Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 10
A Man of Diabolical Cast
TEN
London
1893
“My God,” he says aloud, so sharply that Mina jumps. “It is the man himself!”
“Who is it, Jonathan?” There is concern in Mina’s voice as she follows his gaze.
Don’t know. Can’t remember. They are in London for the funeral of Peter Hawkins, Mina’s foster father and his employer. Jonathan knows that he is unwell, for entire months of his life have vanished, and he gleans only fragments when he tries to recall the recent past. He concentrates on his work and spends time with Mina, taking long walks around Northernhay Gardens, picnicking in the countryside, and making love in the evenings. Still, his nightmares are vivid, alabaster and blood red that he cannot remember by the light of day. He often thinks how much easier things could be if he could crawl inside of a bottle to drown out the fear or the occasional thoughts of suicide. His benefactor’s sudden death is a mystery, and Jonathan wonders whether Mina, seeing his own state of mind, knows more than she reveals.
The man appears young in the late summer twilight, though it is difficult to tell beneath the beard. He is richly attired, but something is off about his mannerisms, as if a barbarian had looted Harrods’ finest clothing. A girl is standing at a store window, and the man watches her intently before following her up the street. I saw him, Jonathan thinks. I saw him right here in London, and that means that he is real - that everything is real. Terrifying images flood his brain, but Jonathan has teetered at the edge of madness for so long that the sudden realization of his own sanity fills him with a fierce joy. He grins, and concern passes across Mina’s face before she tentatively returns the smile.
“Dracula. Dracula is alive and in London.”
I.
Berlin
1933
Rudolf Diels watched the pigeons from his bench in the Tiergarten and beamed at the thin man – Lovely morning, isn’t it? – who walked up the path. His counterpart from Munich was always fastidious about his appearance, with his SS uniform exquisitely pressed and not a hair out of place, but his worried expression suggested that the recent events in Salzburg had found a tiny chink in his armor. He wore no pistol but carried a ceremonial dagger at his waist, and Diels wondered whether his guest was weighing the repercussions of murdering him where he sat. All that blood would be a terrible shock for the pigeons. Instead, Reinhard Heydrich brushed a sheen of dust from the bench, carefully smoothed the creases on his trousers, and sat beside him.
“You have something that belongs to me, Rudolf. Where is she?”
“I think that would be a someone, rather than a something, and you’ll need to be more specific - I know a great many women, all of them quite lovely.” He decided to twist the knife a little. “I heard of a kidnapping victim that the Bavarian authorities rescued from a pair of Belgian criminals, but I can’t imagine that you mean her. The Fuhrer has almost certainly returned her to London by now, but you can check with the authorities in Bavaria. It’s their case.”
“Was their case, Rudolf.” A smile oozed across the thin face. “The duties of the Bavarian police were taken over by the SS this morning. Hadn’t you heard? I suppose you didn’t hear about Herman either. He took a fall yesterday.”
“Well, give him my best wishes.”
“He landed on a butcher knife. Unfortunately, the injury was fatal.”
Diels shrugged. A pity. Herman was a good informant.
“I know you heard the story from Strassor.” Heydrich’s gray eyes regarded the pigeons indifferently. “Doesn’t it make you wonder?”
“Not really.”
“Look Rudolf.” Heydrich’s jaw clenched, as if it pained him to explain himself. “I understand that the account in the journal is somewhat… fanciful, but I know something that you don’t. A common occurrence these days, isn’t it? In 1871, over twenty years before the events in London, an estate agent in Berlin arranged to sell an estate to a Transylvanian nobleman. The same Transylvanian nobleman, Rudolf! I found it in the archives myself.”
“Well, what happened?” Diels asked.
“You should bring bread for the pigeons.” Heydrich pointed to the birds. “It will keep you occupied when you retire next year. Something went wrong, and the transaction never occurred. The estate agent went to Transylvania and disappeared. I have corroboration of the Englishman’s diary, Rudolf!”
“Reinhard, you can’t be serious. You actually believe this story?”
