Dracula's Ghost - Afterimage: Chapter 14

Part III: The Witch of Endor

I.

Budapest

They presented their diplomatic credentials at the embassy gate, and Diels left Cristofor in the lobby as a pair of guards escorted him to the elevator. Don’t expect much, he had explained to the priest, for Soviet diplomats demanded a pound for every penny, and Diels was skeptical of their willingness to bargain. Still the guard had accepted his photograph of Archie Spencer, and a degree of official interest in the boy’s well-being made his disappearance less likely. He passed through a doorway and stopped short, thunderstruck, as Yuri Andropov glared at him from the far side of a desk.

“Herr Ambassador,” Diels stammered in English. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“I’m sure that it is.  A Nazi spy and a witch doctor pay a visit to the Soviet Embassy – it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”  Andropov regarded him coldly and ignored the photograph on his desk. “What do you want?”

“The Federal Republic of Germany has been assisting the man in the picture.”  It was not exactly a lie, Diels thought, if one broadened their horizons sufficiently. “His mother is missing, and we believe that he came to Budapest to find her.” 

“Then send the British Embassy,” Andropov said. “Better yet, send them to the Hungarians. After all, it is their country.”

“The British Embassy doesn’t know that he’s here, and the Hungarians seem indisposed at the moment.”  Diels nodded toward the columns of smoke that were visible through the ambassador’s window.  “I came here because I’ve been playing this game for a long time, and when I want to accomplish something, I go to the important people.” 

“You’re lying,” Yuri Andropov said. There were bags under the Ambassador’s eyes, and Diels wondered what price Moscow would extract for the loss of an entire country. Then let me take away one of your troubles, he thought.

“Let me be frank with you, Ambassador. The whereabouts of Archie and Sarah Spencer are not merely idle speculation. I have information that Sarah is in your custody and that she was used as bait to lure her son abroad. Since we don’t have time for prolonged negotiations,” Diels gestured toward the window, “I’m asking you to release them to me. Get them safely out of the country, and no one will breathe a word of what has taken place.” 

“How kind. In the Soviet Union, we know exactly what German promises are worth.”  

“It’s the truth,” Diels said. “It’s all I have to offer.” 

“The truth.”  Yuri Andropov stared through the window. “The new rulers of Hungary want to release the political prisoners, curtail the abuses of the secret police, and build a bridge between east and west – or so they claim. Do you know what I think? Take away the lofty rhetoric and the grand ideals, and they are grasping for power – nothing more.  This is how it always has been.” 

Diels thought of his cellmate from Flossenbürg. “Not always.”

“Your English friends aren’t here,” Andropov said. “And if they were, it would be none of your business. If you have more to say, send the British next time.”

The wheels in his mind continued to turn as the guards escorted him downstairs. Not a friendly man, but an interesting one, Diels thought. Soviet diplomats thought in cliches, and it was rare to meet one who spoke so candidly. But not too candidly – Yuri Andropov was lying about Archie Spencer.

“Your English friends aren’t here, and if they were, it would be none of your business.” 

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered. The guard stared at him, and Diels nodded politely.  Hopefully, he doesn’t speak German.

III.

Yuri Andropov considered his next moves as his eyes alternated between the photograph at his desk and the smoke on the horizon. Perhaps Acwulf was playing a double game all along, he thought, selling me on the idea of a show trial to discredit the Soviet Union. Very well, then. Acwulf had no official rank or status, and if the KGB gnashed their teeth at the loss of an agent, the repercussions would go no further than a few harsh words from Moscow. What about the woman and her son? Andropov had spent the previous afternoon with the Minister of State for the new government, and the meeting had gone well, even if the Minister balked at his suggestion.

“Rákosi had me thrown in prison to appease Stalin, and you’re asking me to betray the man that saved my life.”

“Stalin is dead and Rákosi has been shipped off to Moscow.” Andropov had appealed to his sense of duty. “Imre Nagy is your friend, but Moscow is growing weary of his antics, and when he falls, do you want him to take down the whole country? Just think it over János.” 

Andropov expected an official protest to be lodged with the Politburo, but when a whole day had passed, and when there was no word from Moscow, Andropov was convinced that Hungary’s new leader was ready to assume power. Acwulf’s show trial is now redundant. Andropov wrote out the orders by hand, and his secretary carried the memorandum to her desk for typing and distribution. He would have preferred to have the whole affair finished quickly, but they needed to follow the correct protocols.

The executions were set for tomorrow at midnight.

IV.

