Blood Red City by Justin Richards Page B

even Germany …
    Over each image Number Seventeen drew the same symbol. Two triangles pointing in at each other, overlapped at the tips. Just an outline, but Hoffman could see the details. It was the same image he saw in his own mind, but his image was stronger, focused, detailed. He could see the runes carved into the stone the artefact was fashioned from.
    But what was it? On the one hand he didn’t want to show too much interest in it, afraid that might somehow give him away. On the other, Hoffman was desperate to know.
    â€˜This shape,’ he said to Kruger finally, ‘why does she draw this on every page?’
    Kruger shrugged, inspecting the latest sheet. ‘Some sort of interference, perhaps? Or maybe it represents some defect in the creature’s vision. Perhaps this is how cats see the world.’ He smiled to show he was not being serious. The smile faded as he caught Hoffman’s answering expression. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
    â€˜Does it represent something?’ Hoffman asked. ‘Have you seen it before?’
    Kruger looked back at the drawing he held. ‘There is something about it,’ he admitted. ‘It did seem familiar when I first saw it. Something held in the Vault, perhaps.’
    Hoffman shook his head. ‘There’s nothing like that down there.’ He had checked. As soon as the image had appeared in his own mind, he had checked.
    â€˜Even so…’ Kruger leafed back through the past few drawings, although the shape was identical on them all. ‘I’ll tell you where it might be,’ he said at last.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Have you seen the archive footage?’
    â€˜Not all of it,’ Hoffman admitted. ‘And a long time ago.’
    â€˜Just a thought,’ Kruger said. ‘But perhaps the answer lies in what happened back in 1936.’
    *   *   *
    One of the most surprising courses that Sarah took was ‘Deception Training’. What surprised her was not being taught how to lie convincingly, how to tell when someone else was probably lying, or the importance of apparent self-confidence and techniques to suppress any outward signs of fear or unease.
    What surprised her was that the instructor was Leo Davenport. He smiled at her as their eyes met, but made no comment. So she too did her best to give no sign that they knew each other. Everyone else knew who Davenport was of course, which made it easier to keep up the pretence.
    She made sure she was the last to leave at the end of the day, waiting until there were just the two of them.
    â€˜Making a little extra on the side?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were off on a film somewhere.’
    â€˜Cover story,’ Leo told her. ‘Brinkman knows I moonlight here from time to time. Part of the conditions of SOE letting me leave them to join Station Z in the first place. Between you and me, no actor can stay as busy as I claim to be. More often than not, the film or radio work you think I’m doing is down here bringing light and enlightenment to potential agents. Well,’ he added, packing away his notes into a leather briefcase, ‘if what I teach ends up saving the life of just one of them, then it’s time well spent.’
    Sarah had to agree. ‘You down here for long?’
    â€˜Heading back this evening. Just as soon as I’ve delivered my reports on each of today’s students.’
    â€˜Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows.
    â€˜Don’t worry, you’ll pass with flying colours.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And I am glad to see you’re taking this new “Bare legs for Patriotism” campaign seriously.’
    *   *   *
    Ralph Rutherford didn’t wait for an answer. He knocked on the study door, and went straight in. He knew immediately that he shouldn’t have done.
    The bookcase behind Crowley’s desk had been pulled back from the wall on one