Find the Lady
Bucharest/London, March 1968
The alarm rang at the bloody awful hour of 5am, and I rolled over and slammed my hand down on the off button, in the hope that it wouldn't disturb my companion, but I was too late to head off the groan from my right.
"Whassat...?" Jenny said, rolling towards me. Her chestnut hair looked dishevelled, laid on the pillow, and half-asleep or not, one look at her had me regretting that I had to be at the airport for 6.30am.
"You go back to sleep," I said, kissing her on the forehead, "I have to go."
"Why, Mikael?"
"I have a plane to catch, remember?" I answered, dragging myself up to a sitting position, before taking the plunge and climbing out of bed. Groggily, I headed for the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under it in the hope that it would wake me up. While I'd gotten used to being a morning person in the army, I was a little out of practice.
I'd met Jennifer Milton six months before at a reception at Government House, Pretoria, on one of my short furloughs back in the home country of my alternate persona, Mikael Cuijper. Since then we'd met once or twice a month, when our schedules had coincided. Her posting was as a trade attaché with the British Embassy, although her less official duties involved talking to the likes of me, who occasionally fed information to the British government. Since time in memoriam, journalists have acted as unofficial government agents, and after Audrey died, when I'd branched out into that field, Laurence Rathbone (still in uniform and by then a Brigadier) had got in touch with me to see if I would be willing to informally offer my services to the Crown. You never really leave the SIS. Since then I had been filing occasional reports on matters of interest. Rathbone had finally retired in 1960, and my current London handler was an upcoming young intelligence agent I knew as Matthew Gifford, who was of an age with my Cuijper identity. However, Jenny acted as a go-between whenever I was in South Africa, and one thing had rather led to another.
"So which godforsaken corner of the planet are you off to this time?" she asked as I came out of the shower and started to dress. She was sitting up in bed with the sheet draped around her, looking slightly less bleary eyed and not at all less desirable.
"Romania. There are rumours that the Russians are trying to get their claws into the Bucharest government."
"Last time I looked, the Nazis had Romania."
"When did that ever stop the Russians causing trouble?"
"True."
"I have to go, darling," I said, crossing to the bed and kissing her goodbye, "but I'll see you in a month, right?"
"Hopefully. I've had the leave approved. A week in the country will be blissful."
"Looking forward to it," I answered, really meaning it, and headed for the door through into the hall. Then I paused a moment as I remembered: "My contact details for Bucharest are on the table by the front door".
"I'll find them. See you in London, Mikael."
I blew her a kiss, then headed out, grabbing my pack - an old British Army Bergen - as I opened the front door. I swung it onto my back and then walked down the stairs with a spring in my step. The cab I'd ordered to take me to the airport was even waiting for me outside. I gave the driver the directions, and then settled into the back seat for the drive.
The reason for the Bucharest trip was background research for a series of articles I was writing about the rise of Russian organised crime. Disillusionment with the Communist system and the Central Asian independence movements had led some of the more enterprising and entrepreneurial elements within Russia to change tack from supporting the Communist regime to lining their own pockets, and the new breed of Russian 'businessmen' were keen to spread their influence. I'd made similar research trips to other countries over the previous six months, both within the Balkans and also Georgia and Azerbaijan.
The first three articles were finished and I had publishers lined up for them - Die Beeld in South Africa, and The Sunday Telegraph in England - and the fourth and final one was just waiting on the Bucharest trip, which I'd had to postpone a few weeks earlier. They were a slight departure for me, as I'd usually concentrated on straight reporting, but my London agent, Neil Schofield, had suggested I try my hand at diversifying. Of course, he always had been an optimist and kept looking forward to the time when war correspondents weren't needed any more. We'd argued that one many a time over port and cigars at the Press Club, in Wine Office Court, just off Fleet Street. However, personally, I didn't see it happening, not while the Nazi regime stood, at least. I'd seen too much of war in my 58 years to believe that a true peace would ever come.
The plane left on time, and once we were airborne, I settled back in my seat and started going through the notes I'd made a couple of weeks previously in neighbouring Bulgaria. Hopefully, it would be a productive trip. The main downside was that while Romania wasn't Nazi Central, it was technically within the GGR. Mikael Cuijper, like Ian Cushing, treated Nazi territory with caution, because when all was said and done, Kasimir Ritter (now way up the SS rankings from when I'd first met him) was still a key player within the Ahnenerbe, and showing about as many signs of aging as I wasn't. I had no reason to believe that Ian Cushing had ever fallen off his radar, even if we hadn't had direct contact for some years, and moreover, given his presumed abilities as a Dark Adept, I couldn't discount the fact that he'd linked the Cushing-Cuijper identities together.
We arrived in Bucharest a little ahead of schedule, after a favourable refuelling in Cairo, and I transferred to the Athanee Palace Hotel (at one time reputed to be Europe's most notorious den of spies, but I figured that might actually help my cause, as long as I took sensible precautions), where I had booked a suite. The following morning I got to work, and over the next two weeks, I had a pleasing amount of success. I managed to make half a dozen good contacts and got some decent information, but my quicker than expected progress left me in a bit of a quandary. Initially, my flight to London had been booked for Wednesday 20th, which would get me into England in time to join the Lyminge Group for Spring Equinox. Then I was due to meet Schofield at the Press Club for lunch on the 22nd, and Jenny at the Park Lane Hotel that evening. However, by the 15th, I had pretty much everything I needed. I debated between heading to London early - incurring the inevitable fees for changing my flights - or staying in Bucharest to do the initial write-up, in case I needed to revisit any of my sources, and in the end I decided on the latter. However, things never work out as planned.
On the afternoon of the 17th, I returned to the hotel at around three after a hurriedly arranged extra-curricular meeting with one of my sources in the Ministry of Trade, to discover a hotel envelope addressed to Mikael Cuijper, Room 229, on the bedside table. It certainly hadn't been there when I went out, which meant that someone had been in my suite in the meantime, although it might just have been housekeeping. I checked the bedroom safe, where I was storing my notes and one or two other things I didn't want to leave out on public display, and was pleased to see that neither of the telltales I had set on it had been tampered with. Satisfied on that score, I picked up the envelope and slit it open. Inside were a photograph, and a single sheet of hotel paper on which was written a note in English in block capitals. The combination caused the colour to drain from my face.