Archie dreamed of Highgate Cemetery, where vines twisted among century-old monuments and the dead rested beneath the shade of newly-grown forest.  His eyes probed the edges of the glade, seeking a glimpse of his grandfather, but there was no movement in the trees. Overhead, the sun was obscured by a heavy blanket of slate-gray clouds, and Archie frowned in disappointment.  The ghosts only come out at night. He bypassed the stone angel and read the engraving on the mausoleum.  Lucy. That inscription troubled him, as if the cruelty and capriciousness of the universe had been distilled into a simple girl’s name.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?”  The man at the base of the statue was tall and thin, his clothing was a good half-century out of fashion, and the mustache was accentuated by a thin wedge of beard that ran downward from the bottom lip. “She suffered so much at the hands of Jonathan Harker, and now his misdeeds are visited upon his children.”    

Archie tried to speak in defense of his grandfather’s honor – he didn’t know – but his own voice was a weak rasp, and the thin man paid him no mind. 

“Did you know that the Russians execute their prisoners by shooting them in the back of the head?”  A clawed hand traced the inscription on Lucy’s tomb. “They lead you into a darkened hallway on some pretext, and the executioner finishes you as you pass an open doorway.” 

“Get up.” Archie sat upright, startled, as the door swung inward. The guard looked pale, as if he had been recently ill. “We’re taking you to visit your mother.” 

They lead you into a darkened hallway on some pretext, he thought glumly.  Perhaps the dream was right after all. Archie stared at the guard, feigning ignorance.

“Do you want to see your mother or not?” 

“Yes.”  If they intended to kill him, he would find out soon enough.  “Please take me to my mother.” 

They descended to the lowest level of the prison and entered a long tunnel. Archie felt as if he had been dropped into an alternate version of reality, somewhere twisted and slightly absurd. He should have been shackled and closely watched, as if his exhausted body concealed a murderous psychopath, and every checkpoint should have been manned by armed guards. Instead, a single man led him through empty hallways, and the manacles dangled from the guard’s belt, forgotten. On the side of his caretaker’s neck, Archie saw a pair of puncture wounds just below the jawline, red marks tinged at the edges with white. No one emerged to shoot him, and Archie began to wonder whether, in the extremity of his final moments, his sanity had slipped. The door was constructed of heavy iron, and a key was inserted into the lock. Archie turned the key as the guard stumbled past, taking no notice of his prisoner as he retreated up the hallway.

Sarah rested on the cot, knees drawn to her chest, as she regarded the doorway with unblinking eyes.  A touch of grime marred her cheeks, but three years of imprisonment had left few traces – aside from the lustrous gray of her hair, she appeared to have scarcely aged. She approached cautiously, perhaps fearful of a rebuff, and caressed his cheek with a dirty hand. Archie had the uncomfortable sensation of being nuzzled by a great she-wolf, a predatory torn between licking his wounds and tearing him like a rabbit.  Finally, her body relaxed, and Sarah let herself fold into his arms.

“Hello Mother,” he said.

V.

You bastards. The embassy staff had suffered little more than harsh words from the mob, the Hungarians focused their rage upon their own government.  For now, at least.  The only Soviet casualty had been the statue, but if the memory of Joseph Stalin had been disowned by his own acolytes, the desecration of his monument filled Yuri Andropov with a visceral hatred. Three years ago, blood would have run through every gutter in Budapest. Worse, the Major was still missing, and Andropov could not dismiss the possibility that he had met with violence at the hands of the mob.

In the street below, a fight erupted as two men were dragged from a parked car. Andropov peered through the window, transfixed, as the crowd surrounded them and hustled the pair toward a nearby lamppost. They brought ropes, he thought numbly as his interest turned to horror. They knew that the secret police would be watching, and they brought ropes. The crowd formed a loose cordon to ensure that the no assistance reached the beleaguered men, and Yuri Andropov turned away as the noose was pulled taut.

The bodies were still hanging when the sun set.

VI.

Békéscsaba

Three guards sat with him in the bed of the truck, and a pair of officers rode in the cab. Two of the guards avoided his eyes. Good citizens carrying out a distasteful task, Plekhanov thought. On such men does every society run. Perhaps every tyranny, as well. The third man grinned at him, and Plekhanov regarded the smile dispassionately – ordinary citizens were always leavened with a few who took joy in bloodshed and pain. Or perhaps there’s more murderer in us than we care to admit. He thought of Sarah, and wherever she was, Plekhanov desperately hoped that she was safe.   