“The woman, Rudolf.” Heydrich tapped at his chest with a finger. “I want her returned to my jurisdiction immediately. Do you understand?”
“Touch me again, and I’ll break that finger.” Diels put on his sunniest smile. “If I hear anything about a missing woman, I’ll be happy to let you know. Just don’t count on anything, since you hear all the best news before it reaches me.”
“Please do. One more thing – the new law bars Jews from the Civil Service - get rid of the one on your payroll.”
God, this man is tiresome. “As a War veteran, Sigmund is exempt from the Civil Service Law.”
“He is.” Heydrich gave him a chilly grin. “For now.”
Diels watched him go, and a mix of heady excitement and hot anger raced through his body. This will end badly for one of us, he thought.
II.
Bavaria
Sarah unlatched the window, a large casement nearly as tall as herself, and the frames swung inward on their hinges. Last night, she had eaten, bathed, and helped herself to clean clothes before covering herself with a blanket and falling into a deep sleep. Now, a faint odor of cigarette smoke drifted on the air, and she slipped from the bedroom to investigate. Outside, her rescuer basked in the morning sunlight, and Sarah plopped into the wicker chair beside him. He had removed his jacket and tie but wore the same suit as yesterday. Sarah guessed his age at a few years older than her own. The light-brown hair was receding around the temples, and his thin frame reminded her of a malnourished adolescent from the East End, but his overall countenance suggested good health, and his smile was a sharp contrast with Hans’s sour demeanor and Richard’s leering grin. Not necessarily a handsome man, but a pleasant one.
“Good morning. The owner of the house does not allow smoking, so I find myself on the terrace. Did you sleep well?”
“Like the dead.” To the south, the mountains gleamed in the morning light. “Can you tell me what is happening?”
“I will try. Let me start with an introduction. My name is Sigmund, like the psychiatrist in Vienna, but I am not accepting new patients.” It was a poor joke, but Sarah found herself smiling, nonetheless. “Sigmund Fredrich Wilhelm Foch. I work for the security police in Berlin.”
Sarah found the news less encouraging than she might have expected. “If I’m in police custody, you would have contacted the British Embassy. Why am I hiding in the mountains instead?”
“Tolstoy once said there were two systems in Russia – the formal and the informal.” Sigmund exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it dissipate in the wind. “Something like that exists in Germany today – the formal system of police, courts, and laws, and the informal system of the National Socialist German Workers Party. The Party’s power is not absolute, at least not yet, but it is spreading quickly, what we call Gleichschaltung. It is this system, the informal network within the Party bureaucracy, that is responsible for your kidnapping.”
Sarah understood, though she found the idea of such lawlessness difficult to comprehend in the heart of modern Europe. She nodded for Sigmund to continue.
“There is a paramilitary, quasi-religious organization within the Party known as the Schutzstaffel – the SS. Among other things, they are avid collectors of ancient lore – astrology, Nordic rituals, stories about the mystical origins of the German – pardon me, the Aryan – race. And you have something that they want.”
“What could they possibly want from me?”
“Your brother served in the War?”
“Killed at the Somme.” Sarah wondered whether the mild-mannered German beside her could have fired the shot that ended John Quincy’s life.
“Sometimes, when an enemy soldier was killed near our lines, we would search the bodies for items of military significance, such as maps or papers. I can only guess at the truth, but your brother had an old diary that fell into our hands. It languished in a military archive for years before it was discovered by the SS. They believe that it belonged to your father.”
Sarah’s felt slightly ill. A quasi-religious cult found something in John Quincy’s diary. Too young to be affected by the police scrutiny, she remembered her brother’s wild tales, and the stony silence of her parents, all too well. Papa would never have given something like that away.
“What was in the diary?” she asked, unable to mask the fear in her voice.
“There is a castle in the Carpathian Mountains, and the SS have been searching for this place, without success, for some time now. They believe your father’s diary was deliberately altered to obscure its location, and they want him to reveal the truth.” The blue eyes stared intently into her own. “Are you familiar with this story?”
