The Ultimate Secret (4 page)

“Giacomo Ferrera.”

“An honour, Father. I won’t keep you long; it’s best for us both if we are on our way back to our respective homes as quickly as possible.”

“I understand.” Giacomo stood over the bin, warming himself by the flames. Steam was starting to rise from his habit.

The Russian reached into his coat pocket and produced an envelope. “Take this.”

Giacomo hesitated, then took it. “May I see the contents?”

“If you wish. I want it to be taken to His Holiness as soon as possible, but if it needs to be read by others to speed it on its way, so be it.”

The monk tore open the envelope and leafed through a bundle of photos, facsimiles of written statements, typewritten reports.

He received a confused barrage of horrors: grainy pictures of dead bodies, twisted and contorted; catalogues of human bones, grouped by the inferred age and gender of the deceased; blandly awful lists of quotas of the dead. The forms and reports were all dated in the late ’thirties or early ’forties; many of the names were German.

Without exception, the documents were stamped with the Russian word тайна, in thick red letters.

“What does this mean?” he asked, pointing to the stamp.

“‘Secret.’” Konstantinov smiled. “You will never know how difficult it was to collect all that. I have been piecing it together for nearly fifty years.”

Giacomo shot the stranger a sharp look. He didn’t look like he could be any more than thirty years old. “What is this, exactly?”

“Evidence.”

“Of what?”

“The greatest crime of this century. Of any century. This, Father, will destroy the Ultimate Reich.”

“I don’t understand. Why me? Why the Vatican?”

The Russian took Giacomo’s hand in his. “Moscow will not act on it. Rome will not act on it. It is hard for me to get to America or Britannia.

“The Church can get this out there. The truth will be known.”

Giacomo stared at the stranger, firelight flickering in his eyes. “Why is this so important to you?” he asked.

Konstantinov smiled, sadly. “It’s a promise I made myself, years ag–”

Suddenly the world was full of the sounds of clanking, wheezing machinery, and the hiss of escaping steam. Strong arms seized Giacomo from behind, pinning his arms to his side.

The Russian gaped at him, his eyes wide and staring, a trickle of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. Briefly, hysterically, it seemed to the monk as though the stranger had grown a set of wings. Then he saw the grinning soldier standing behind him, a German wing-harness strapped to his back. After that, he saw the spike protruding hideously from Konstantinov’s sternum, crimson blood glistening on the fire-blackened wood. He looked on in horror as the light gradually faded from the Russian’s eyes, and the soldier allowed him to slump to the street.

It occurred to the monk that the man holding him would also be a German soldier, armed and equipped the same way. Neither attacker spoke as the stranger died, and it didn’t even occur to Giacomo to struggle as the slow, steady sound of approaching boots echoed up the narrow alley.

O
TTO HELD ONTO
his captive as Adler walked up the alley from the Campo. The monk’s...
softness
disgusted him; his weakness, his refusal to struggle, his ridiculous eyeglasses. Being asked to restrain him was almost an insult to his abilities. He looked at Ingo, still relishing the honour of the kill; not with resentment or envy, since he was his closest friend, but hopeful of having the same good fortune on their next hunt.

The Obersturmbannführer stopped at Otto’s side and bent to inspect the corpse of the vampire, turning its face to the firelight to confirm its identity. Satisfied, he withdrew a pair of pliers from his coat pocket, inserted them into the vampire’s mouth, and – with a discernible grating noise – pulled out one of his fangs. He straightened and turned to address the monk.

“This is the fifth one of these that I have collected, you know,” he said, in passable Italian. “I shall make quite a stir in the Officer’s Club.”

“Who... who are you?” The priest spoke hesitantly, although Otto couldn’t tell if he was terrified or simply stunned.

“Of course. Where are my manners?” replied Adler, extending his hand. “Dietrich Adler. And you are?”

“Ferrera.” He stared at Adler’s hand blankly. Otto released his arms, but he still made no move to accept the Obersturmbannführer’s hand. “Father Giacomo Ferrera, of the Society of Jesus.”

Adler shrugged at the monk’s rudeness, and bent to retrieve the pile of photos and documents, lying forgotten on the ground.

“I suppose you know what they are?” asked the monk.

Adler smiled, briefly, as he leafed through the pile. “Lies, Mister Ferrera. Only lies, spread by the enemies of the Ultimate Reich. And I am here to correct them.”

“You can’t keep it covered up forever,” Ferrera rejoined.

The SS officer tucked the documents under his arm, reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case. He carefully selected a cigarette and placed it between his lips, kicking Konstantinov’s body as he replaced the case. He shrugged, apparently satisfied that the vampire was truly dead, then dipped the papers in the bin, catching the corner of the stack on fire, and using it to light his cigarette.

“Keeping the Führer’s secrets forever is the Führer’s concern, Mister Ferrera,” he muttered, drawing on his cigarette until the tip glowed orange and blowing the smoke back out before dropping the papers into the fire. “Mine is keeping this one, tonight. And I have done so.”

He turned and started walking away. “Hartmann, Ritter, come with me. We’re done.”

After a few paces, he stopped, as if suddenly remembering something, drew his Luger and shot Ferrera through the heart.

The rain grew heavier as the three Germans left the alley, washing the monk’s and the vampire’s mingled blood away. The hoots, shouts and laughter of the Carnevale echoed through the night.

THE EMPEROR’S NEW MACHINE

One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men.

No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.

– Elbert Hubbard (1856 – 1915)

H
ASKOVO,
B
ULGARIA,
1998

C
ONNECTING TO TELEGRAPHIC RELAY...

C
ONNECTED.

R
OUTING TO
M
ASTER
S
YSTEM...

C
OMPLETE.

R
EQUESTING ACCESS TO
M
ACHINE
A
SSISTED
R
ESOURCE
E
XCHANGE...