Photo by David Becker on Unsplash

They stopped at the edge of a wheat field, and the shackles hindered his steps as the guards hauled him outside. A luminescent ribbon of twilight was visible on the horizon, but the sun had vanished, and the first stars twinkled overhead. Plekhanov willed himself to walk at a steady pace as they moved him to the front of the truck. They’ll use the headlamps to be sure that the executioner has enough light for his task. He had borne witness to the deaths of German soldiers, disgraced Communists, and of ordinary men and women, and he resolved that his own end would not be heralded by cries or pleas for mercy. Clouds of dust, stirred up by the footfalls of a half-dozen men, glittered in the headlights, and Plekhanov amused himself by counting footprints as the officers fussed over the paperwork. When he grew bored with the game, he lifted his eyes. A dark shape flitted across the sky, circled once, then perched atop a nearby fencepost. The owl watched the proceedings with apparent interest, its yellow eyes gleaming in the headlamps. Finally, the paperwork was complete, and a guard forced him to his knees. One of the officers drew a pistol, and Plekhanov caught the disappointed look in the eyes of the sadist. He was hoping for the chance to carry out the execution personally. At least he’ll get to watch as my brains splatter in the dirt. The officer stepped behind him, and Plekhanov willed himself to relax as he awaited the pain of the bullet.

When it came, the shot missed his head by a good half-meter.

Something touched him between the shoulder blades, the wispy feel of a feather on bare skin, and Plekhanov was thrown to the ground with bone-jarring force. A shadow flickered past in the darkness, and a guard cried out in pain as Plekhanov pushed himself onto his elbows. One of the officers lay in the dirt, and blood, nearly black in the truck’s headlights, spurted from the wound in his throat.

“Once upon a time, a man met the devil at a crossroads.”  Plekhanov heard the voice clearly, though he was certain that no words passed through the air. The remaining officer stared into the darkness with bulging eyes, and after a moment’s consideration, placed the pistol under his chin. Plekhanov watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as the officer’s cap, blown upward by the force of the bullet, lifted from his head and fluttered to the ground.  Blood spattered his face in a fine mist.

“The devil asked him, ‘Bury my coffin in a churchyard that I may rest easy.’ The man, an honest and kindhearted peasant, agreed, but the cemetery keeper, thinking to find treasure, killed him and kept the box for himself.”  The shadows enveloped another guard, and Plekhanov hid his face until the screams faded.

“The following night, the devil returned, and the cemetery keeper was torn to pieces.”  To his left, there was a long burst of gunfire as a guard emptied his Kalashnikov. The gunfire was followed by a loud cry, and the sadist burst from the wheat at a full run. Plekhanov staggered to one knee as he dropped the empty Kalashnikov from his right hand. He grasped Plekhanov’s arm and stared into the darkness, his speech an incoherent babble of angels and blood, and Plekhanov wondered whether the errant bullet had, in fact, hit its mark – perhaps the bloody turn of events was merely the last firing of his dying synapses. The guard released his arm as his ramblings trailed off into a low moan.

“Look behind you.”

The apparition stood in the glow of the headlights, and Plekhanov would later wonder how it had moved in such utter silence.  It was dressed entirely in black, in a long coat reminiscent of the heavy coats worn by the guards in Siberia. The mouth was obscured by a heavy mustache, and the eyes seemed to catch the light in pinpricks of red. It smiled with yellowed, misshapen teeth, and when it stepped forward, the heavy boots left no prints in the soil. It pointed to the guard.

“Come here.” 

The sadist began to mumble as he shuffled forward, his body drawn toward the apparition like a hooked fish.  It caressed his cheek, and Plekhanov fought the urge to retch as the head inclined forward and the mouth opened. Finally, his own legs gave way, and as the ground rushed upward to meet him, Plekhanov’s last thought was of Sarah Spencer, embracing the thief as she tore out his throat.

“Get up.”  A strong hand gripped his shoulder and hauled Plekhanov to his feet.  The man appeared quite ordinary, and though the bodies of the guards lay at his feet, Plekhanov was surprised find himself unafraid.  He tried to recall the carnage and was unable, as if the last two minutes were a nightmare which he had forgotten upon waking.  The bloodshot eyes regarded his bindings, and Plekhanov jumped as the shackles fell away.

“It’s easier to drive when you can use your arms.”  The stranger looked up and contemplated the stars. “My name is Quincy Morris, and I need you to take me to Budapest.” 

“You’re looking for Sarah, aren’t you?”

“Yes. If you help me, you will see her again – do you want that?” 

Plekhanov thought of Sarah and understood the truth. She is like him, or she will be soon enough.

“What happens if I refuse?”

“Nothing happens.”  Quincy Morris continued to stare at the night sky. “If you refuse, you leave a free man. But we both know that you won’t do that, don’t we?”

“I suppose so,” Plekhanov nodded.

“Good. Put the bodies in the truck, and we’ll take them across the border to Romania. I have some other items that we need to retrieve.” 

Plekhanov opened his mouth to object – one did not simply drive a stolen truck to Romania – but the stranger cut him off with a raised hand.

“Do what I say, and I will take care of the rest.”