These were Krakovitch’s thoughts as he entered what long ago had been a cobbled courtyard – now a large area of plastic-tiled floor, partitioned into airy conservatories, small apartments and laboratories – where E-Branch operatives had studied and practised their esoteric talents in comparative comfort, or whatever condition or envi-ronment best suited their work. Forty-eight hours ago the place had been immaculate; now it was a shambles, where bullet-holes patterned the partition walls and the effects of blast and fire could be seen on every hand. It was a wonder the place hadn’t been burned to the ground, completely gutted.
In a mainly cleared area – the so-called Investigation Control Room – a table had been erected and supported the ringing telephone. Krakovitch made his way towards it, pausing to drag aside a large piece of utility wall which partly blocked his path. Underneath, lying half-buried in crumbled plaster, broken glass and the crushed remains of a wooden chair, a human arm and hand lay like a huge grey salted slug. Its flesh was shrivelled, the colour of leather, and the bone where it projected in a knob at the shoulder was shiny white. It was almost a fossil. There’d be many more fragments such as this yet to be discovered, scattered throughout the Chateau, but apart from their repulsive looks they’d be harmless – now. Not so on the night of the horror. Krakovitch had seen portions like this one, without heads or brains to guide them, crawling, fighting, killing!
He shuddered, moved the arm aside with his foot, went to the telephone. ‘Hello, Krakovitch?’
‘Who?’ the unknown caller snapped back. ‘Krakovitch? Are you in charge there?’ It was a female voice, very efficient.
‘I suppose I am, yes,’ Krakovitch answered. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘For me, nothing. For the Party Leader, only he can say. He’s been trying to contact you for the last five minutes!’
Krakovitch was tired. He hadn’t slept since the night-mare, doubted if he’d ever sleep again. He and the other four survivors, one of them a raving madman, had only come out of the security vault on Sunday morning, when the air was finished. Since then the others had made their statements, been sent home. The Chateau Bronnitsy was a High Security Establishment, so their stories wouldn’t be for general consumption. In fact Krakovitch – being the only genuinely coherent member of the survivors -had demanded that the case in toto be sent direct to Leonid Brezhnev. That was Standing Orders anyway: Brezhnev was the top man, personally and directly responsible for E-Branch, despite the fact that he’d left all of it to Gregor Borowitz. But the branch had been important to the Party Leader, and he’d seen everything that came out of it (or at least anything of any importance). Also, Borowitz must have told him quite a bit about the branch’s paranormal work – literally ESPionage – so that Brezhnev should be at least part-qualified to pass judgement on what had happened here. Or so Krakovitch hoped. In any case, it had to be better than trying to explain it to Yuri Andropov!
‘Krakovitch?’ the phone barked at him. (Was this really the Party Leader?)
‘Er, yes, sir, Felix Krakovitch. I was on Comrade Borowitz’s staff.’
‘Felix? Why tell me your first name? You expect me to call you by your first name?’ The voice had a hard edge, but it also sounded like its owner was eating something mushy. Krakovitch had heard several of Brezhnev’s infre-quent speeches; this could only be him.
‘I . . . no, of course not, Comrade Party Leader.’ (How the hell did one address him?) ‘But I – ‘ ‘Listen, are you in charge there?’ ‘Yes, er, Comrade Party – ‘
‘Forget all that stuff,’ Brezhnev rasped. ‘I don’t need reminding who I am, just answers. Is there no one left who is senior to you?’ ‘No.’
‘Anyone who’s your equal?’ ‘Four of them, but one’s a madman.’ ‘Eh?’
‘He went mad when . . . when it happened.’ There was a pause; then, the voice went on, a little less harshly: ‘Do you know Borowitz is dead?’
‘Yes. A neighbour found him in his dacha at Zhukovka. The neighbour was ex-KGB and got in touch with Comrade Andropov, who sent a man here. He’s here now.’ ‘I know another name,’ Brezhnev’s thick, gurgling voice continued. ‘Boris Dragosani. What of him?’