this bash. Who’s your tailor? Marks? Or Spencer?’

  Winter rubbed at the wet patches on his knees. ‘I’ll take the car to the front. You take the bike to the fence, northern approach. No lights.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Winter left Griggs on the hill. He had walked only a few steps before he turned to regard his colleague. His face was half shadowed, his eyes bright in the dusk. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Griggs gave his customary crinkled grin.

  ‘You too, you bastard.’

  * * *

  Winter slid the Daimler along the curling gravel path to the main gate. The car was met by a member of Harzner’s private security, a sour, brick-like man dressed in a dark olive uniform. His peaked cap and boots summoned echoes of another Germany. Winter showed him his ID, which was in the name of Malcolm Hands – an impeccable counterfeit fashioned overnight by a master forger Griggs had found in the Jewish quarter.

  The guard opened the gate and waved Winter on. The moon was out now, brilliant and full, and it made the clawing turrets of Krabbehaus even more pronounced against the October sky. Winter eased the Daimler alongside a vintage tourer. Exiting the car with a perfunctory nod to a bored chauffeur, he strolled to the entrance of the mansion, his shoes crunching shingle.

  There were concrete statues either side of the door, sculpted in a modernist style. They subliminally hinted at the shapes of insects but their skewed contours seemed to twist and shift each time he looked at them. Winter disliked them on principle. Give him Blake’s angel in Matilda Park any day.

  Winter rang the bell and heard it chime behind the hefty oak door. He was soon ushered inside and offered a glass of Saint-Émilion from a silver tray. The serving girl gave a joyless smile and continued to wheel through the murmuring crowd.

  Winter swiftly felt very British and very ordinary. Hadn’t Joyce chosen this suit for him? He crushed the memory as soon as he thought it. Placing himself in a quiet corner he observed the room.

  Who were these people? A few faces he knew from the files. The deputy commander of Italian security. His French counterpart. There was the director of Chinese Intelligence, his arm linked with an impassively beautiful girl who was neither his wife nor one of two European mistresses of record. Winter noted a KGB operative he had crossed on a particularly messy kill in Dortmund in the spring of ’61. It would be prudent to avoid him.

  He had no idea who the rest of the crowd were. They thronged beneath the high dazzle of chandeliers, thin, shimmering glasses in their hands, the men in black tie and the women in chic dresses. They wore power, too. Winter recognised it in their absolute poise, the clear lack of jealous glances at their fellow guests. Nothing in their eyes betrayed them. They were equals, whoever they were, and supremely confident. Winter sensed that these were the people behind the doors of the world.

  ‘Mein Herr?’

  A man was at his side. He was a unique specimen, flukily tall, a ragbag of bones in a tuxedo. His clothes seemed pinched and altogether too short, the ruby-studded shirt-cuffs revealing a waxy length of wrist. The face was equally long and bloodless, the skin taut over the hollows. A strangely surgical scent clung to him. Winter had the unshakable impression he was being addressed by someone whose body should, by rights, have been gifted to medical science.

  ‘Forgive me,’ the man said, his voice curiously high and tremulous. ‘I am Albrecht, Herr Harzner’s factotum. And you are?’

  ‘Malcolm Hands,’ said Winter, swiftly. ‘I am here on behalf of Her Majesty’s government.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ The man gave a smile that belonged on a post-mortem slab. ‘I should have recognised your fine British style.’

  Winter ignored the slight. ‘What time is the auction?’

  ‘Nine o’clock. May I have your bid?’

  Winter reached into his jacket and removed a plain sealed envelope. As he handed it over he asked, ‘And how does this work, exactly?’

  Albrecht adjusted the square gold-framed spectacles squatting above his gaunt nose. His eyes were surprisingly boyish. ‘Herr Harzner will judge the bids. The one he finds the most attractive wins. It is not a complex system, Herr Hands. I wish you luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Albrecht smiled again, just as repellently. ‘And please, there is much entertainment on offer before and after our little auction. We have many rooms. And many delicacies. Whatever your pleasures, I am sure you will find satisfaction.’

  Winter held the man’s gaze. ‘I’m happy with my wine, thanks.’

  ‘You British. You are never quite able to relax, are you? No matter. Enjoy your wine. It is an exceptional vintage.’

  Winter watche
d as Albrecht bowed and returned to the throng. He felt as though his entire body had just been coated in a slug trail, cold and gluey. He placed his untouched wine on a table and continued to patrol the perimeter of the room. He took care to keep himself out of the KGB man’s line of sight. In fact he meticulously avoided eye contact with anyone. After all, any of these people might have been acquainted with the real Malcolm Hands.

