Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 8
Part II - A Man of Diabolical Cast
Part Two: A Man of Diabolical Cast
Long leagues on either hand the trenches spread
And all is still; now even this gross line
Drinks in the frosty silences divine
The pale, green moon is riding overhead.
The jaws of a sacked village, stark and grim;
Out on the ridge have swallowed up the sun,
And in one angry streak his blood has run
To left and right along the horizon dim.
There comes a buzzing plane: and now, it seems
Flies straight into the moon. Lo! where he steers
Across the pallid globe and surely nears
In that white land some harbour of dear dreams!
False mocking fancy! Once I too could dream,
Who now can only see with vulgar eye
That he's no nearer to the moon than I
And she's a stone that catches the sun's beam.
What call have I to dream of anything?
I am a wolf. Back to the world again,
And speech of fellow-brutes that once were men
Our throats can bark for slaughter: cannot sing.
C. S. Lewis, French Nocturne
Amsterdam
1893
Where did the blood go? Abraham Van Helsing obsesses over the question for the better part of the day. An examination under the microscope would confirm or rule out suppuration of the blood, but he considers it unlikely. There was no bruising or fever, and palpation of the spleen and liver suggested no enlargement. She was anemic - her pallor and general lassitude suggested as much - but there was no fever or jaundice. He rules out internal injury based on the lack of bruising or swelling, and besides, an injury of this magnitude would be fatal by now. Instead, Lucy Westenra’s illness exhibits an odd recurring cycle: weakness, then a short period of recovery before a new cycle of weakness sets in. Periodic exsanguination occurring in semi-regular cycles of one to five days. There is an explanation, although Van Helsing, open-minded as he might be, finds it difficult to accept.
The asylum is, with all respect to his friend Seward, better than anything he has seen in England. The grounds are well-kept, and the staff speak politely in Dutch, German, and occasional English. Still, the pleasant façade belies the truth of screamed obscenities and cruel restraints. Van Helsing has been coming every week for the last ten years.
“How is she?”
“She is quiet,” the attendant says. “It is a beautiful day, so we moved her to the courtyard for your visit.”
The marks on the girl’s neck are the telltale sign. Not the mangling of an animal attack or the crescent-shaped indentation of a human bite, but something different – two distinct puncture wounds. Always devout, Van Helsing has taken a mystical turn after the death of his son, a rambling journey through various forms of spiritualism and occultism. The succession of charlatans, and the fact that contact with the next world remains maddeningly out of reach, have not dampened his belief. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But this? He wavers at the threshold of acceptance.
“Hanna. Hanna, can you hear me?” The question is a formality - he cannot remember when he last heard her voice.
Hanna Van Helsing slumps in the wheelchair. The attendants have brushed her hair and dressed her in clean clothes, but he cannot help seeing the leather restraints that bind her wrists. His wife’s ravings have, over the years, given way to quiescence as her mind becomes an empty shell and the remnants of her personality fade. Eventually, her brain will be too weak to support the basic functions of her body, and she will die. Van Helsing holds her withered hand and talks of pleasant banalities as his mind wanders back to London.
The vampire is an old legend, found in various forms throughout the world, he thought. A revenant spirit possessing its own corpse and feeding on the blood of the living. It is tied to its own tomb by day and walks by night, most commonly attacking friends and relatives that it knew in its former life. Where did this vampire – if it exists at all – come from? Why did it attack Miss Lucy? Most importantly, where is it now? Perhaps Lucy’s own words, spoken from the trance of a deep sleep, provide a clue.
“Find Mina - Mina is in danger.”
Mina Murray, he thinks. She was with Lucy at Whitby, and Van Helsing has taken the liberty of reading her correspondence. Perhaps she can provide more insight into the nature of Lucy’s illness.
He stays for an hour longer than usual, but Hanna does not speak.
I.
Ionian Sea, Near Calabria
1933
Why can’t I see?