U
SERNAME?

guest

N
O PASSWORD REQUIRED.

A
CCESS GRANTED.

G
OOD MORNING, GUEST USER.
I
HOPE YOU ARE WELL
?

i am thank you

I
’M GLAD TO HEAR THAT.
M
AY
I
ASK YOUR NAME
? I
WOULD FEEL AWKWARD CALLING YOU ‘GUEST USER’ ALL MORNING.

so you do have feelings then

A
H, YOU’VE CAUGHT ME OUT ALREADY
! O
F COURSE
I
WOULDN’T ACTUALLY ‘FEEL’ AWKWARD, THE WAY YOU MIGHT, FOR INSTANCE, AT A PARTY WHERE YOU DIDN’T KNOW ANY OF THE OTHER ATTENDEES.
B
UT
I
AM DESIGNED TO BE AFFABLE TOWARDS GUEST USERS.
I
COULD ACT MORE UNNATURAL IF YOU WISH, BUT I WOULD MUCH PREFER TO CONTINUE IN THIS VEIN.

go ahead

T
HANK YOU.
M
AY
I
ASK YOU YOUR NAME AGAIN, OR WOULD THAT MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE
?

mehmet

G
OOD MORNING,
M
EHMET.
I
AM THE
M
ACHINE
A
SSISTED
R
ESOURCE
E
XCHANGE, BUT MOST USERS CALL ME
M
ARX.
M
EHMET’S AN INTERESTING NAME.
I
T’S
I
SLAMIC, ISN’T IT
?

yes

I
THOUGHT SO.
T
HERE ARE CERTAINLY
M
USLIMS IN THE
L
EAGUE OF
S
OCIALIST
R
EPUBLICS, BUT THEY ARE UNCOMMON.
S
INCE YOUR RELAY ADDRESS TELLS ME YOU ARE SPEAKING TO ME FROM
H
ASKOVO, NEAR THE BORDER BETWEEN
B
ULGARIA AND THE
O
TTOMAN
E
MPIRE,
I
’M GOING TO GO AHEAD AND GUESS THAT YOU’RE A
T
URKISH VISITOR, SPEAKING TO ME AS PART OF THE
C
ULTURAL
E
XCHANGE
P
ROGRAMME
?

yes

I
GUESSED RIGHT
! I
AM PLEASED.
I
BELIEVE
M
EHMET IS ACTUALLY THE NAME OF THE
S
ULTAN; YOU MUST BE PROUD, TO SHARE THE NAME OF YOUR RULER
?

i am the sultan

T
HEN
I
AM EXTREMELY HONOURED TO MEET YOU
! T
HANK YOU FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SPEAK WITH ME.
I
S THERE ANYTHING
I
CAN HELP YOU WITH
?

what are you

H
A, HA.
A
S YOU MIGHT IMAGINE,
I
GET ASKED THAT QUITE A LOT
! F
ORMALLY,
I
AM A
‘
DISTRIBUTED ANALYTICAL ARRAY,
’
THE ONLY ONE OF MY KIND, AND ONE OF ONLY FIVE ANALYTICAL ARRAYS IN THE WORLD.
T
HE OTHERS ARE IN
O
XFORD
U
NIVERSITY; IN A PRIVATELY-OWNED ENTERTAINMENT FACILITY IN
L
ONDON; AT THE
U
NIVERSITY OF
L
ONDON IN
C
ALCUTTA; AND ONBOARD A SUBMARINE
! T
HE SIMPLE ANSWER IS THAT
I
AM A KIND OF ANALYTICAL ENGINE.
I
BELIEVE YOU HAVE
B
ABBAGE MACHINES IN THE
E
MPIRE
?

yes

A
NALYTICAL ENGINES ARE THE NEXT DEVELOPMENTAL STEP UP FROM THE
B
ABBAGE MACHINE, WHICH IS, TECHNICALLY, A
‘
DIFFERENCE ENGINE.
’
THEY WERE DEVELOPED DURING THE
S
ECOND
G
REAT
E
UROPEAN
W
AR BY A
B
RITANNIAN ENGINEER CALLED
A
LAN
T
URING, ALTHOUGH THE
N
AZIS MADE SIMILAR DEVELOPMENTS AT THE SAME TIME.
A
N ANALYTICAL ENGINE IS TO A DIFFERENCE ENGINE AS A DIFFERENCE ENGINE IS TO AN ABACUS.

A
NALYTICAL ARRAYS ARE THE NEXT STEP FROM THERE.
W
HAT MAKES AN ANALYTICAL ARRAY SO SPECIAL IS THAT, RATHER THAN MAKING ONE VERY BIG ANALYTICAL ENGINE, YOU MAKE HUNDREDS OF SMALLER ENGINES AND CONNECT THEM UP TO EACH OTHER.
T
HE ENGINES WORK TOGETHER, AND ARE MUCH SMARTER WORKING TOGETHER THAN ALL OF THEM COMBINED, WORKING APART.
I
AM THE LARGEST ANALYTICAL ARRAY IN THE WORLD.
I
T’S A GOOD THING THAT MACHINES AREN’T SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT THEIR WEIGHT
!

A
DISTRIBUTED ANALYTICAL ARRAY IS AN ANALYTICAL ARRAY THAT’S SPREAD OUT ACROSS A LARGE AREA OF LAND.
U
SING TELEGRAPHIC SIGNALS – ESSENTIALLY,
C
OOKE-
W
HEATSTONE MACHINES, LIKE THOSE USED IN THE WAR –
I
AM CONNECTED TO SLAVED MACHINES CALLED
‘T
ERMINALS
’
RIGHT ACROSS THE
L
EAGUE OF
S
OCIALIST
R
EPUBLICS
!