I looked at the photograph, to see a scared looking Jenny sitting against a dark, featureless wall, holding a copy of the previous day's Times, and then read the note:
"We have your lady friend. Unless you turn over to us all your notes on your current project, plus $240,000, before 18.00 hours on 19th March, she will die. Bring them to the Achilles Statue in Hyde Park. Do not be foolish enough to contact the police."
The note sent shivers down my spine, and despite the overt threat to Jenny, I had a distinct feeling that there was more to this than met the eye. The implication was that the kidnappers were in England, and yet the letter had been hand delivered in Bucharest. Furthermore, nothing in my research had suggested a British link to the people I was investigating, so why would someone in London be interested in my notes? And then there was the date by which their demands were to be met: it was so specific that it implied that they (whoever "they" were) were aware of my travel plans, and knew I'd be forced to change them to comply with their request: something which couldn't be guaranteed. Then, last but not least, was the fiscal demand: there was nothing in the legend I'd built for Mikael Cuijper that would suggest that he could easily get hold of $240,000, but Ian Cushing certainly did have access to the sterling equivalent of £100,000.
I grabbed the house phone and dialled down to the front desk, and was answered promptly in German, the official language of Romania since the invasion, and therefore the one most often spoken in establishments which non-natives were likely to visit.
"Front desk, this is Teodor. Can I help you, Herr Cuijper?"
"Has anyone delivered anything to my room today?"
"A letter was left for you at the front desk just after you went out this morning. Iulia took it up to your room at lunchtime."
"Who left it?"
"It was brought in by one of the usual couriers."
"Did you know him?"
"Yes, his name is Dorin. He usually delivers here on a Saturday, but he said that he had found your letter at the bottom of his bag, and didn't want to wait until Monday in case it was important."
"And it didn't strike you as odd that it was written on hotel stationery? And only had a room number for the address?"
That one caused Teodor to pause, which in turn made my sixth sense tingle even more. How much did he really know?
"Where can I find this...Dorin?" I demanded.
"The courier office is on the Strada Orzari, But as it's Sunday, it won't be open today. Perhaps in the morning?"
"It can't wait until the morning," I snapped, more angrily than I should have, and put down the phone. Then I grabbed my leather jacket, stuffed the envelope in the pocked and headed down to the lobby. As I walked through, I noticed that the desk was now staffed by a woman, and crossed over to her.
"Is Teodor here?"
"He had to go out for a moment, Herr Cuijper," she answered, "is there a problem?"
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No sir."
Without another word I handed over my key, then hurried to the door and looked up and down the street. No-one seemed to be rushing anywhere. I walked outside and then ducked around the corner back towards the rear of the hotel. Again, no-one seemed to be in an unseemly hurry. Cursing, I took one last look around and then paused to think what to do next. To cover my hesitation, I lit a cigarette, and made like someone smoking without a care in the world.
It didn't seem very likely that Teodor's rapid disappearing act was a coincidence, but I didn't immediately have a clue where to find him. The only lead I had was the courier office on Strada Orzari, assuming that he wasn't lying through his teeth when he mentioned 'Dorin'. I gave it fifty-fifty, but I had to try. I got my Bucharest street map out of my pocket, looked up the address and once I'd committed it to memory, I stubbed out my cigarette and started walking. As I did, I kept a wary eye out, to make sure I wasn't being followed, but as far as I could tell, I was alone.
It didn't take long to find the street, but it took me a good ten minutes of trolling up and down until I realised that the door to the courier office was off one of the alleys to the side of the main thoroughfare. I checked around me once more - apparently clear - and then made my way to the door. My first thought was that if it was closed, as Teodor had suggested, I might be able to pick the lock, sneak inside and try to find the personnel records to get a home address for 'Dorin'. Assuming that was his real name, of course. However, I when I reached the doorway, I saw that it was slightly ajar. Slipping on a pair of gloves (which were conveniently in my jacket pocket against a March cold which thankfully hadn't materialised), I carefully pushed the door open and looked inside.
I noticed the smell immediately: a mixture of cordite and the iron tang of fresh blood.
Crap.
The sensible thing to do would be to walk away, given the high likelihood that there was a dead body inside, as I couldn't afford to do anything that would bring me to the attention of the Bucharest Gestapo office. On the other hand, I needed to talk to Dorin, and the only way I was going to find him, if he existed, was by stepping into the office. Always assuming that didn't involve finding him quite literally.
I glanced up and down the alley - still empty, as far as I could tell - made my mind up and went inside, pushing the door to behind me. The office was a shabby affair, with a single wooden counter and filing cabinets against the wall behind it. I carefully approached the end of the counter, making sure that I wasn't stepping in anything red and sticky, and looked behind it. Sprawled on the floor was a young man - maybe seventeen or eighteen - with a rather surprised look on his face. He'd been shot in the heart at close range. The pool of blood around him was substantial and already drying, and while I'm not a medical expert, my guess was that he'd been dead for a good couple of hours.
"Hallo?" came a male voice from the doorway. I heard the creak as the door was pushed open once more, and my heart sank. I looked to see if there was anywhere I could hide, but the only option was behind the counter. Hiding beside the body of a recently murdered man? Not smart.
The voice spoke again in a rapid-fire language I didn't immediately understand, presumably Romanian, and I turned towards him, very slowly, to see a uniformed painfully young-looking policeman, holding his sidearm. I was so screwed.
"Halt!" he demanded, switching to German as I obviously hadn't understood Romanian, "stay exactly where you are and raise your hands."
He paused while I complied, before demanding: "Who are you?"
"I asked one of the desk staff at my hotel for the name of a good courier," I said, with my best innocent expression, "he gave me this address. He said it probably wouldn't be open, but I decided to try on the off-chance that someone was working overtime. When I got here the door was open. I came inside, before I realised something was wrong."
"Move over to the side ...away from the counter," he ordered, indicating with the Beretta.
I complied without argument, hands raised, so he could still me from the relative cover of the door. By now, his weapon was aimed unwavering at my chest, and I didn't doubt that he would use it if I made a mis-step. And I really hate being shot. He then unclipped the radio from the lapel of his overcoat, and still keeping a wary eye on me, I heard him call for backup. Once he knew help was on the way, he crossed towards me.