Sarah woke to the sound of lapping water. Her first thought was of Archie, and the game of blind man’s buff that they had played when he was seven. No, that’s not right - John Quincy played with me when I was seven because the other girls tormented me, and he took pity on me. Gradually, her jumbled memories reassembled themselves into a semblance of order. Something hit me in the head, and then I was choking. The pieces clicked into place as her body rocked with the tide.
Oh God, I’m not on the ship anymore!
She strained at the bonds that held her hands and feet, a desperate frenzy that left her on the verge of unconsciousness. The gag that covered her mouth reeked of chloroform, and each breath drew acrid vapor into her lungs. Sarah began to thrash wildly as her body, desperate for air, drew less oxygen with each ragged gasp. Her stomach began to churn, and a single thought repeated in her mind like a mantra. I’m going to drown in my own vomit.
Sarah. Her mother’s voice filled her head.
Mama? I can’t breathe!
Sarah Katherine Harker! Pay attention! The sharp tone cut through her panic, and Sarah forced her body to relax. Deep slow breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a man’s laughter. Close your eyes. What do you feel?
Sarah touched the chain about her neck, and the familiar sensation of cold metal provided a foundation of sorts for her mind. She was lying on a flexible surface, which moved as she shifted her weight. The noise behind her, uncomfortably loud, was not the deep bass of a ship’s engine room but the high-pitched whine of a small motor. She forced herself into a sitting position, and a hand pushed her backward. Her legs were bound, and Sarah drew them beneath her body in a semblance of the fetal position. Her foot lashed out in an upward strike that connected with bone, and her assailant fell back with a cry. A hard kick to the hamstring sent waves of pain through her body, and the hands encircled her throat. In her struggles, the blindfold came loose as a second man - the stranger from the ship’s lounge - pushed her assailant away. The blindfold was pulled over her eyes again, but not before Sarah was able to take stock of her surroundings.
I’m in a boat, a small inflatable with two men. Archie was not with them. That could be very good or very bad.
II.
Otto Skorzeny stood outside the parked car, smoking and watching the horizon. The lighthouse was visible for miles, but the sea was a mystery to his landlocked mind, and the launch could be halfway to Gibraltar for all he knew. When he heard the motor, Skorzeny flashed his headlights to mark his position. The sight of Hans and Richard, wet and cold, made him grin as the boat sputtered onto the beach.
“How’s our cargo, Hans?”
“Groggy, but alive.” Hans doubled over, like a man fighting the urge to retch. “She knocked out two of Richard’s teeth.”
The woman moaned as Skorzeny prodded her with a boot. “And the boy?”
Hans glared. “What about him?”
“Couldn’t bear to throw him to the sharks? You could have used him to keep the woman quiet.”
“And what would we do with him once we reached the shore? I don’t kill children,” Hans said. He grasped the upper arms as they carried Sarah to the car. “If you think you can do a better job, you’re welcome to lead the next operation.”
“Suit yourself. Take me to the airfield and get her to Bavaria.” Skorzeny gave her a rough shake. “Wake up, Frau Spencer! Your ride is here.”
III.
They drove northwest along the Adriatic Coast, and Sarah watched the Apennines pass outside her window. Hans and Richard drove in turns, one at the wheel, the other in the seat beside her. Her head throbbed from the effects of the chloroform.
She had regained consciousness on the beach, lying on her back as the smaller man addressed her. “Hello, Frau Spencer. I am Hans, and my companion, the one whose teeth you knocked out, is Richard. We are taking a little drive to Munich. You know where Munich is? Good. My instructions are simple – if you give us no trouble, you can ride in the car. Cause any problems, and you ride in the boot. Understand?”
Afterward, the men drove in silence, speaking little more than the occasional terse phrase of German. When her bladder began to ache, Richard opened the passenger door and grinned, displaying a pair of missing teeth, as he patted the pistol in his waistband. Sarah’s cheeks burned as she relieved herself by the road, but she caught the expression on Richard’s face and dismissed any notion of flight. Not yet. The Apennines gave way to the Po Valley, then the foothills of the Alps, and Sarah clung to the hope that Archie was safely on his way to London. Periodically, she attempted to draw Hans into conversation.
