Dracula's Ghost - Epilogue
Anthropoid/The Dead Travel Fast
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est
I.
Rudolf Diels was forced out of the Gestapo in the spring of 1934, a result of Hitler’s deal to purge the Party ranks. Considered insufficiently ruthless by the leadership, his position was handed over to one of the rising stars of the Third Reich, a man whose talents were better suited to the task at hand. In the slaughter that followed, Reinhard Heydrich would have preferred to have Diels shot with the others, but the humiliation of his rival - he was shuffled off to a minor administrative post in Cologne - was satisfying, if incomplete. Still, he had ample time, and Rudolf Diels could await his own end as Heydrich consolidated his power.
The flask remained locked away in his office, a charm that he dared not use.
II.
Berlin
1936
Although the chemist had been given the finest education that the Reich had to offer, he was surprised that his name, among all the luminaries of Gottingen or Karlsruhe, should be chosen. Perhaps it was his status as a Party member, for the work was explained to be not only dangerous, but to be carried out in total secrecy. He found the precautions excessive - the Fuhrer’s speeches warned of the diseases carried by Jews, Gypsies, and other Lebensunwertes Leben, but handling of biological material was easy enough. Besides, he had performed every possible test on the sample and found, with one exception, nothing unusual. The sample was ordinary blood.
The chemist yawned and gave a longing glance out the window as the sky grew lighter in the east. He was anxious to be in bed, but his limited sample size required all work to be carried out at night. A strange thing, he thought. Blood that keeps indefinitely in darkness but spoils rapidly in sunlight.
III.
London
December 1941
“How soon?”
“The Czechs will arrive on the twenty-eighth, and Raven will guide them to the target at the earliest opportunity.”
The colonel looked over the youth with a jaundiced eye - he admired the attention to detail with which Raven and his protégé had planned the operation, but his doubts remained. The boy claims to be twenty-one, but I’ll eat my hat if he’s a day over eighteen. Still, the youngster had a proven track record, and Raven was a legend among those privy to His Majesty’s darkest secrets.
“You do realize that all of them are likely to die, even if they succeed? The reprisals are going to be brutal.”
“Perhaps. Either way, the Czechs know the risks.”
And what is Raven’s part in all of this? An Englishman was scarcely needed to guide Czech partisans through their own homeland, but Raven’s star shone brightly enough for the Prime Minister to give his personal blessing. Hero at Dieppe, rumored assassin of SS agents throughout Europe, perhaps even in Berlin itself. An old man with the vigor of a stripling who bathes weekly in running water, no matter the weather or the danger. The decision was practically made for him.
“All right. I’ll sign the order tonight. Make sure everything is in place for departure on the twenty-eighth.”
“Yes, sir.” Archibald Spencer gave a crisp salute and departed.
IV.
Prague
27 May, 1942
The explosion occurred at half-past ten, and at sunset, he stood outside the fence of the SS prison. The bag in his hand felt heavy as he contemplated the common grave, half-filled from the day’s executions. He had shadowed his quarry from the earliest days of the war, and in his three visits to Germany, he lurked among the flophouses of Berlin and slept in fields outside of Munich. Jailed in Breslau on his last visit, he had killed a border guard in the course of his escape. He had shed so much blood to reach this lonely grave, but now he hesitated - it was murder, perhaps even blasphemy.
Rupert Holmes untied the bag and let the grave soil fall among the half-buried corpses. He played the devil’s game. Let him pay the devil’s price. When his work was finished, Holmes faded into the darkness, not looking back to see what sprouted.
V.
5 June 1942
The SS Sturmbannführer arrived from Berlin that morning and inspected the third floor of the hospital. He stood for a long time at the empty bed before ordering the others out. He sat in the wooden chair, and the Oberleutnant remained standing, shifting nervously from one foot to another.
“What the hell happened here?”
“Herr Sturmbannführer, as you are aware, on 27 May, Czech partisans carried out an attack in Prague. Deputy Reich Protector Heydrich was traveling in an unarmored Mercedes, and when the first assassin fired upon the car –”
The senior man cut him off with a wave. “I already know about the bombing. Tell me what happened after.”
“The doctors removed Herr Heydrich’s spleen and debrided his left lung. He was feverish by the following day, and by 2 June, he was lapsing in and out of consciousness. It was apparent to everyone that he was dying.”
“But he did not die. Why not?”
The younger man bit his lip. “Herr Heydrich ordered some personal effects to be brought to his room. He was very particular in his description of the item, and it was delivered to the hospital on the morning of 3 June.”
“What was delivered?”