"Place your hands on the wall and spread your legs," he ordered, and rather reluctantly, I did as I was bid, thanking the gods that the Browning Hi-Power I had brought with me to Bucharest (just in case, you understand), was back in my hotel room safe. I was searched quickly and efficiently, and then the policeman stepped back.
"Papers, please...carefully."
I turned back towards him and reached slowly into my jacket pocket with my left hand, leaving my right very obviously raised and open, and pulled out my passport with two fingers, which I offered to the policeman.
"On the floor."
I flicked it down at his feet, then moved my left hand to keep it as visible as my right while he slowly bent down to pick up the passport, his eyes never leaving mine.
"South African?" he said, glancing down for a brief moment.
"Yes."
"Journalist?" he added, as he flipped open my details page. I could see the sneer of disapproval as he said that.
"Yes."
With that he lapsed into silence and we waited. About five minutes later, I heard booted footsteps out in the alley, and two other men appeared in the doorway. One of them looked to be in his late-thirties, and was dressed in a police uniform. The other was younger, maybe early-thirties, slightly shorter than me and more heavily built. He had dark blond hair and was wearing feldgrau with the rank insignia of a Hauptsturmführer, with Gestapo unit designation. My only consolation was that it wasn't Ritter. The young policeman immediately handed my passport to the SS officer, while the older one crossed to the counter to look at the body.
"What are you doing here, Herr...Cuijper?" asked the officer, in passable English, and as he spoke I noticed that his expression was more intelligent than I was used to seeing from Gestapo thugs. Moreover, his blue eyes were lacking the cold, hard look I would have expected from a member of that organisation, regarding me with both interest and curiosity.
"As I said to your colleague, I needed a courier and the hotel recommended this one. I came over in case someone was working overtime, and found the door open, so I came inside."
"Why didn't you call the police as soon as you saw the body?"
"This police officer turned up before I could," I replied, more than a little suspicious at the timing. I certainly hadn't seen anyone in the alley who might have called him, but by now I was feeling decidedly set up.
"Looks like a single gunshot to the heart, Hauptsturmführer Ulrich," the man behind the counter said, standing up, "his papers say Dorin Albescu."
Someone was obviously cleaning up after themselves.
"Do you know the deceased?" Ulrich asked, looking back at me as I tried to blank my expression on hearing confirmation of the identity of the deceased.
"No."
"Are you quite sure? You seemed to recognise the name."
"I've never seen him before in my life," I answered, which was, after all, the absolute truth, although I had the impression that he'd caught the evasion, curse him.
"Why are you here?"
I knew there was no point getting angry about the repeated question.
"I needed a courier. The hotel recommended this one. I came over on the off-chance and found the door open."
"What were you planning to send?"
"The drafts of a set of articles that I need to send to my editor before a meeting next week."
"And where are they?"
Damn. And I'd been hoping he wouldn't think of that one. Smart Gestapo officers were usually far worse than the stupid ones.
"In my room."
"If they were that urgent, why didn't you bring them with you?"
"Because I wasn't sure I'd find anyone here. My hotel isn't far away, so I figured that if there was someone who could help me, I could nip back and get them."
"Where are you staying?"
"The Athanee Palace."
"Return to your hotel and stay there. We will speak again later."
"As you wish," I answered, reaching my hand out for my passport, but he shook his head.
"This will be returned to you when I am satisfied that you had nothing to do with the murder," he answered, his tone neutral, and he slipped the passport into the inside pocket of his leather trenchcoat.
"How long is that likely to take?" I asked, visions of the kidnappers' deadline in my head.
"It will take as long as it takes, Herr Cuijper," he replied, "Why? Are you in a hurry to leave our lovely city?"
"I need to be in London the day after tomorrow."
"Really? Why?"
I debated whether there was any point telling the Gestapo about the ransom request, and quickly decided that there wasn't. They aren't known as the most sympathetic organisation in Christendom.
"I have an appointment which I can't miss."
"I suggest you telephone to rearrange it," he answered, then addressed the two policemen, "Nicolescu, Dalca, escort Herr Cuijper back to the Athanee Palace, and then search his room...in his presence, of course."
"Yes, Hauptsturmführer Ulrich," they said in unison, and the Gestapo officer stepped back and gestured for me to lead on. I hesitated, trying to decide if it was worth protesting, but quickly decided it wasn't. At least, on the bright side I hadn't been arrested on the spot, which I'd been more than half expecting the moment I'd seen Ulrich. Maybe he was actually going to investigate the hapless Dorin's murder.
I walked out of the doorway, and down the alley towards Strada Orzari, the two policemen flanking me like a pair of bookends. I made directly for the hotel, not waiting to see if my watchdogs were keeping up with me, although from the looks I was getting as I walked - and the almost universal movement of the crowd away from me - I guessed that they were right on my tail. And I had to admit that I was bloody glad that I'd talked to all my sources before that very public stroll through the streets of Bucharest, because once word got round that I was a person of interest to the police, learning anything else would become impossible.
I got back to the hotel about ten minutes later, picked up my room key, and the three of us rode up in the lift - which strangely, no-one else hurried to join us in. They escorted me to my door which I unlocked and went inside.
"We were told to search your room," the younger one insisted, putting a foot in the door before I could argue.
I sighed, and stood back to let them in, throwing my jacket over the back of the settee as I shut the door behind them. I urgently tried to remember if I'd left out anything I shouldn't have, but I'm normally pretty careful: you aren't paranoid if there's a chance they might actually be out to get you, and the SOE had trained me well. The older man indicated for me to sit in the armchair by the fireplace and then stood guard over me while his colleague made a rapid but thorough search of the suite. He finished about fifteen minutes later, and said something to his companion in Romanian.
"We will be leaving you now, Herr Cuijper," the older one offered, "however, you are strongly advised not to leave the hotel. If, for any reason, you do have to go out, then either one of us or one of our colleagues will escort you. Enjoy the rest of your day."
And with that, they departed and I was finally alone. I breathed a sigh of relief and then started trying to figure out if there was anything I could do to help Jenny. I probably could sneak out of the hotel, but getting out of Bucharest might be harder. I didn't have time before the deadline to try to get back to England overland, which realistically meant flying, and I was pretty sure that Ulrich and his cronies would have the airports and railway stations watched. Moreover, they had my passport and I hadn't expected to need a spare on this trip.