“Richard never speaks. Is he angry with me?”
“Richard speaks no English.” He spoke a few sentences in rapid German, and Richard, looking abashed, replied. Hans laughed.
“What did he say?”
“Richard says that he is not angry. Lost teeth are an occupational hazard.”
“And what occupation is that?”
“Learn to speak German, and you can ask him yourself.” Hans was silent for several minutes. “Regarding your earlier questions, we are going to Munich to meet someone with an interest in your family.”
“Why would anyone be interested in my family?”
“Ask him when we get there. Unlike Richard, he speaks good English.”
“All right. One more question.”
“What?” Hans’s tone suggested that he was tiring of their conversation.
“Did Richard really say that he isn’t angry?”
“No.” Hans laughed. “But you don’t want to know what he did say.”
IV.
Prussian Security Police Headquarters, Department A
Berlin
All morning, Rudolf Diels fielded calls from the Foreign Office and the Reich Chancellery. The British had been giving them hell, and his instructions from the Chancellery were clear enough. Get to the bottom of things quickly, and – if any Germans were involved – quietly. If any Germans are involved. The Fuhrer has no idea what Heydrich is up to, does he? He would handle things discretely - Diels was a loyal servant, and there was no need to embarrass the Reich. Still, those instructions gave him a lot of latitude. Sigmund closed the door and sat in the vacant chair.
“I have interesting news,” Diels said. “Last night, the wife of a naval officer and the deckhand of an ocean liner, disappeared from a ship in the Mediterranean. They found blood on the deck, and the deckhand is presumed dead. Two Belgians, two German speaking Belgians, are also missing.”
“They found –” Diels perused the report on his desk - “two open crates in the hold. The first was from Zodiac Aerospace, a manufacturer of inflatable boats. The second belonged to the ELTO Outboard Motor Company. One lifeboat went missing from the ship and was found adrift the next morning. No one aboard.”
Sigmund thought for a moment. “So they used the lifeboat to get off the ship and took the inflatable to shore. And plenty of Belgians speak German. Why do the English think we’re responsible?”
Because I told them, Diels said to himself. I threw a few scraps to Hoesch, and honorable man that he is, he got word to the authorities. Not quickly enough to catch them in the act, alas.
“All right, Rudolf.” Sigmund was watching him carefully. “What do you know that you aren’t telling?”
“I might have overlooked a small detail,” Diels said, unable to hide his grin. “The naval officer’s wife? Sarah Spencer. Sarah Harker Spencer.”
“Harker? Like the man in London?” The eyes widened behind the round glasses. “What else?”
“Herman says that Otto Skorzeny left for Italy three days ago.”
Sigmund nodded. “We need to tread carefully with Herman. Heydrich has the Chancellor’s ear, and if the SS finds out about your informant, we’ll end up as inmates in one of your camps.”
“Don’t be silly,” Diels said. “Most likely, they’ll have us shot in a cellar. At any rate, Heydrich isn’t so beloved that he will survive an international incident. Is there any schnapps in that flask of yours?”
Sigmund took a drink and handed the flask to Diels. “I still don’t get it. What is the Englishman worth to Heydrich?”
Diels related the story as passed on by Strassor, and Sigmund shook his head in amazement.
“So, after fifteen years of defeat, inflation, and chaos, our new rulers are chasing blutsaugers in the Carpathians. Heydrich is out of his fucking mind.”
“No foul language in my office please.” Diels tried to suppress a laugh and failed. “Do you see my point? What happens when the Fuhrer finds out what Heydrich has done?”
“All right. If we want to catch Heydrich in the act, we need to locate the woman. Any ideas?”