“That.” He pointed beneath the chair. “I personally gave it to Herr Heydrich. He ordered me from the room but drank its contents without waiting for me. Almost immediately, he fell into a deep sleep.”
The Sturmbannführer turned the discarded flask in his hands. A very restorative sleep, he thought. The doctor’s report from the afternoon of 3 June indicated no fever, a strong heartbeat, and regular breathing with no evidence of congestion. Reinhard Heydrich had gone from death’s door to a miraculous recovery in the space of a few hours. He sniffed at the opening and detected a faint whiff of corruption, but the odor emanating from the flask was difficult to separate from smell of decomposing bodies in the hallway.
“What time did he wake?”
“At sunset. He was very agitated, and I sent for the attending physician. That’s when the lights went out.”
“And the gunfire started.”
“Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer. Six, perhaps eight shots, fired very quickly.”
One hand rubbed his shaved temple as he contemplated the bodies outside. Two guards at the stairwell, dead so quickly that neither touched a weapon. A third sliced open as he fired into the darkened hallway. One man could not kill with such precision.
“And that was when you fell.”
“I drew my pistol and ran toward the shots, but I tripped over a serving tray in the dark.”
“Indeed. That’s a nasty bump on your head. Did you see the assailant?”
The young man shook his head. “I heard his voice, though.”
“Czech?”
The Oberleutnant shook his head. “Have you ever seen an American movie? He sounded like an actor playing a cowboy.”
The Sturmbannführer dismissed the possibility out of hand. The Americans were too busy getting their asses whipped in the Pacific and lacked the competence to pull off an operation of this caliber.
“You’ve been very helpful, Herr Oberleutnant. Two more questions.”
The young officer nodded.
“First – what happened to the body?”
“I don’t know. There was an awful scream from Herr Heydrich, and… they were just gone.” The Oberleutnant drew his arms against his torso. “I’ve never heard a man cry out like that.”
“I have. The next question may be a little more difficult.”
“Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer?”
“I have seen – have killed – more men, women, and children than you would believe possible. Do you understand? I know what death looks like in every conceivable form, and something doesn’t add up here.”
“I don’t understand…”
“The blood, Oberleutnant - or the absence thereof. Where did the blood go?”
“I don’t know, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he mumbled. “I simply don’t know.”
Two days later, a coffin was shipped to Berlin, and a massive funeral was held at the Invalids' Cemetery. On the Sturmbannführer’s recommendation, the Oberleutnant and surviving guards were quietly executed.
VI.
Romania
The feeling in his side, a strange sensation that was not quite pain, woke him. Stars twinkled overhead, and his first thought was that he must be getting better – the hospital staff had moved him outside for fresh air. Tall peaks were outlined against the night sky, and he wondered vaguely if they had returned him to Bavaria to die. He hoped that a nurse would attend to him soon - the night air was pleasant, but he would get a sunburn if they left him outside after sunrise. The thought was troubling, and he cried a little.
What is holding me upright?
Gingerly, like a man groping for a hidden serpent, he moved his hands over his torso. The stake entered his body on the right side, just below the ribcage. Twisting his head, he could see the other end from the corner of his eye, exiting between shoulder and neck. Vaguely, he realized that the wound should have killed him.
“Hello Reinhard. I was beginning to wonder if we would meet again.”
A shadow drifted across the courtyard, and Quincy Morris stood before him. A pale hand caressed his cheek, and Heydrich recoiled at the touch.
“I heard that your funeral was quite the affair. I don’t know what they put in your coffin – maybe one of those guards that I killed – but all of Germany is mourning your loss.” Quincy smiled gently. “Except for all the dead people, of course.”
“Please,” he croaked. The red haze of thirst made speech difficult. “The Reich will pay for my return. Anything you want.”
“I’m not sure the Reich would want you back at this point, Reinhard.” Quincy’s countenance fell, and he slipped a hand into the long coat. “I don’t think you understand what you’ve become.”
Reinhard Heydrich screamed, a long wail of horror and despair, as the thing in the mirror returned his stare. He closed his eyes tightly, weeping again, as Quincy’s head bowed in sympathy.
“The dead cannot contemplate the mirror because it shows our true face – that’s what we really are. But I’ll tell you what I think, Reinhard.” The cold lips were inches from his ear. “That was always your true face.”
“Please.”
“If you want to think it over, you have about ten minutes before the sun rises.” Quincy contemplated the horizon. “Sometimes, I imagine that own my reflection is changing – becoming less of a monster as time goes by. I imagine all that will be undone after tonight.”
The emaciated man struggled against the stake as the sky began to lighten in the east.