  Watch over me, Malcolm, he thought.

  He saw the woman, then, standing equally alone. Her face was concealed by a butterfly mask but he knew that profile and he saw the edge of the scar beneath the wing. It was Sabīne, Harzner’s secretary. The Latvian, the one with the fighter’s body. She appeared to be lost in contemplation, staring at a fresco that dominated the wall. It was a vision of biblical apocalypse, the world shattering beneath a sky of demons.

  ‘Cheery sight,’ he said.

  She turned to him, the light of the chandeliers playing on the iridescent wings of her mask. They glittered, violet and green.

  ‘You are talking about me?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m talking about the picture. I know I’d prefer something a little more soothing than the end of the world on my wall. But then that’s not really Herr Harzner’s style, is it?’

  She returned her attention to the painting, falling back into silence. Winter found his eyes drawn to her left arm. Bared by the dress, it was decorated with an elaborate tattoo, a snaking vine whose dark leaves encircled her flesh like creepers. He had never seen a tattoo on a woman before.

  ‘That’s remarkable,’ he said. ‘And this time I am talking about you.’

  The compliment prised a smile out of her. It felt hard won. ‘Thank you. I rarely have the chance to show it. Most people frown upon such embellishment.’

  ‘I think it’s astonishing. And really quite beautiful. Why did you have it done?’

  Silence.

  ‘Tell me. I’m intrigued.’

  There was frost in her voice again. ‘It is a private matter. I do not discuss it.’

  ‘Is it something to do with Harzner? Is that it?’

  She turned to him. Her eyes were an urgent blue behind the mask. She spoke quickly and quietly. ‘He knows who you are, who you really are. And he knows that you have not come alone. You are in danger here. You should leave this house.’

  Winter made sure that his face betrayed nothing. ‘Why would you tell me this?’

  ‘Your death is unnecessary.’

  He reached for her arm, his hand closing around the tattooed leaves. He could feel the muscles coil and contract beneath the ink.

  ‘What hold does Harzner have over you, Sabīne?’

  ‘You are the one who appears to be holding me. If you continue to hold me I promise I will shatter your arm.’

  He let go of her. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Yes, it’s very much a threat,’ she replied, levelly. ‘Well observed.’

  She took a final sip from her champagne flute, draining the glass, then placed it next to a marble bust of a minor Roman deity. ‘Now leave. There’s still time for you. Your death doesn’t have to happen tonight. It may be too late for your colleague.’

  And with that she walked away. Winter watched as she melted into the swarm of partygoers, his mind picking at her words. What danger was Griggs in?

  ‘A pity. Such a waste of your imperialist charm.’

  There was a new voice at his shoulder. Winter turned, hating that he had been so easily surprised. It was the Russian, the one he had encountered that night in Dortmund, the one he had left beneath the bridge, cradling another KGB man’s splintered skull.

  Winter appraised him, calculating probabilities: height, weight, muscle power, the strong likelihood that the crease in his tuxedo was made by a holstered gun. Small calibre, he guessed. A pocket pistol. Very discreet. But no matter. Winter was armed too.

  ‘Why would they send you?’ the man asked.

  Winter sensed a belligerent edge to the question. He examined the Russian’s face, noting the sweat in the pockmarked pores, the bloodshot webs in the eyes, the telltale constriction of the pupils. The man wasn’t drunk, not yet, but the wine was impacting. His reaction time would be compromised, his combat skills impaired. The Russian had more heft but Winter would have an advantage, if it came to it.

  ‘You are a killer,’ the man continued. ‘An assassin dog. You have no place here, unless you are here to kill.’

  Tactical possibilities: side of the fist to the windpipe. Alternatively a fast, balled punch to the gut, assuming the abdominal wall would be unprepared. If he needed a weapon there was always the woman’s abandoned champagne flute. Crack it on the marble, slash the jugular or blind the eyes.

  ‘Are you here to kill?’

  Exit possibilities: the crowd was behind them, lit by chandeliers and patrolled by Harzner’s staff. This corner of the room had a degree more shadow but was just as exposed. There was a choice of doors. One led back to the main hall and the central arteries of the house. The other was frequented by waiters, replenishing trays and glasses. It had to connect to the kitchen. Too many people in either direction.

  ‘You British were so proud of your code of honour in the war. And yet in Dortmund you shot our man in the back of the head. It was a coward’s kill. Are you proud of that? Are your masters?’