I toyed with whether there was anyone I could contact in London who might be able to get the monetary side of the ransom organised for me, but the downside with that was that my phone and any other public ones in the hotel were probably tapped, so I'd have some tricky questions to answer if I started drawing on Ian Cushing's bank accounts from Bucharest. It also didn't help that even if I did arrange the money, getting them my notes would be next to impossible. I'd have to rely on a courier, and I definitely didn't trust Ulrich not to intercept any packages sent by me.
That pretty much exhausted the mundane methods I could immediately think of, but I began to consider a glimmer of an arcane idea. By some miracle, did I have an arcane link to Jenny with me in Bucharest? Maybe a couple of loose hairs left when she'd been round at my flat, that might have got onto any of my possessions? It was a long shot, but if I could locate her, it might be possible to call one of the Group and get them in touch with the police, and I couldn't afford not to try it.
Forcing myself out of my lethargy, I headed into the bedroom and started to look. At least Nicolescu (unless it was Dalca) hadn't made that much of a mess when he'd searched my room. I suppose because at that point I wasn't accused of anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No doubt, if they decided I was guilty of Dorin's murder, they'd be back and would shred everything in search of a clue. Desperately, I checked every possession I had with me for a couple of telltale chestnut hairs. Nothing. But then, I'd been on the road for over two weeks and it had been a slim chance at best.
Then I remembered my kit bag, tucked into the back of the wardrobe. I pulled it out and looked inside, in case anything had fallen to the bottom while I'd been travelling. Nothing was obvious to my normal sight, but I wouldn't lose anything by trying something out of the ordinary. I took the pack back into the living room, made myself comfortable in the armchair, and then drew the silver ankh medallion I always wear, hung on a leather cord around my neck, out from under my shirt, and flipped the cord over my head. Audrey had given it to me many years ago in Egypt, which we'd visited on our travels after I'd been demobbed, and the emotional attachment I had to it meant that I used it as a magical focus far more often than the gold and sapphire ring I'd been given by the Group when I'd been accepted as a full initiate at Samhain 1944.
Holding the ankh loosely in my left hand (the fact that I was a south paw had always been a little tricky with the Group, given the 'sinister' connotations), I slipped into a light trance and reached out to see if my enhanced senses could see something that my eyes could not. Sure enough, as I looked inside the pack I saw a metaphysical glow in the seam at the bottom. I reached inside and felt something small and metallic caught in the stitching. Carefully, I teased it out and laid it in my hand: one of the pearl ear studs I had given her on our three-month date. I remembered her being upset that she couldn't find it when I'd last seen her. Maybe it had got caught up in a heap of clothing after one of our more athletic encounters and had been scooped up when I was packing, either for this trip or the previous one. I took a good look at it, and saw traces of skin on the post, from when she had last worn it.
I sent a quiet prayer of thanks to the gods, and laid it on the table beside the armchair, then brought myself out of the trance and centred. Once I was grounded, I slipped the medallion back over my head and settled down to think. To do the actual location ritual would need a bit more preparation, and I was mentally going through what would be needed when there was a knock at the door.
"Herr Cuijper," came Ulrich's voice.
Biting back a string of curses, I got to my feet, threw the kitbag into my bedroom, and opened the door for him. This time, as he entered, he was accompanied by a different uniformed policeman. Obviously he didn't trust me not to try anything if we were alone.
"Herr Ulrich. Back so soon?"
"I have more questions. I'm sure you understand."
"Such as?"
"Where were you between twelve and two this afternoon?"
"I met a friend for lunch," I answered, guessing that they were asking me for my alibi for Dorin's death, and immensely relieved that I had one.
"Where?"
"It was a small café off General Magheru Boulevard."
"Do you remember the name?"
"I may have the receipt still..." I answered, "if I can check my jacket?"
"Go ahead," he answered, and I grabbed my jacket from where I'd thrown it and rummaged through the pockets. Eventually I turned up the hand written bill, which was thankfully on headed stationery, and handed it to Ulrich.
"I'll need that back for expenses," I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt, but he ignored me, instead stuffing the receipt into a small paper bag and putting it in his pocket.
"What was the name of your friend?" asked the policeman, breaking his silence.
"I'd rather not say..." I replied, hoping I wouldn't have to give up under trade secretary Alin Cojocaru, who had met me at some risk to himself, "he's a source, and I wouldn't want him to get into trouble."
"Source for what?" Ulrich interjected, with a look of annoyance at the policeman, who he obviously felt should be seen but not heard, "Is this something to do with the papers you wanted to send by courier?"
"He's been helping me with background information for the story I'm working on, yes."
"Will the staff at the café remember you?"
"I don't know...probably. We were seated at a booth towards the back, but it wasn't too busy."
"If they do not, I will be back for the name of your contact, Herr Cuijper, but for now, thank you for your time."
And with that he acknowledged me with a nod of the head, and he and his companion saw themselves out.
I glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. Six in the evening. I couldn't risk setting up the location ritual until much later, in case Ulrich decided to pop back again after he'd been to the café, but equally, knowing I would be Working later on, going out for dinner wouldn't be advisable either. In the end, I decided to do some work on the article, incorporating the new information I had learned from Cojocaru while it was still fresh in my mind. Hopefully it would stop me worrying about Jenny for a little while.
It almost worked, too.
At about eight I called down to room service, to get some sandwiches brought up - I'd have to be seen to be eating something, and they would probably keep until after I'd done the ritual, when I'd need the energy boost - and then turned on the television and flicked idly through the channels in case anything caught my eye. Slightly to my surprise I came across an episode of Mission Impossible (dubbed into Romanian, alas), and let my mind wander as it burbled in the background. By ten I was pretty sure that Ulrich wasn't coming back that evening, unless he chose to break my door down at three in the morning, and decided that it was time to make my preparations.
I usually travelled with a small atlas, roughly A5 sized, as I was never sure where my wanderings would take me. In addition, this time, because I was going on to London, I had an A-Z and a larger street map of the capital with me. Between the three of them, they would hopefully act as a focus for getting a location. I also got the photograph out of the envelope, and the earring from over on the table, which I hoped would serve as a connection to Jenny. I double-locked the door, so no-one could barge in unannounced, and then went over to the safe and got out the small athame I usually carry. At about six inches long in total, it was shorter than the length of my hand, and could very easily be mistaken for a letter opener. Moreover, it could easily be slipped into a pocket of my pack or my leather-cased grooming kit. Like the sapphire ring, it had been given to me at my initiation into the Group.