“Clearly, they reached Italian coast in the inflatable, and they will head north from there. I don’t think they would fly, because the Italians watch the airports too closely. What’s the nearest border crossing if one is driving toward Munich?”
Sigmund’s brow wrinkled. “Probably Salzburg. You think the Bavarian authorities are in on it?”
“They won’t have a clue. If you tell them to foil a kidnapping and you leave Heydrich’s name out of the affair, they’ll go along.” He took another drink and returned the flask to Sigmund. “Get there tonight and get in touch with the border police. I think it will look good for us if Frau Spencer is rescued before she arrives in Munich.”
V.
London
The Assistant to the Deputy Minister (“Do not smoke in my office, Holmes - how many times do I have to tell you?”) ruled his office like a personal fiefdom and rarely granted an audience to his serfs. Holmes waited, smoldering pipe in one hand, as the Assistant ran through the essential details – four missing persons and a lifeboat found adrift. Childless himself, Holmes retained a measure of affection for little ones, and he felt a pang at the mention of Archie Spencer, found belowdecks some twelve hours after the disappearance of his mother. The ship, the Assistant explained, was due in London on the twenty-first, and upon completion of Holmes’s interviews of the crew and passengers, a full report was expected.
Holmes relit his pipe as he crossed the threshold of the office. It was presumptuous for him to investigate a disappearance at sea, but the Home Office believed that Sarah Spencer’s disappearance could be used to pressure Jonathan Harker in the Harding case. And they may be correct. Holmes ticked off the relevant pieces in his mind. Arthur Holmwood’s suicide in 1904. Edward Harding’s disappearance in 1908. Jack Seward’s murder, followed by Sarah Spencer’s disappearance, this year. A string of disappearances and mysterious deaths in 1893. Trouble seemed to follow Jonathan Harker like a black cloud. Two German-speaking passengers with Belgian passports who went missing at the same time as Harker’s daughter. Jonathan Harker’s visit to the grave of Lucy Westenra - a grave that has gone missing from all official records. A note bearing the seal of the German Embassy, found at Lucy’s tomb. And, perhaps most importantly, there was the clue that the Assistant had missed completely.
Jonathan Harker had contacted the Admiralty twelve hours before his daughter was reported missing.
VI.
Francis Wilson sent an urgent cable to Bucharest, in accordance with his client’s instructions. He would follow up with a written report in the morning, but the cable – a single sentence from today’s edition of the Times – would be clear enough.
VII.
Halle, Germany
1912-1922
Moses Handel, the other children called him, a reference to his hooked nose and the rumor, never substantiated, of his father’s Jewish ancestry. His voice lacked the quality of his father’s tenor, but his own musical talents were formidable, and in later years, he would play the violin with sufficient intensity to bring tears to his own eyes. Perhaps the monsters lurk in the cellar of a man’s soul and wait for a chance to escape, but if asked, he would have dismissed such concerns out of hand. Such notions were fanciful, the relic of Doctor Freud’s influence upon German culture. And Doctor Freud, he would have pointed out, is a Jew.
They had been prosperous, if not quite wealthy, before the War, and if privation visited his own home – his father’s music conservatory closed in 1916 – everyone understood the need for sacrifice. While their enemies grew fat on English tea and Wall Street gold and a strange new music called jazz, Germans tightened their belts and recommited to the old values. He joined a volunteer militia, one of many Freikorps units that sprouted in the War’s aftermath, and carried a rifle as he finished his education.
It began, at least in his own mind, with the Treaty of Versailles. Germany owed a crushing debt of reparations to France and Britain, and the Weimar Republic printed paper money to buy gold on the open market. Inflation, already high during the War years, accelerated to unfathomable heights. In a bakery, he saw a loaf of bread sold for a billion Reichsmarks.
In the south, there was news of a putsch as a former soldier mobilized his followers at a Munich beer hall and attempted to seize the government of Bavaria. The news traveled throughout Germany, but if the first public act of Adolf Hitler made an impression, he gave no indication.