The Rising

They’re warning me not to come any closer. Something has scared them half to death.

Greta turned away from the frightened cattle and followed her own footsteps back to the gate. She looked along the long smear of blood, to where it disappeared into the pitch-black of the woods. She was shaking now, partly from the cold, partly from fear, and she followed the trail of gore with short, hesitant steps. When she was three metres away from the treeline, her bravery failed her, and she stood, rooted to the spot, staring into the woods.

Then a growl, so deep and low that Greta felt it vibrate through the bones in her legs, sounded from somewhere in front of her, and her breath froze in her lungs. The shotgun fell softly to the snow at her feet, as she heard something move through the trees. Then two yellow eyes appeared in the darkness, floating high above her head, at least two metres from the ground. Slowly, they moved towards her, and a shape emerged from between the trees.

Standing in front of Greta was the biggest wolf she had ever seen.

It squatted in the darkness, its enormous head peering down at her, its mouth and snout soaked with crimson, its thick neck attached to a body the size of her father’s Land Rover. Its fur was greyish-green, and its flanks and back were horribly misshapen; ridges of bone rose and fell beneath the creature’s skin, its legs were crooked and bent, and a vast patchwork of scar tissue criss-crossed the animal’s hide, jagged white lines shining out from the fur in the light of the full moon. Behind the wolf’s bloodstained head something glistened, and Greta saw two angular shapes emerging from the skin, shining in the night air.

Metal, she thought, her mind reeling. It’s got metal sticking out of its neck.

The growl came again, accompanied by a blast of warm air and the coppery scent of blood. She gagged, staring helplessly up at the wolf, which was regarding her with a look that was fearsome, but also appeared curiously sad; the corners of its wide yellow eyes were turned down, its lips drawn back against its razor-sharp teeth in what looked like a grimace of pain.

You can’t outrun it. You can’t fight it. Your only chance is to make it realise you’re not a threat.

Greta took a deep breath, and looked into the wolf’s eyes.

“Hello,” she said, her voice trembling. “My name’s Greta.”

The wolf recoiled instantly, as though it had been stung by a hornet. It took half a step backwards, then threw back its head and let loose a deafening howl, an ear-splitting cry of misery and pain. Behind Greta, the light in her parents’ bedroom came on, and the sound of heavy boots on wooden stairs echoed across the farmyard. But Greta neither saw nor heard; she was staring, transfixed, at the monstrous creature in front of her. As the howl died away, the wolf opened its mouth again, and made a sound that Greta recognised. Her eyes widened, and she took an involuntary step towards the wolf, her arms rising before her in placation.

The roar of a shotgun thundered through the night air, and the snow at the wolf’s feet exploded. Greta shrieked as the wolf bolted into the woods, so quickly that she could have believed it had never been there at all. Then she saw the thick streak of blood where it had been standing, and realisation flooded through her. She heard shouted voices and running footsteps behind her, before her eyes rolled in her head and she crumpled towards the ground. Arriving at a flat sprint, Peter Schuler threw his shotgun aside, slid across the snow, shoved his hands under her back as she fell and wrapped his daughter in his arms.

In the kitchen at the rear of the farmhouse, Greta’s father sat at the battered wooden table that dominated the room. He was sipping a mug of thick black coffee that his wife had made him once she had finished putting their daughter back to bed. She was now watching him silently, leaning against the stove beneath the window, her expression unreadable.

Standing around the kitchen, equally silent, were three of the Schuler farmhands, whom Peter had roused from sleep when he returned to the house. They had come uncomplainingly, and were leaning against the walls, sipping coffees of their own, shotguns broken over their forearms, watching their employer struggling to control his temper.

Peter Schuler was full of a fury beyond anything he had ever known.

He was trying to rationalise the events of the night. Peter had spent his entire life on the farm he now owned, had worked it for his father until Hans Schuler had succumbed to the cancer that had eaten him away before his son’s eyes, had married his wife and raised his daughter there. As a result, he believed he understood animals, both domestic and wild, as well as anyone, and better than most. And he knew that was all the wolf was; a wild animal that had wandered into the Schulers’ territory, incapable of malice, or viciousness. But it had been standing over his daughter, his maddening, arrogant, beautiful daughter, standing over her with its teeth bared, its shadow swallowing her, and he had never wanted to kill another living thing as much as he did right now.