Unsheathing it and using it as a focus, I began tracing wards around the room, calling on the Powers that Be to guard body and soul while I was engaged in the Work. As I completed the final incantation, a calm fell on the room and I was ready to try the location ritual. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and placed the atlas in front of me, opened at the Mercator's projection inside the front cover. The London maps I put beside it to the left and the photograph to the right, then laid the earring on the photograph. Everything thus arranged so I could reach it easily, I brought the medallion over my head once more, but this time held the leather cord, rather than the ankh, intending to use it as a pendulum to dowse for Jenny. All set, I put myself into a Working trance and began opening myself up to any impressions that might help me find my lover.
I rested my right hand on the earring and photo, and let my left do what it would. The first impressions I received surprised me. The pendulum seemed to be indicating Africa, rather than Europe. I moved my right hand to the atlas, holding onto the impression and let my fingers flip through the pages. It stopped at the map of South Africa. Had I guessed completely wrong? Had she never actually left Pretoria? Or was I homing in on the wrong thing? I touched the focus again and let myself go a little deeper, trying to work past any other impressions that might be interfering.
Quickly I realised that the earring itself was indicating affinity for its pair. How stupid of me. Still, it was nothing that I couldn't work around. I began separating out the two different strands of impressions, and eventually keyed onto Jenny herself. Holding her in my mind, I returned my attention to the pendulum and began flicking through the atlas again. This time I stopped on the map of England, although it there was only so much detail on a page roughly six inches by eight.
The pendulum started to nudge towards London, so I paused for a few moments and opened up the larger scale map. Soon I was circling in towards Mayfair and was about to reach for the A-Z when I hit resistance. A ward maybe? Certainly something was suddenly blocking the tenuous contact I'd had to Jenny. What the Hell kind of kidnappers could ward their prisoner? Suddenly the contradictions which had struck me when I first read the ransom note were a lot more sinister. Maybe this wasn't about either the money or the articles, but an attack against myself and, by extension, on the Group.
Undaunted - in fact, even more keen to find her after that revelation - I opened the A-Z at Piccadilly and tried figure out where the warded area was, so I could home in on her possible location by omission. I was tracking the pendulum up towards Hanover Square when the attack came. The first I knew of it was pain lancing up my left arm, and the leather cord dropped from nerveless fingers onto the map around New Bond Street. Then the pain expanded across the left hand side of my chest, as if it was trying to stop my heart, and I could feel pressure building around my third eye. I saw a red mist of and was gasping for breath, not at all sure that I wasn't having either a heart attack or a stroke, and then the trance was broken and I was lying in a heap on the floor, my entire body shaking from the sudden return to reality. My pulse was racing, pain was still coursing up and down my arm and I was bathed in sweat. About the best thing I could do was lie there and try to consciously bring my rebelling body under control.
It took a good fifteen minutes, but eventually I had recovered enough to sit up and centre properly. My left arm was so weak that I had to support it with the right. I looked down at the A-Z and saw that the area around where the medallion lay had been scorched into blackness, although the ankh itself was undamaged. I'd had some strange experiences when dowsing in the past, but this beat all of them. I felt for the wards around the room and ascertained that they were still intact, albeit weaker than they had been, and it was very sobering to realise that if I hadn't had the foresight to construct them beforehand, I would have been killed.
Torn between calling it a night so I could lie down and lick my wounds, and a desperate desire to know if there was any way I could try to make contact with Jenny again, I perhaps foolishly decided on the latter. She was in more trouble than I'd ever considered and I had to find her. I sat quietly for a few minutes, meditating, until I was sure that I was in a position to try again, and then set about making contact through the earring and photograph again.
Nothing. Not the slightest trace.
I checked the items themselves, but they were fundamentally unchanged from what they had been an hour before. Even the traces of skin were still on the post of the earring. But there was no connection. It was as if she had ceased to be. Scared and worried, I put myself into a deeper Working trance than normal, trying to recall the trace I'd had before the attack. It took a while to find and it was even more tenuous than it had been, but eventually I thought I had it. Then I picked up the leather cord and pulled the larger map of London towards me. I focused on letting the one guide the other, but to no avail. The medallion just described random circles in my hand, and it was all I could do to keep my left arm steady enough to hold it up. I was loathe to approach the area which had triggered the attack again, but I knew I had to do it. I steeled myself, commended my soul to the gods and then tried to home in, but the ankh just carried on circling aimlessly.
She was gone.
Knowing that I was in no fit state to try anything else that night, I began to close down the Working. Once it was safe, I got slowly to my feet, still favouring my left arm, and dispelled the wards. I was cold and tired and hungry, and when I caught a look at my reflection in the mirror, I was as white as a sheet. I locked the letter opener back in the safe, along with the letter, photograph and earring, and threw a simple ward around it. Then I forced myself to eat some of the sandwiches room service had brought up earlier, which were now rather tired and beginning to harden around the edges. They helped a little, but what I really needed was sleep. I made my way into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, stripped off my sweat-sodden clothing and pulled on a pair of shorts. Then I took the time to seal the area around the bed with a somewhat smaller ward which called on the great archangels to protect me (not from my usual tradition, but I'd found it did the job, and it might throw off anyone who tried to back trace my working from Mayfair), before laying down. I went out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow.
When I awoke, I felt like I had a king-sized hangover, without even having had the pleasure of getting drunk first. However, at least when I flexed my left hand, it was pretty much back to normal, just aching slightly. In the cold light of day, I realised that I'd been bloody lucky the night before, and a damned fool to try to look for her again after the first attack. Desperation makes you do stupid things. I glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet: 9am. I really had needed to recharge. I couldn't remember the last time I'd woken up that late. Still, given the restrictions put on my by Ulrich, it wasn't as if I had anywhere else to be, even if I could have persuaded anyone to talk to me.
I showered, then dressed slowly in a pair of khaki trousers modelled after army fatigues, a dark polo-necked jumper and a woollen blazer. Then I checked around the room, making sure I hadn't left out anything I shouldn't have, and once I was happy that everything was as it should be, I went downstairs to the hotel restaurant to grab a late breakfast. The hot food and strong coffee had a much better restorative effect than then previous night's hastily consumed sandwiches. Once I was done, I wandered out into the lobby and saw the elder of the two policemen from the courier's office trying to look as if he belonged in one of the armchairs. Strangely, it wasn't working. I approached him, and waited until he'd acknowledged me
"I need some fresh air, so I'm going for a walk," I said, "are you going to stop me, or just tag along?"
