His heart ached for his two Lieutenants as he pressed SEND; they had seen more death and misery than most people would experience in a lifetime, and although they bore it with tremendous resilience, Turner knew there was only so much anyone could take before their souls sustained permanent damage.

He had debated long and hard with himself over whether to tell Matt that Pete Randall had identified his father as a Night Stalker, but, in the end, he had decided against it. He didn’t doubt Kate’s father’s account of what had happened to him, but it was still technically an unsubstantiated accusation; he couldn’t think of any reason Pete would have to lie, but he would feel a lot better when they had proof, and preferably when they had Greg Browning safely in custody. Then he would be in a position to answer at least some of the many questions Matt was bound to have when he was told the truth about his father.

“Sir?” asked the Security Officer.

“Go ahead, Angela.”

“The medical staff have moved Pete Randall into a room in the Science Division, sir. Do you want me to let Kate know she can go and see him?”

“No,” said Turner. “I’ll do it. Thank you, Angela. Out.”

“I’m going to go ahead and call this meeting to order,” said Bob Allen. “All Directors in attendance. Also present is Captain Guérin of the French Army, who is acting as NATO liaison in this matter. Any objections?”

Paul Turner looked round the table in the middle of the command centre that had been erected in Field 1 of the displaced persons camp. Bob Allen, Karla Schmidt, Aleksandr Ovechkin and Captain Guérin looked back at him; it was not only the first time in his relatively short tenure in charge of Blacklight that four Directors had been in the same place at the same time, it was also something he doubted had ever happened more than once or twice. The other seven Directors – the heads of the Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Egyptian, Canadian, South African and Brazilian Departments – were watching from screens at the end of the room.

“Any objections?” repeated Allen.

Nobody spoke.

The NS9 Director nodded. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s get started. You’ve all been receiving my progress reports from here in France, but I’ll very quickly summarise them again, starting with the obvious. The destruction of the modern city of Carcassonne is almost total. We’re still relying on long-range reconnaissance, as we’re not currently allowing anyone to enter the city, but as the smoke clears, the picture is getting clearer and clearer. I’m sure you’ve all seen the footage and the composite images.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“We have no accurate casualty numbers,” continued Allen, “but we can safely assume that we’re talking about hundreds dead, probably thousands. We evacuated at least eighty-five per cent of the city’s residents, but I’m afraid that leaves as many as six thousand people currently unaccounted for. We have no updates on the hostages being held inside the medieval city, and, as you know, there has been no further communication from Dracula. So I’m going to move straight on to the only item on this meeting’s agenda: what the hell are we going to do about all this?”

“The answer did not require a meeting,” said Colonel Ovechkin. “There is only one option.”

“Which is?” asked General Tán. The Chinese Director was younger than his counterparts, but he had earned a reputation as a calm diplomat and brilliant strategist in the five years since he’d taken over PBS6. Turner had never met him, but he had impressed Bob Allen during a visit to Nevada three months earlier, and that was more than enough reason to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“We stop him now,” said Ovechkin, fixing his grey eyes on Tán’s screen. “Or we do not stop him at all. It is that simple.”

Silence fell over the room. The eleven Directors eyed each other, seemingly daring one another to be the first to respond. Eventually, it was Bob Allen who did so.

“Does anyone disagree with Aleksandr’s assessment of the situation?”

“I do not necessarily disagree,” said Colonel Maroun, the Director of Egypt’s Section G. He was a large man, with sharp, piercing eyes and a thick black beard. “But I do have a question. What is the involvement of the regular military and emergency services going to be?”

“I can only speak for my country and for NATO,” said Allen. “But I can tell you now that neither will be sending regular forces to assist us.”

“Why not?” asked Maroun.

“Because they’ll be needed for domestic duties if we fail to defeat Dracula,” said Allen.

“That is hardly a vote of confidence,” said Tán, smiling narrowly.

“It does not matter,” said Ovechkin. “Regular soldiers will only get in the way. This is our business, not theirs.”

“I agree,” said Schmidt.

Turner stared at Bob Allen, who was looking at his colleagues with a tight expression.

What aren’t you telling us, Bob? he thought. Out with it. There’s no time left for secrets.

The NS9 Director didn’t make him wait.

“I also agree,” said Allen. “But for the sake of full disclosure I should tell you all that, despite official objections from NATO, the French government has refused to rule out the nuclear option.”

There was an explosion of noise in the room, a deafening cacophony of protest and accusation. Turner stared at his American counterpart, incredulous; he could not believe what he had heard. General Allen had turned towards Captain Guérin, whose eyes had widened like a rabbit caught in headlights.

“That is completely ridiculous,” said Schmidt. “A detonation on mainland Europe would violate every nuclear treaty that has ever been signed.”

“I am sorry,” said Tán. “Are you telling us that the French are prepared to drop a nuclear missile on one of their own cities?”

“Guérin?” said Allen.

The French Captain swallowed hard. “Carcassonne is already dead,” he said, his voice low. “It is not the preferred option in Paris, but General Allen is correct. It has not been ruled out.”

“In what circumstances would it become the preferred option?” asked Turner. “Given that we have no idea whether a nuclear detonation would actually kill Dracula, at least as far as I’m aware. Or whether or not we could even hit him. The first vampire is faster than any creature on earth, and I would back him to be able to get clear of the blast radius in the time between launch and detonation.”

“What would you like me to say, Major?” asked Guérin. “I have told you that it remains an option. Whether you agree with it or not does not seem particularly important to me at this moment.”

“We’re getting sidetracked,” said Allen, shooting them both a warning glance. “We don’t need to be worrying about what happens if we fail. We need to focus on making sure that we don’t fail.”

“Correct,” said Ovechkin. “We have already wasted too much time.”

“You are so impatient, Aleksandr,” said Schmidt. “What would you have had us do? Storm the city as soon as dawn broke?”

“That would have been better,” said Ovechkin, glaring at the German Director. “While we talk, Dracula fortifies his position and plans his next move. We are playing into his hands by taking so long to respond. We have already allowed him to change the battlefield to his liking. What else will he do while we sit here debating with each other?”

“Why don’t you tell us all what we should do, Colonel?” said Tán. “You seem very sure.”

“With pleasure,” said Ovechkin. “Although before I do, I would like Major Turner to update us on the programme his Department has recently undertaken. PROMETHEUS, I believe you have called it?”

Turner nodded. “We have turned fifty-five per cent of our active roster,” he said, “and have recorded no adverse effects so far.”