The wolf had scared Greta terribly. He had been carrying her back to the house, shouting for his wife to bring blankets as he did so, when she had suddenly stiffened in his arms, then screamed so loudly that he almost dropped her. When the scream had died away, she began to sob against his shoulder, her small body trembling. She was still shaking as his wife tucked her blankets tightly back round her, mumbling nonsense about the wolf being made of metal, insisting that it had spoken to her, that it had said “Help me” as she stood beneath its blood-soaked muzzle, waiting for it to tear her throat out.

“What do you want to do, boss?” It was Franck who asked, the farm’s head wrangler, a soft-spoken bear of a man. He was looking steadily at Greta’s father, waiting to be told what to do.

“Get your coats,” Peter replied, and a minute later the four men were marching across the farmyard, their guns slung over their shoulders.

Peter led them to the spot at the edge of the woods where the wolf had loomed over Greta, then took a deep breath and followed the trail of blood into the trees. Lars and Sebastian, brothers who had worked the Schuler farm since they were fourteen, walked steadily behind him, with Franck bringing up the rear.

The snow crunched beneath their heavy boots as they tracked the wolf through the forest. The animal was not hard to follow; it had left a trail of paw prints the size of dinner plates, and a long corridor of flattened bushes and broken branches that stood out in the yellow light of the men’s torches. Eventually, the forest widened into a clearing, and the men’s eyes widened as they entered it. The small, circular gap in the trees looked like the inside of an abattoir.

In the middle, strewn across the snowy forest floor, were the last identifiable remains of one of Peter Schuler’s cattle. A horn lay in a puddle of blood and offal, a hoof and a thick piece of the animal’s hide thrown to one side. Blood covered the ground, studded with steaming chunks of meat, through which the wolf had tracked its giant paws. The four men standing at the edge of the trees were hard country men, but the violence that had taken place in the clearing shook them to their cores.

“Shoot on sight,” said Peter Schuler, softly. The men swung their shotguns from their shoulders, racked them with trembling hands, then followed the enormous footprints deeper into the darkness of the forest.

An hour later, with dawn creeping above the horizon to the east, four shivering men emerged from the trees at the edge of the road that led south to Bremen. The tracks had continued in a straight line, until they finally stopped a metre in front of where the men were standing. They disappeared in a wide circle of disturbed snow that looked as though a group of men had been wrestling in it. The snow, and the frozen earth beneath it, had been churned and tossed and thrown in every direction. On the other side of the circle a new set of tracks led away from the circle, parallel to the road. The men stepped carefully round the disturbance, and looked down at the new trail.

“My God,” whispered Lars, and crossed himself.

Stretching away before them was a series of enormous human footprints.

“I don’t understand,” said Sebastian. “I don’t—”

“Quiet,” hissed Peter. “The Langers’ farm is just over that rise. Let’s move.”

The four men marched quickly alongside the footprints. After five minutes or so, the grey roof of the farmhouse where Kurt Langer, Peter Schuler’s oldest friend, lived with his family appeared above the top of the slope they were climbing, and Peter accelerated, urging his men to keep up with him.

I hope we’re not too late. Please don’t let us be too late.

They hurried over the rise, and Peter’s heart sank. Even from thirty metres away he could see the footprints leading through the front gate on to the Langers’ property, towards the farmhouse where the family would normally now be waking up. He shouted for his men to follow him, and took off running down the slope, skidding and sliding as his boots fought for purchase through the thick snow. He grabbed the gatepost, steadied himself and then paused, examining the ground.

There were two sets of footprints, running parallel to each other, in opposite directions. One led into the Langers’ yard, and the second, the heavy treads of winter boots, led back towards the road.

Too late, too late, too late.

Peter shoved the gate wide and lurched into the yard, heading towards the front door of the house, his shotgun at his shoulder. He was about to yell for the Langers, horribly sure that he would receive no reply, when he stopped again.

