Part 7 (2/2)

Question: where had they come from?

I remembered my dream again, the white, sterile land and, high above, angels flying on the winds.

Was that their real home? Had I somehow stumbled, in my dreams, on...on heaven?

Or had I been taken there for a reason?

And another question, working its way slowly into my mind like a thin drizzle of black water: Had the n.a.z.is somehow found a way into it?

That would explain the captured angels.

But then, why hadn't the Archangels done anything about it?

There were too many questions, and the time to ask them was running out. I needed some answers. I needed to reach the core of this operation and break it apart. I took off the m.u.f.flers and left them behind me, and walked away to the sound of the diminis.h.i.+ng screams, choosing paths almost at random, with a strange belief they would lead me to my destination.

I traversed the corridors of pale silent ice, meeting no-one. I was entering that same dream state as I had on the way here, and I tried to fight it, to wrest control of my mind from this alien intrusion. It was all about control, and always has been--but the influence over me was growing, leading me across a blank icy map as if it intimately knew the layout of this underground complex. It was a chessboard, and I was a p.a.w.n, and a hidden player was pus.h.i.+ng me to the edge of that board towards checkmate.

It was about control, because that's what I have to have when the mission is in its final phase. I had to be in control of my actions, the organism shutting down all unimportant routines and concentrating on one thing: survival. I was losing that control and I knew I would have to break it if I wanted to survive.

The feeling had a more sinister quality to it than the one I'd had on the skis. I tried to turn back, to choose a different path, but my body disobeyed me as if the instructions from my brain were not reaching their destination, and I tried to fight that and the apathy that was stealing over me.

It wouldn't go away and then I punched the wall of ice on my left, hard, and again, and again, until blood came out and the pain exploded in bright shards of ice, cold, dead, distant stars s.h.i.+mmering before my eyes.

When I stopped, my hand was caked in blood and slivers of ice, and there was a small crater in the wall where it had cracked.

I tried to move in the opposite direction to the pull and succeeded, my movements my own again, and then I ran, ran in the opposite direction, and as I did I heard the great gus.h.i.+ng sound of water behind me and knew they had flooded the corridor and that, unless I reached higher ground, and fast, I would very soon become a sculpture of cold, dead ice.

Chapter Nineteen.

”It is nice of you to join us.” He spoke German and, as he did, a horsewhip tapped against his leather boots, tap, tap, tap, in time to a rhythm only he could hear.

It was pointless to disseminate; there was no cover story here, no Anna Krojer or Marija Zita or Janet Gordon to hide behind, this was ground zero and there was nowhere else to go.

Nevertheless.... ”I'm sorry,” I said, spreading my hands slowly, ”I don't understand...?” I said it in English but it didn't seem to make much of an impression on him, and he smiled, showing teeth. There was a file by his side and I knew it was mine. They would have known who I was--or what I was, at the very least.

”I was under the impression you spoke German fluently,” he said, still in the same language, still smiling. He had very bright, white teeth. He probably polished them every night as if they were gemstones.

Tap. Tap.

”Perhaps we can test it by cutting off one of your small fingers and see how you react?”

One of his bodyguards was standing on my right, a little back. I saw him reach for one of the surgical knives and knew they would happily do it, and that what I had do was to try and lengthen the time until they did decide to get rid of me, and try and make my move before then. It wasn't much of a plan but it was all I had.

”That,” I said, carefully and in German, ”won't be necessary.” I let my hands drop to my sides and felt them relax, just a little, behind me.

He was immaculately dressed in a grey uniform without insignia. Riding boots, a horsewhip. Greying hair, a sensitive face grown podgy, eyes that could make the cold outside seem like a holiday in the sun, somewhere hot where they serve drinks with little umbrellas and play soothing music. His eyes said there would never be any more drinks with little umbrellas, that I would never see the sun. They were quite eloquent, for eyes.

The smile didn't leave his face. It was like a growth that couldn't be removed. He said, ”Excellent. You are a remarkable woman, Shadow Executive Killarney. That is your codename, isn't it? Killarney? Our friends in the Fourth Directorate have quite a large file on you.” He tapped the table. ”As you can see.”