“I know the broad outlines, though I never believed a word of it.” The morning air took on a sudden chill, and Sarah felt gooseflesh on her bare arms. “This castle - why would they want it if it does exist?”
“Let’s get you across the border,” he said, “and then we never have to find out.”
III.
London
They slept late, and Mrs. Cobham made brunch for both of them. Jonathan declined the tea and opted for coffee, an American habit that he had gleaned from Quincy Morris. Archie ate well enough, but slowly, and Jonathan resisted the urge to drum his fingers as the boy finished his eggs. When the meal was finished, he left Archie in Mrs. Cobham’s care and went to his study.
You’re getting slow in your old age, Jonathan thought. In 1908, you wouldn’t have let that opened letter slip past you. He peered the map that dominated one wall of the study, trying to formulate a plan. The kidnappers would contact him at some point with further instructions. If they want that bloody castle, they won’t get it until I see Sarah with my own eyes - alive, and somewhere far outside of Germany. They won’t go west, but perhaps I can persuade them to go east. Jonathan rummaged through his desk and unfolded another map on his desk. He spent several minutes poring over cities, rivers, and the great horseshoe of the Carpathian Mountains. Bistritz was an obvious choice, since it was referenced throughout his journals. Once he was safely reunited with Sarah, there was a good chance that he could lose them in the mountains. It had another advantage since, Jonathan’s journal entries notwithstanding, Bistritz was nowhere near the castle.
Meanwhile, he would continue his other preparations while he waited for the note. If no communication was forthcoming, he would contact the German Embassy with the location of the meeting place. To the ends of the earth for Sarah, if necessary - even to the old castle. Jonathan repeated the words like a mantra, though they filled him with dread. Even to the old castle.
IV.
Romania
Gabriela reached the top of the mountain and parked among the trees. To her left, an older road snaked along the ridgeline, but she knew better than to attempt the trip in the car. She was still young at twenty-nine, though war and privation had tempered any youthful exuberance that she might have once possessed. Tall, with brown eyes and straight black hair that hinted of Romani ancestry, her beauty often drew the lingering gaze of shy teenagers and the more forward attention of older men. Her good looks and pleasant, if somewhat cool, disposition belied a sharp mind and a shrewd nature.
The linen dress felt cool against her skin as she walked. Gabriela had spent her childhood in these mountains, and she enjoyed the sights and smells of the forest. When her mother died at the end of the War, she had moved to the city with her father, helping to run his business before taking over in 1929. His business. She was fortunate in many ways, for no factory owner made her labor in darkness and dust, and no grubby landlord offered a month’s rent in exchange for the use of her body. Still, if she had prospered under the arrangement, and if her employer treated her with courtesy, never raising hand or voice against her, she was still a servant. Above all, she never let herself forget his true nature.
The forest ended at a long plateau. Gabriela walked the last mile through the tall grass and stood at the gatehouse of the castle. The door was locked, and he was sleeping somewhere inside. No matter - she had no intention of crossing the threshold today. Gabriela pulled the telegram and newspaper from her pack. The paper had been difficult to locate, and she had spent an entire day in Bucharest before finding the item that she needed. She re-read the heading and studied the photograph of the elderly man before sliding both items under the door.
DAUGHTER OF LONDON SOLICITOR LOST AT SEA
Retracing her steps, Gabriela made her way back to the car.
V.
Berchtesgaden
A Jew on Hitler’s own police, a Berlin communist had quipped to him. Must make for an interesting life. From his table at the sidewalk, Sigmund admired the view of the Watzmann to the south. He had hiked the glacial lake several years ago, but he had no appetite for the rock face that formed the mountain’s upper slope. Pick the wrong route, or the wrong day, and a climber could wind up dead. South to Austria, then west to Switzerland. The SS knew, or guessed, that they were still in Bavaria, and the Austrian border crossings south of Berchtesgaden were closely monitored. They can’t be everywhere at once, he thought. Eventually, a guard would get drunk or fall asleep at his post, and he could slip Frau Spencer to freedom. Sigmund found himself tempted to go with her.