To his left, running between a low branch of the oak tree that stood at the edge of the farmyard and a brass hook inserted into the wall of the house, was a thick nylon washing line. Fluttering from it in the bright morning air were a number of heavy garments: plaid shirts, long johns, thermal socks and undershirts. But half the line was empty, and beneath it, scattered on the snowy ground, were a handful of wooden pegs. The first row of footprints ran beneath the line, then to the back step of the house. The second started there, a row of boot prints leading back towards the road.

A hand fell on Peter Schuler’s shoulder, and he jumped. But it was only Franck, his big, gentle face staring at Peter’s, his gun lowered at his side.

“You need to see this, boss,” said the head wrangler, jerking a thumb towards the road.

The four men gathered at the edge of the tarmac, looking down at their feet. The last of the prints were etched neatly into the snow, alongside the tracks of a set of heavy-duty winter tyres.

A truck. Four-wheel drive. Probably a pick-up, like the one in the barn at home.

The tracks formed a shallow semi-circle where the driver had brought his vehicle to a halt at the side of the road, before accelerating back on to the highway. There were no more footprints, in any direction.

“I’ll ring Karl,” said Lars. “He can bring the truck up here. We can follow it.”

Peter shook his head. “No,” he replied. “It’s gone. Whatever it was, it’s gone. Ring Karl, and tell him to come and pick us up. I’ll call Kurt later and tell him what happened. Let’s go home.”

An hour to the south, a battered red pick-up truck chugged steadily along the motorway. The driver, a round, red-faced man in a heavy woollen jacket and an ancient deerstalker hat, watched the road ahead of him, a short cigar clamped between his teeth. On the passenger seat beside him sat a plastic flask of coffee laced with cherry brandy, from which he was taking regular sips.

Behind him, in the truck’s flatbed, shivering beneath the pile of animal hides that the driver was taking south to market, his sleeping face a mask of contorted misery and confusion, lay Frankenstein’s monster.

11

THE BARE BONES

Jamie was about to open the door to his quarters when he felt the console on his belt beep three times, signalling a message that had been unread for more than thirty minutes.

His mind was reeling with everything he had just seen, everything he had just been told, and he was struggling to understand the implications of it.

I can’t believe I got to see that, he thought. I can’t believe Talbot let me. It’s amazing.

Jamie had turned off the beeper during the Zero Hour Task Force meeting, left it off during the unbelievable, mind-bending twenty minutes that followed it, twenty minutes that he knew he could never tell anyone about, not even Larissa, and had only just switched it back on. He pulled it free of its loop, swearing loudly in the empty corridor, and read the short line of text that had appeared on the screen.

G-17/OP_EXT_L2/LIVE_BRIEFING/BR2/1130

The Department 19 shorthand had become second nature.

The first set of letters and numbers was the designation of his squad, G-17, and the second told him that they had been given an external operation with a Level 2 priority. The third was self-explanatory, that there would be a live briefing rather than data supplied to them once they were already on the move, the fourth was the location of the briefing, in this case Briefing Room 2, and the final set of numbers were the time that the briefing would begin. Jamie checked his watch, and saw that it was 11:28. He swore, then ran back down the corridor towards the silver doors of the Level B lift.

On Level 0 he piled out of the lift and ran along the corridor that served as the level’s central thoroughfare. On one side, accessible by the heavy yellow and black striped doors that stood at regular intervals, was the huge hangar that served as the embarkation point for all Blacklight operations. On the opposite side of the corridor, filling the other half of the huge circular level, were the suites of offices and rooms that comprised the Department’s Communications and Surveillance Divisions.

The Ops Room, where Jamie had just been, sat in the middle of the corridor, and therefore at the centre of Level 0. Beyond it, along a series of semi-circular corridors, like the layers of an onion, stood offices, server farms and inventories, accessible by security-coded doors set into the long wall.

Jamie pressed his ID against the sensor beside one of the doors marked BRIEFING ROOMS, pulled it open and raced down the corridor. He skidded to a halt outside the door to Briefing Room 2 and walked through it, as calmly as he was able.