Silently, he got to his feet and fell in beside me as I made for the entrance. Once outside, I paused, considering the day. I got the packet of cigarettes out of the blazer pocket, lit one up for myself and offered them to him. He hesitated for a moment, then accepted. I handed him the lighter, which he used and then returned to me with a nod of thanks. Then we set off walking down the street. I didn't really have a destination mind, instead just walking in a rough circle to stretch my legs and blow the cobwebs out of my head. About half an hour or so later, we ended up at the Parcul Titan. I made my way to the lakeside and sat on a bench looking out over the water. My shadow sat beside me and we had another cigarette.
"So are you Dalca or Nicolescu?" I asked.
"My name is Iosif Dalca," he replied, in heavily accented German.
"And how long have you worked for Herr Ulrich?"
"I don't work for Herr Ulrich. I work for the Bucharest Police Force. But when a serious crime is reported which involves a foreigner, the Gestapo have to get involved."
His resentment of the fact was obvious.
"Are you willing to tell me just how much trouble I'm in?" I said, on the off-chance.
"I shouldn't."
"I understand that."
"However...apparently the staff at the café remembered you, which gives you an alibi for the time when Dorin Albescu was murdered."
"How old was he?"
"Three months short of his seventeenth birthday. He dropped out of school a few months ago so he could work to support his family."
"Poor bastard."
"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time," came the answer, emphasised with a shrug, "it happens a lot nowadays."
"That doesn't make it right."
We lapsed back into silence, smoking and soaking up the late morning sunshine. On the lake, a flock of ducks took wing as one, startled by something on one of the islands.
"Can I give you some advice, Herr Cuijper," Dalca said, finally.
"I'm always happy to listen to advice."
"You should get your passport back either tonight or tomorrow. Once it's in your hand, get out of Bucharest as quickly as you can."
"Why?"
"Hauptsturmführer Ulrich was on the phone to Berlin last night, arguing with someone about whether to detain you or not. His caller was pressuring him to make an arrest. We could hear the shouting across the squad room."
My surprise that a Gestapo officer actually had qualms about arresting the wrong man must have been apparent on my face, because Dalca found it necessary to come to Ulrich's defence.
"He may be a meddling Nazi, but he's honest," Dalca commented, "you were lucky that he was the one who answered Nico's call for backup with me. He used to be a real policeman in Munich, before he became Gestapo and got posted here. He will try to find out who really did this, rather than arresting the first available suspect. The trouble is, it sounded as if whoever he was talking to didn't care about such niceties."
"I'll get a flight booked today."
He nodded and then fell quiet. We finished the cigarettes, stubbed them out and walked back to the hotel. We parted in the lobby, and I went back upstairs to my room and settled down to make some phone calls. Once I'd arranged seats on two flights out the following day - a BEA flight at 8.45am, with a backup at 2.15pm, in case I failed to make the first - I got out my notes and carried on working. By six, the first draft of the article was finished, and I had something to show Schofield, if I ever got to that meeting.
Having skipped lunch, I decided to get an early dinner and headed downstairs. I had just ordered, when I became aware of someone approaching my table and looked up.
"Guten abend, Herr Cuijper."
"Herr Ulrich."
"May I join you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course, but I'd rather be civilised about this."
"Then by all means," I answered, gesturing towards the chair opposite then calling over the waitress to get him a drink. He ordered a schnapps, then waited for her to leave, before reaching into the pocket of his uniform jacket and handing me my passport.
"You have powerful enemies in Germany," he said, his tone conversational.
"I don't understand why," I answered, innocently, "unless they've taken exception to something I've written. I'll admit I've never gone out of the way to show the Berlin regime in a particularly good light, but that doesn't make me unique among the Western press."
"I had a phone call yesterday, from the deputy commander of the Ahnenerbe Forschungs und Lehrgemeinschaft. One Obergruppenführer Ritter. He was most insistent that I detain you."
"What would someone from the Ahnenerbe want with me?" I asked, hoping my poker face was good enough to conceal the fact that I suddenly felt cold all over. I took it as confirmation that Ritter had connected Mikael Cuijper to Ian Cushing.
At that point, the waitress returned with his drink and my starter, although my appetite had pretty much gone the moment Ulrich had mentioned Ritter's name.
"I asked that very question. He refused to answer. So I politely informed him that I had no evidence to hold you."
"I imagine that didn't go down well."
"He will be arriving in Bucharest at 08.00 tomorrow morning. You may wish to keep an eye out for him at the airport."
"He's a bad man to cross."
"So his reputation suggests."
"How much trouble are you likely to be in for telling me this?"
"He isn't in my chain of command, so technically he doesn't have the right to issue me with a direct order. And I anticipate arresting Albescu's murderer either later tonight or early tomorrow, so he can't even point to an unsolved crime as a sign of my incompetence. But we shall see."
"If you end up on the Russian Front, try to get word to me," I said, reaching into my pocket, getting out a business card with my London and Pretoria contact details on it and handed it to him.
"What would you be able to do?"
"I know a few people," I answered, "if you were willing to walk away, they could help you."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, or my loyalty to the Fatherland might be sorely tested."
"Was it Teodor? The desk clerk?"
"He was certainly an accessory, but no, he didn't pull the trigger. It wasn't anyone you know."
With that he downed the contents of his glass, slipped my card into his wallet and got to his feet.
"Have a safe trip, Herr Cuijper," he said, with a nod of his head, and walked away.
I forced myself to eat my dinner, although truth be told, I didn't really taste any of it, and then adjourned back to my room via the front desk, where I ordered a car for 6.30am. I debated whether to try the location ritual again, but decided that it probably couldn't teach me anything I didn't already know. So in the end I spent the evening copying the most salient sections of my notes before turning in around midnight, having thoroughly warded the suite in case Ritter tried to do anything nasty in the night.