His father had migrated westward a half-century ago, one of the waves of Ostjuden fleeing Tsarist persecution. The Völkisch movement, the malignant cell of the Third Reich, was alive even then, but after the pogroms of Poland and Russia, the unified Germany of Otto Von Bismarck must have seemed a veritable paradise to his ancestors, and Sigmund had grown to manhood dressed in German clothing and steeped in German culture. Drafted at the end of 1916, when the Reich was desperate to make up the losses at Verdun, he had served in the fateful years of 1917 and 1918, when things fell apart at home and Wehrmacht collapsed on the Western Front. And for what? I went to war as a German patriot and returned as a Jew. Sigmund had been a policeman for fifteen years, long before Adolf Hitler was a name in Germany, but his easy certainty that the state was not the fiefdom of a lone Jew-hater was becoming impossible to sustain.
Don’t worry about Herr Hitler, he thought. Finish your mission before thinking of yourself. He had spent the day watching the border crossings, and if the tedium bothered the Fuhrer’s blonde thugs, they hid it well. None of the guards leaned on their rifles or carried beer or schnapps into the forest. Be patient. Every day increases our chances of discovery, but they will give up eventually.
Sigmund paid for his meal and left. In the butcher shop across the street, the proprietor watched him go. When he was out of sight, the butcher closed up early. Half an hour later and a hundred miles to the north, a telephone rang in Munich.
VI.
Ploesti, Romania
The murder of Jack Seward. The disappearance of Jonathan Harker’s daughter. The events of 1929. There has to be a connection. He sat at the bar and watched the refinery flare as the bartender avoided his eyes. He disliked venturing among crowds - a serpent in the tall grass was deadly to the unwary mouse or careless foot, but send a line of beaters through the field, and the serpent was vulnerable, no matter how deadly his bite. Nonetheless, tonight’s trip was worth the added risk. He walked to the engineer’s table.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The engineer jumped as he gestured toward the window, where the flame, twenty feet tall, danced in the night sky.
“It burns away the refinery’s waste gas.” The engineer gestured toward the empty seat. “Your German is excellent. Where did you learn it?”
“One might say that I am well-traveled, and your country is an interesting place.” He signaled the bartender, and two mugs of beer appeared at the table. He pushed a full glass toward the engineer. “Are there many Germans working in Romania?”
“A few,” the engineer said. “Mostly refinery workers like myself”
“Of course,” he said. In 1929, he had considered the German visitor a crank and his faction a small band of radicals, not unlike the anarchists of the previous century. Four years later, the same cranks and radicals controlled all of Germany. And if you run the country, you have resources for kidnapping and murder. Perhaps also for expeditions to forgotten castles. He leaned forward and stared at his companion.
“Are there other Germans in Romania? Politicians? Military men? Spies?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The engineer looked uncomfortable as he pushed the other glass of beer across the table. “Are you with the police?”
“No.” He saw his own smile reflected in the engineer’s eyes. “One of your countrymen is looking for me, and I need to send him a message.” The engineer’s eyes widened as he scratched a pair of lightning bolts into the table with a fingernail. “Where can I find them?”
They talked for another ten minutes, and as the seeds of a plan began to sprout in his mind, he considered how to cover his tracks. People come and go from the oilfields, and if he disappears, everyone will assume that he returned to Germany. Behind them, he could feel the eyes of the bartender watching the table closely.
“I hear you’re liked by the roughnecks that work the refinery. You don’t talk down to them or pretend to know more than you actually do.” The engineer gaped as he tossed a pair of coins on the table. “Pay the bill for us both, please.”
He nodded to the bartender as he departed. The mouse lives another day, and the beaters needn’t search the tall grass. He stepped into the street and thought of his old visitor again, the German with the strange collar device and stranger racial obsessions. His own mask had slipped when he discovered the man’s crime, and the punishment had been so vicious that the depth and inventiveness of his cruelty had surprised him. The memory gave him tremendous satisfaction, and he found himself smiling.
In the tavern, the engineer turned a coin between thumb and forefinger, pondering the date as he studied the inscription on the obverse. A British sovereign, minted in 1878.