The room was a curved box, much like a classroom. At one end, to the right as Jamie entered, beneath a high-definition screen that filled most of the wall, stood a lectern, from where the briefings were given. Jamie looked immediately in its direction, and felt his heart sink.

Standing behind the lectern was Major Paul Turner.

Great, thought Jamie. That’s just great. He knows I was in the Zero Hour meeting, and he knows I can’t say so in front of the rest of them. Then a smile threatened to rise on his face. He doesn’t know where I went afterwards, though.

“Good of you to join us, Mr Carpenter,” said Turner, staring at him. “I hope we haven’t interrupted whatever you were doing. I’ve no doubt it was extremely important.”

You’ve no idea, thought Jamie. No idea at all.

There was a giggle from his left, and he felt his face flush with heat. He turned to see who had laughed; it had not been Kate or Larissa, and they were the only other people he was expecting to see in the room. But he immediately saw that he had assumed wrongly; five faces were staring at him, not two.

Sitting at one desk were Kate and Larissa, the former regarding him with a stern look, the latter with a mischievous little smile. Two desks away, a distance that was clearly deliberate, sat three more Operators, two of whom Jamie recognised immediately; the third was a girl in her early twenties whom he had heard a lot about, but had never met. She was smiling widely at him; it had clearly been her who had laughed.

The three Operators made up Operational Squad F-7, commanded by Lieutenant Jack Williams. Jamie’s friend smiled at him from across the room, and Jamie returned it with an uncertain one of his own.

What the hell are you three doing here? he wondered.

Sitting beside Jack, Shaun Turner’s face regarded Jamie with wide grey eyes that were as expressionless as his father’s. He was tall, taller than Jamie or Jack, and broad, the naturally powerful figure of a rugby player. He sat easily in his chair, waiting for Jamie to say something.

The girl, who Jamie knew from Jack’s fervent, fluttery descriptions was called Angela Darcy, was still smiling at him, and as he looked at her, actually looked at her, he was struck by how remarkably attractive she was. Her blonde hair was darker than Kate’s, almost a golden colour, and her face was sharp and angular, drawn in straight lines by a hugely talented artist. He knew from Jack that she had been an SIS agent, recruited out of Oxford in her first year, and had served with distinction in some of the most unstable and dangerous backwaters of the globe. She apparently spoke at least six languages, and was an expert in the art of wetwork – assassinations and state-sanctioned murders carried out at such close range that it was impossible to avoid being covered with the blood of the target.

Jamie was pretty sure that Jack was at least a little bit in love with her; he was absolutely sure that he was scared of her. But her smile was wide, and friendly, and Jamie was glad it was her laughter that had made him blush; he was sure that her smile would have had the same effect, and would have been a lot more difficult to explain to Larissa.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat, and he realised he hadn’t answered Major Turner. He looked back to the front of the room, and saw the former SAS officer staring at him with an unnervingly patient expression.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he lied. “Something came up on the lower levels. It won’t happen again, sir.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” replied Turner. “But I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. Sit down, Carpenter.”

Jamie walked sheepishly over to the table where Larissa and Kate were sitting, pulled a chair out and flopped into it between them. As Paul Turner set the pages of his briefing on the lectern, Jamie cast a glance at Angela, who favoured him with a sympathetic smile. He smiled back, then returned his attention to the front of the room, his blood boiling at the unfairness of it all.

“Operators,” said Major Turner. “This is OPERATION: PROMISED LAND, a two-squad reconnaissance and elimination mission. It’s relatively straightforward, but please try and concentrate. I’d rather not have to keep stopping to answer stupid questions. Clear? Good.”

Turner pressed a button on the portable console in his hand, and the wall screen above his head burst into life. It showed a satellite image of a large container ship; the tiny swells of white water at her aft showed the Operators that the ship was in motion.

“This,” continued Turner, “is the Aristeia. She’s a Panamax-class freighter, two hundred and twenty-eight metres long, thirty-two metres wide, able to carry three thousand standard freight containers. She’s Greek-built, flying the Bahamian flag.”

“If she can carry three thousand containers,” said Angela, “why does it look like she’s carrying about fifty?”

Turner favoured her with what passed for a smile, and tapped his console. The image magnified until the ship filled the screen.