  The rate of the man’s breathing had increased. There was a pink sheen to his skin, betraying a rush of blood to the veins. If he chose violence it would come now, and it would be swift.

  ‘Would you care for a cigarette?’ asked Winter.

  The Russian stared at him, momentarily nonplussed. ‘What?’

  ‘A cigarette. Would you like one?’

  Winter fished out a crumpled packet of Capstans, its lid still trailing cellophane. There were two cigarettes left. Thank you, Malcolm.

  The Russian took one. Winter offered his silver lighter, the gesture equally conciliatory. The Russian’s cigarette took flame. And then Winter lit his own. There was a mutual expelling of smoke through nostrils.

  ‘About Dortmund,’ Winter began. ‘Your man had put a bullet in my colleague that afternoon. That was just as unnecessary. He was on his knees at the time. But he didn’t plead. We do have a code, of sorts.’

  The Russian took another drag, his eyes narrowing to red-rimmed slits as he inhaled. ‘Two men dead, both loyal to their countries. And all because you came to kill another man who no longer believed in his. We are all rooks, every one of us. But this man Harzner has no loyalty, no country. He is his own nation. There is no compass for him, no east, no west. This makes him dangerous.’

  ‘I know,’ said Winter. ‘But we want what he’s got. And so do you.’

  ‘So we waltz with devils,’ said the Russian. ‘I hope Her Majesty’s government knows how to dance.’

  He gave a flushed smile. And then he took his leave. ‘Thank you for the cigarette. Capstans? Mr Hands’ favourite.’

  Winter dropped his own cigarette into the woman’s glass. It was time to leave this room.

  10

  Winter found the architecture of Krabbehaus increasingly curious.

  He stood in the main hall, before the grand staircase, mulling the dimensions of Harzner’s mansion. There was something about its geometry that refused to make sense, something that almost defied the eye. The very angles of the house seemed evasive, deceptive, as if the walls and the high vaulted ceiling shouldn’t meet in the places they did.

  He sensed it, instinctively. It was an unease that pooled at the base of his skull. The house felt wrong.

  Only Albrecht had seen him leaving the party. He had smiled across the crowd, almost conspiratorially, no doubt imagining the Englishman was off to sample the so-called delicacies in the upstairs rooms. Winter suspected the cream of Austria’s whores were here tonight. He had already spotted them in the ballroom, women with a glassy beauty and something blank and untouchable in their eyes.

  Let Albrecht think that. It was a good excuse for his
departure. And he would need a persuasive alibi if he was caught exploring the mansion’s rooms before the auction began. If Sabīne was right, and Griggs was in danger, he had a duty to investigate – a personal duty, as far as the mission would allow. Hatherly’s fate still troubled him.

  Winter’s hand smoothed his jacket. The pen was there in the inside pocket, still concealing its precious cache of microdots. He hated this blind auction business but that was the game they were playing. He just had to hope Harzner favoured the British bid. But if he didn’t? God knew there was no decent contingency plan.

  He began to climb the stairs, holding the pearl-coloured balustrade that clung to their extravagant sweep. It felt cool in his grasp but the surface was uneven, rutted and pitted as if fused from materials that didn’t quite match. His hand moved over a succession of gnarled grooves.

  He glanced at the balustrade as he climbed. A single word occurred to him. Vertebrae.

  He couldn’t shake the thought. That’s what this was – a vast, coiling spine, built of bone.

  Winter looked up. The ceiling seemed to be decorated with more bone, fashioned into a giant ribcage. And the white chandelier that lit the immense hall of Krabbehaus – was that also crafted from human bones? He peered into its dazzle, convinced he could see femurs and clavicles, fragments of skull, hollow sockets and jaws, all elegantly arranged around the lights.

  Winter had heard of ossuaries, or bone churches, as they were also known. Medieval shrines, garlanded with the skeletal remains of the dead. It was almost unimaginable that such a grisly concept could be replicated in a house in the Vienna Woods, in the second half of the twentieth century. He wondered if Harzner had inherited the macabre ornamentation – Griggs had told him that the mansion had once been a summer retreat for the Habsburgs – or if he had installed it himself. If so, how exactly had he sourced the bones? Some of them were terribly small…

  Winter felt he was moving ever closer to a strain of human darkness he had never encountered before, something dreadful in the shadows of this world. It chilled him but he knew he had to keep focus. He had a gun and he had a mission. These would be his certainties.