I was awake at five (trying not to remember another recent and far more pleasant 5am awakening) and quickly showered and packed. Then I grabbed a rapid breakfast, and was checked out and ready for the car when it arrived. I threw the pack into the back seat beside me and climbed in, putting the attaché case containing my notes on my lap. I felt very tense, and was hoping to Hell that Ritter hadn't managed to get an earlier flight. I was at Baneasa airport by 7.15am, and was somewhat relieved that there didn't seem to be any more police around it than there had been when I had first arrived in Bucharest - was it only two weeks ago?
After I had checked in, the clerk regaled me with a polite smile as she handed me my ticket and suggested that I wait in the viewing gallery in the central rotunda of the terminal building, until my flight was called. I thanked her for the advice and made my way to the rotunda, which had windows looking out over the runway. At least this way I had a decent chance of seeing Ritter's plane when it landed, so I could find a dark corner to lurk in. I grabbed a coffee from one of the concourse vendors and installed myself in a chair off to one side, looking towards the tarmac and spending the time to bring up both physical wards and shields, a process that twenty-plus years of experience now meant that I could do silently, and about as obviously as if I was just dozing.
The small jet with SS lightning runes on the black painted tail fin landed at 7.50am. It spent a while taxiing, before pulling into the private terminal to the side of the main public one, and a short while later, a tall, blond figure in SS dress black uniform walked down stairs, a pair of aides trailing in his wake. From his body language, Obergruppenführer Kasimir Ritter was a very angry man.
He was met at the door to the private terminal by an officer in feldgrau, who I guessed from the general build and colouring, was Ulrich. They exchanged salutes, before Ritter strode inside as if he owned the place. I suppose it was inevitable that Ulrich would be the one to meet the dignitary from Berlin, being the investigating officer as well as the person who had refused to co-operate with Ritter's demands. In fact, Ritter would probably have ordered him to meet the plane. I had to consciously breathe and act relaxed, so my fellow passengers wouldn't spot anything amiss, but my tension levels were racking up as I tried to guess whether the younger officer would betray me, or cover my backside long enough for me to get out of the country.
Ten minutes later, I heard my flight called and started walking towards the gates, consciously strolling rather than hurrying, as if I hadn't got a care in the world. They started boarding the flight about five minutes after I got there, and I moved into line as we walked out onto the tarmac. I was all too aware of Ritter's plane, a few hundred yards away, and glanced occasionally towards the private terminal. An SS staff car was drawing up beside it.
At the front of the queue to board, one of the passengers got into an argument with the stewardess at the foot of the stairs, and our progress ground to a halt. As it did, I saw movement over by the car and Ulrich emerged from the building, looking for all the world like Ritter had just ripped him a new one. He glanced in my direction and his eyes met mine. Then he consciously turned away from me and attracted Ritter's attention as he came out, blocking the general's view of me. I offered a silent prayer of thanks to the gods, along with an exhortation to protect the young Gestapo officer (not something I would have ever expected to do), and then turned away to wait for boarding to resume. Moments later, the obstreperous passenger was escorted off by one of the BEA staff and we were once again on the move. I climbed the stairs, pausing briefly at the top to glance over at the staff car. It was just starting to move, and there was no sign of a squad of policemen running in my direction.
"Keep moving, please, sir," said the stewardess, and with a murmured apology, I ducked inside the plane.
Fifteen minutes later, we began to taxi and ten minutes after that, we were in the air and en route to London. However, it wasn't until we had been in flight long enough to be out of Romanian airspace that I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We touched down at Heathrow about four and a half hours later, at around 11.15am London time, and as soon as I'd cleared immigration, I grabbed a taxi to take me into Central London. I had six hours to meet the kidnappers' deadline.
First, I stopped by the townhouse in Bayswater to switch back to Ian Cushing, so I would be able to talk to my bank about releasing funds, on the off-chance that: a) the ransom demand was real, and b) the kidnappers would actually let Jenny go if I paid up. But I'll admit that after what had happened on Sunday night, I wasn't at all hopeful. I agreed to pick up the money from my branch of the National Provincial Bank Piccadilly at 3.25pm. That gave me time to get back to Bayswater afterwards to make some last preparations, before venturing out again in time for the 6pm rendezvous.
I left home again at about 12.45pm, with the intention of taking a stroll into the general area of Mayfair where my scrying had met its abrupt end, and reached Hanover Square a little after one. That gave me a couple of hours until I had to abandon and head for the bank. It's not usually a good idea to walk around the streets of London open to psychic impressions, as the city is just too old and too populous that you can completely avoid getting random readings. Moreover, Charles Aberford, the current Man in Black of our Group, would probably tear me off a strip for doing so. However, that didn't stop me putting up my personal protections - in the hope that they would limit the backlash - and then walking the area where the ankh had fallen to the A-Z and blackened it. It was a long shot, but given how powerful whatever it was that I'd hit had been, it had to be worth a try.
I started my search in Hanover Square, and began walking a grid route from Regent Street across to Davies Street and back. Every street. Every lane. Every alley. It was two forty-five, and I was about to give up, when I finally found a trace in a tiny courtyard off Lancashire Court, a six-feet wide cut through between two blocks of buildings, stretching from Bond Street to Avery Row. The courtyard itself was stone flagged and about twenty-feet square, bounded by buildings about five storeys high. It wasn't much, more the remains of wards which hadn't been properly closed down, but it certainly shouldn't have been there.
I retreated into the nearest doorway, and began to feel out more specifically. It seemed to be on the top floor of a building with an exclusive designer clothes store at ground level, slightly to my right. I glanced in that direction, and could see a black street door beside the window of the designer, which I guessed led into the higher floors of the building. However, as a couple of young office girls took the short cut through the alley, and a businessman in a pinstriped suit came the other way, I regretfully concluded that in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon probably wasn't the best time to engage in breaking and entering. Still, now I knew where to look. Committing the location to memory, I turned left onto Avery Row and made my way to the bank.
The manager was oh so polite when I arrived on time to pick up the money, although it was obvious that he was burning with questions about why I needed £100,000 at very short notice. Still, the Cushing bank account was healthy, and while substantial, the withdrawal certainly left enough that he didn't have to worry that I was about to close my account. I muttered something about it being related to one of the charitable causes I supported, then signed the withdrawal slip, took the briefcase containing the money and left. I hailed a cab to take me back to Bayswater, and arrived home at around four.