“You’re correct,” he said. “She’s carrying sixty-eight containers on a deck built for forty-four times that many. She departed from Shanghai eighteen days ago; those containers would need to be filled with diamonds to cover the cost of the fuel it’s taken to get her where she is now.”

“Where’s that?” asked Larissa.

“About eighty miles off the north-east coast,” replied Turner. “Her heading puts her destination as the entrance to the River Tyne, where she’ll arrive in roughly seven hours.”

“What does this have to do with us?” asked Shaun Turner.

“There has been only a single radio contact with the Aristeia since she left port,” replied Major Turner. “When she passed through the Suez Canal. Before and since, nothing. She spent the last week making her way through the Mediterranean, and all attempts to contact her, by the Italians, the Spanish and the Portuguese, have failed.”

“Pirates?” asked Kate.

Angela snorted, and Larissa fired a stare full of razor blades in her direction.

“No,” replied Major Turner. “Or at least, we don’t think so. There’s never been an instance of a pirated vessel being taken voluntarily through the Med, or through the Canal. If she’d been boarded, we’d expect the pirates to have taken her to the coast of Somalia, where they could moor her and make their demands. This ship had to go through Somali waters to get to Suez.”

“Terrorists?” suggested Jack Williams. “Could it be carrying a bomb?”

“Satellite spectro-analysis says not. Also, why would you use a ship like this to make an attack? They’d know we could sink her in the middle of the ocean. Cargo freighters are not renowned for their manoeuvrability.”

“So what is it then?” asked Jamie, sharply. He was getting bored with playing guessing games.

Paul Turner gave him a look full of warning, then continued.

“The Surveillance Division monitored the attempts to contact her, and when she entered UK waters, we put a satellite over her. Here’s the infrared.”

The image on the screen blurred out, then sharpened into a bright rainbow of colours. The frigid water surrounding the ship was a blue so dark it was almost black, the hull and deck of the Aristeia a pale shade of aquamarine. A thick bloom of red glowed at the rear of the ship, where the huge diesel engines were producing the power that pushed the enormous freighter through the water. The rectangular containers on the ship’s cargo deck glowed a pale orange, and were studded with small blobs of yellow which, the watching Operators realised, were moving around inside the boxes.

“Jesus,” said Jack Williams. “There must be two hundred people in those containers.”

“Two hundred and twenty-seven,” confirmed Major Turner. “Look at the bridge.”

The huge crescent-shaped bridge, which towered almost four storeys above the surface of the deck, was pale yellow. The heat was emanating from seven points of light that were almost white, such was the heat they were giving out.

“Vamps,” said Shaun Turner, matter-of-factly. “Seven vamps, and two hundred humans. What the hell is this ship?”

“It’s not a ship,” said Angela. “It’s a prison. A floating prison.”

“What do you mean?” asked Larissa, frowning. “What are they being imprisoned for?”

“So they can be delivered to whoever paid for them,” said Angela. “I’ve seen it before, but never on this scale. It’s like the snakehead gangs bringing workers out of the Far East. They get them as far as the Med, then use trucks the rest of the way. Someone is waiting for this ship in the north, I can guarantee you. Someone waiting for the cargo they ordered.”

Larissa looked at Paul Turner, who nodded.

“Operator Darcy is correct,” he said. “Our understanding is that the men and women on this ship are to be delivered into vampire hands as soon as the ship docks. What is planned for them after that, we don’t know. But given that the oldest vampire in the world, who is currently unaccounted for, is most likely in a condition that requires a regular supply of blood, we thought it might be worth looking into. Don’t you agree?”

“You think those people are being shipped to wherever Valeri and Dracula are hiding?” asked Kate.

“We think it’s possible.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Jamie, his voice firm.

Larissa looked over at him, saw the set of his jaw, the calm in his blue eyes, and felt her stomach flip. She was incredibly proud of him, and as attracted to him in that moment as she had ever been. A low growl emerged from her throat, barely audible to anyone except Jamie, who was sitting beside her. He turned to her, and a flicker of red spilled into the corners of her eyes, so quickly that only he could have possibly seen it. He grinned; he knew very well what it meant.