”And you are?” I said, letting it ride.

I felt them s.h.i.+fting again behind me. Nervous b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. There was one on either side of me, two more covering the door. And Herr Doktor, tap-tap-b.l.o.o.d.y-tap. They were all standard muscle boys, in fact, a little too standard: blond, blue-eyed, large, they all looked exactly like the pair I had killed on the train, as if Herr Doktor had found himself a way of manufacturing perfect Arians.

”Is the name really important?” he asked, still smiling. Still tapping. Tap. Tap.

Tap.

”The work will live on after the name is forgotten, after all.”

”And your work involves torturing angels?” I had to keep him talking, keep thinking of a way out of this.

When the water came rus.h.i.+ng into the corridor I was already running, the organism taking over completely, using up all available resources, have to get out of this, run faster, find a way up or a way out, and hurry up because the water is nearly there, touching you....

There had been a shuddering sound and a part of the floor dropped away behind me with a sickening thud. I stumbled but kept running as, behind me, more of the floor dropped away. Icicles flew in the air and one or two hit me, their edges as sharp as blades.

There was only one way to do it and I took it, putting the gloves back on and praying it would work, and then I jumped, a three-hundred-and-sixty degrees jump shortened to a hundred and eighty as the boots caught on the ceiling, spikes extending, and I broke the arc and swung the other way, catching the ceiling with my hands, the gloves extending and catching at the ice, the needles driving in hard, and I held on as, underneath me, the water rushed, too low to touch me.

There was a ventilation shaft only a short distance from me--if I could reach it. I wasn't convinced of the efficiency of the suit. I knew every second the contact with the ice could weaken and I could fall into the frozen waters below. I inched my way towards the ventilation shaft, clawing at the ice, and reached it just as the floor fell beneath me and I was left staring at a drop that was a guaranteed kill, hanging upside down from the ceiling of ice.

There was nothing else to do. I reached out, carefully, carefully, hooked the grill and pulled; it dropped away from the ceiling and crashed below. I thought I'd made it. I reached through the hole and found purchase and tried to pull myself up.

Then two sets of arms grabbed me and pulled me up, and I knew the game was up and that I was the piece most likely to be off the board next.

They lifted me up and I couldn't help but breathe in relief. It's not easy hanging upside-down on a wall of ice when the floor drops below you, and whatever the alternative, at that moment I was pleased to be back on something solid.

There were two of them in the small s.p.a.ce, and they gave me a fright until I realised they were not the two I had killed on the train. One had a gun trained on me but fighting would have been useless anyway; they had me and I was too exhausted to fight, not right then at any point. I'd have to work out the best time for that later. If there was a later.

They led me away. It was some sort of s.p.a.ce between s.p.a.ces, but not a crawls.p.a.ce as I'd thought. It was another corridor, with grills in the floor through which I glimpsed the ruined corridor below, and it ended with a door.

We stepped through it, pa.s.sed through another set of corridors, and then we were in a plush office and the n.a.z.i with the horsewhip was greeting me with that smile. I'd made a mental note to erase that smile sometime in the near future, using as violent a means as was available to me.

”What you must understand,” he said, ”is that we do not torture angels. We study them. And what fascinating creatures they are! Such interesting powers. We knew you were approaching long before you did, you see. They have such useful powers; if they can only be harnessed. I was quite amazed when you fought back against their influence--if you hadn't fought, you would have been standing here some time ago with none of the unpleasantness of the flood. Still--” he looked thoughtful for a moment ”--it certainly provided me with some interesting data on you.”

”Who are you?” I said again but, as I did, a suspicion was already forming in my mind; how many crazed n.a.z.i doctors were this ruthless, and still at large? I thought of the cages of angels, the operating theatre, the precision, the fastidiousness. Who was there who could do those things?

He could read it in my face, and the smile never wavered; he nodded once as if confirming my thoughts.

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