I ventured out once more at around 5.15pm, back looking like Mikael Cuijper, rather than my older self, with the originals of my notes in the briefcase, along with the money. That should give me plenty of time to get to the Achilles Statue in Hyde Park before the deadline, although quite what I was supposed to do when I got there, I wasn't sure. I wondered again if I was just wasting my time, and that the whole ransom demand had been a cover for something else, but if there was the slightest chance that whoever these people were really had Jenny I couldn't afford not to comply. The Browning was tucked into the back of my belt, under my leather jacket, the roll case containing my set of lock picks was in one of the leg pockets of the fatigues-style trousers I was wearing, and my athame was in the one on the other side.
The statue itself was at the south-east corner of the park, and after a brisk stroll, I reached it about twenty minutes before the deadline. Then I had to decide what to do next. Did I leave the case and try to find a place of concealment to see if they showed? Or did I just walk away? Both had risks. If I waited, the kidnappers may well not turn up at all. On the other hand, if I left, there was no guarantee that they would get the money: it would be just as accessible to a thief, a concerned citizen, or a member of the Royal Parks Constabulary.
In the end I erred towards the former, as long as I could find somewhere from which I could observe that were far enough away that I wouldn't be obvious, but where I could still see despite the failing light. There were a few trees around the statue itself, but lurking there would probably be obvious, which left two slightly more distant options: the southern gate from Hyde Park Corner, or a small gardener's storage hut on Serpentine Road, which at least offered some concealment. I opted for the latter, from which I could at least observe the statue. Thus decided, I walked up to the statue, stepped over the fence around its base and placed the briefcase on the middle level of the plinth, laying it flat so it wouldn't be blindingly obvious unless you were looking for it. Then I retreated to my place of concealment and waited.
Six o'clock came and went, with no sign of anyone approaching the briefcase. However, that wasn't too surprising, given that if the kidnappers were going to show, they would want to take their own precautions as well. By six-thirty, however, I was beginning to get worried. By seven, I was pretty sure that they weren't coming, and it was beginning to get chilly, so I decided to risk that no-one who wasn't looking for the briefcase would spot it in the spring darkness and walked away, planning to return later. I headed back to Park Lane, raising both mental shields and personal wards as I walked, and then strolled north until I reached Grosvenor Street, from which I could make my way back to Avery Row. I wanted to know what was in the building in the courtyard.
I got back to the courtyard around seven-thirty, having taken some basic precautions to make sure I wasn't being followed, and stepped into the darkness of the doorway I had used earlier. I waited for ten minutes or so, and came to the conclusion that this time, I was pretty much alone, and decided to try my hand at a little breaking and entering. Putting on a pair of thin leather gloves and getting the picks out of my pocket, I approached the door, and had it open pretty quickly. I stepped inside, closing it behind me, then pocketed the picks again and then took the Browning in my left hand. Holding it beside my leg, so it was a little less obvious in a not too well lit stairwell, I started climbing.
The closer I got to the top of the building, the more I knew something was wrong. If I extended my magical senses, I could tell that the wards around the top floor were still down, and had faded even further since that afternoon. But something was giving me the creeps. There was a single door on the top landing, which appeared closed. I tried to listen, to see if there was anyone behind it, but could hear nothing. Very slowly, I tried turning the door handle, but it was locked, so I once again deployed the picks and soon I heard the click as it opened. Browning in hand, I carefully cracked the door open, to be met by the stink of human waste and decay.
Still hearing nothing, I pushed the door fully open and looked inside, flipping on the light switch. The place was completely bare: no furniture, no carpets, not even curtains on the windows. Even the kitchenette which had once been to one side had been ripped out, none too neatly. However, there was a ritual circle marked in chalk on the floor, about fifteen feet across and covering the vast majority of the room. To my eye it looked like it had probably been some kind of defensive ward, although I really didn't like the feel of it, and the chalk had been scuffed over in a couple of places. More to the point, lying on the floor in the centre of it was a man in his late-twenties. It seemed to be my week for finding dead bodies.
I tried to take a look at the circle with other eyes, but was immediately beaten back by the sense of death within it. I analysed it more carefully and realised that it wasn't so much that a death had been required to power it, as someone had died trying to maintain it. I guessed that his companions, if he had any, had then panicked and departed, leaving it to decay.
Trying to ignore the stench where the body had voided as it had died, I got out the small athame and began to clean up and properly close down the wards. Once that was done, I crossed the perimeter and took a look at the body. The expression on his face was slack jawed, as if he'd had a massive seizure, and I could see traces of dried blood by his ears and nose. What was more disturbing, was that there was a familiar magical feel about him, and I suddenly knew that he had died when I had hit the wards on Sunday night and been attacked in return. Indirectly, I was responsible for his death, which made me feel somewhat uncomfortable - that's something we try not to do. However, on the other hand, there was a good chance that he had been involved in whatever had happened to Jenny, and because of that, I felt less inclined to regret his passing. No doubt I would have to discuss that contradiction with the Group, as I knew for sure that Charles wouldn't approve of my lack of remorse.
I said a few words for the passing of his soul, and then stepped away and looked around once more. Away from the body, I caught sight of a brown patch, also within the circle. Dried blood and quite a lot of it. I squatted down beside it and did an on-the-fly scrying (not recommended, but I was in too much of a hurry to do it the proper way) to see if I could get any idea of whose it was. It took seconds to identify it as Jenny's. So she had been here. However, as I concentrated further on it, reaching out just in case it could lead me to here, there was nothing. It was as if she'd never existed. Baffled, I closed down the working and stood up. Even if she was dead, it ought to lead me to something, but as when I'd checked again in Bucharest, it was as if she was just...gone.
I stepped out of the circle and searched the other rooms - a bedroom and a small bathroom - but there was nothing. Tired and despondent, I bowed to the inevitable, that the clues I sought wouldn't be found here, and after checking that I'd left no sign of my presence, I closed the door behind me and walked back downstairs. I locked the door behind me again as I left, and then headed into Mayfair and found myself a bar.
When I finally returned to the Achilles Statue at around midnight, the briefcase was still exactly where I'd left it, its contents completely in tact. I took one last look around the area, hoping for inspiration, and noticed that there was a crumpled heap among the copse of trees trees, to the right as you looked away from the statue. With a sense of foreboding, I moved cautiously towards it, but before I got to it, I pretty much knew what it was. She'd been dumped unceremoniously against the trunk of an ancient oak tree and her throat had been cut.