Ovechkin looked over at him. “Major Turner?”

He held the Russian’s gaze. “Everyone,” he said. “My entire active roster.”

Allen gave him a fierce smile, then turned to the FTB Director. “Colonel Schmidt?”

“The same,” said Schmidt. “Unless we win, there will be nothing left to defend.”

“I agree,” said Ovechkin. “I will bring the entire SPC. General Allen?”

“Everyone,” said Allen, instantly.

Turner smiled as the eleven Directors looked at each other.

Eighty-five per cent of all the Operators in the world, he thought. Maybe even ninety. More than I dared to hope for. Please, please let it be enough.

Paul Turner stepped down on to the tarmac outside the Loop’s hangar and stretched his aching arms above his head.

He was absolutely exhausted.

After the Directors’ meeting had concluded – and after Ovechkin, Schmidt and Allen had ordered their respective Departments to immediately investigate all vigilante activity in their territories – Turner had boarded the helicopter that would take him home, but had found himself unable to take advantage of the brief opportunity for rest the flight provided; his mind had been whirring endlessly with possibilities and outcomes.

He had no idea what was going to happen; the numbers they were going to be able to bring to bear were hugely encouraging, but for all their experience and training and equipment, the overwhelming majority of the Multinational Force would still be human. Dracula’s army, on the other hand, was composed entirely of vampires and, if recent reports were accurate, growing with each hour that passed.

Turner was sure they would still have the numerical advantage when the fighting began, but he suspected it might be smaller in forty-eight hours’ time than it was now, or had been yesterday. And in a battle between humans and vampires that was remotely close to even, there would only be one outcome in the end. Everything was going to depend on the strike team they sent into the old city to hunt for Dracula himself, and who it should consist of had been one of the subjects occupying his thoughts as the helicopter flew north-west.

He walked through the hangar doors, took the lift down to Level A, and headed along the corridor towards his quarters. Turner nodded to the Security Operator on duty, unlocked the door, and settled into the chair behind his desk with a long, deep sigh. For a moment he merely stared at the piles of files and folders that required his attention, then took a deep breath, lifted the first one down, and opened it.

When the intercom buzzed, the Director opened his eyes and saw that fifteen minutes had passed. He had not intended to sleep, but his body had clearly hijacked the decision-making process.

He pressed TALK. “Yes?”

“Kate Randall is here to see you, sir,” said Operator Gregg. “She came three times while you were in France. She says it’s urgent.”

“Send her in,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. The door swung open and Kate stepped through it, her face pale.

“Hello, Kate,” he said. “Are you all right?”

She stopped in front of his desk and nodded. “I’m fine, sir. How was France?”

“Tiring. You got my message then?”

“I did, sir. Thanks for moving him.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “How was he when you saw him?”

“Pleased to see me,” she said, and smiled. “Which was nice. And safe, which is the main thing. He told me the two of you talked.”

“Did he tell you who shot him?” he asked.

Kate nodded. “This is going to absolutely destroy Matt.”

Turner nodded. “That’s why we need to find Greg Browning and bring him in,” he said. “Before anyone else gets hurt.”

“I just can’t believe he would do that to my dad,” said Kate. “They were friends.”

“I know,” he said. “Maybe the Albert Harker business affected him more than we thought. Maybe it was a mistake to let him go home.”

“You couldn’t have known this would happen,” said Kate. “Nobody could.”

“Maybe,” said Turner. “But this goes a lot deeper than we thought.”

Kate frowned. “What do you mean?”

“After I talked to your father, I ordered the Intelligence Division to investigate SSL. They traced the charity’s finance to a company in the Cayman Islands. It’s called Rusmanov Holdings.”

Kate stared at him. “Valeri,” she said, her voice low.

“Either him, or Dracula, or someone working for him,” he said. “It’s starting to look like SSL was just a front, a way to gather intelligence for the Night Stalkers.”

“Why, for God’s sake?” asked Kate.

Turner shrugged. “To cause trouble?” he said. “To frighten people? To distract us? Take your pick.”

“Jesus,” said Kate. “Dracula hasn’t just been recovering from Château Dauncy, has he? He’s been planning all this for months.”

“It looks that way,” he said. “What we don’t know is—”

The radio on his desk buzzed into life. Turner stared at it, suddenly full of a desire to smash the plastic handset to pieces, then pressed SEND and raised it to his ear.

“Yes.”

Angela Darcy spoke for several seconds. Turner listened, his heart accelerating in his chest.

Oh God, he thought.

“Understood,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

He pressed END and clipped the radio to his belt.

“Everything OK, sir?” asked Kate.

“No,” he said. “There’s a situation at the authorisation gate. A car was crashed into it, and the driver is threatening protesters with a gun. Apparently he’s demanding to see his son.”

Kate followed the Director through the access door at the end of the authorisation tunnel, her Glock drawn, and emerged into a nightmare.

To her left, wedged against the towering gate, was a white car, steam billowing from beneath a bonnet that was crumpled in on itself. In the distance, huddled among the trees and the tents of the protest camp that was now a permanent fixture outside the gates, were dozens of men and women, their faces full of fear. The signs they usually waved at Blacklight vehicles as they came and went were absent, as was the steady drone of music that usually filled the camp. The protesters were keeping their distance, for reasons that were obvious.

Arranged in a wide semicircle, from directly in front of the gate to the edges of the forest on either side of the road, were more than a dozen Security Operators, their weapons raised to their shoulders and pointing at the middle of the road.

At Greg Browning.

Kate recognised him as soon as she stepped out of the tunnel, and felt a wave of horror race through her as she took in the reality of what she was seeing.

Oh God, she thought. Oh dear God, what a mess this is.

Matt’s dad was pacing back and forth in the road, dripping with clear liquid. Beside him, kneeling on the tarmac, were a woman in her thirties and a man who looked barely out of his teens; both were also soaking wet and looked terrified out of their minds. In one of Greg’s hands was a black MP5, and in the other he held a silver cigarette lighter. The smell of petrol was overpowering, and the look on Matt’s father’s face filled her with dread; it was the wild, disconnected expression of someone who has lost their mind.

“Jesus,” said Kate, her voice low.

Turner glanced round at her and grimaced.

“I want to see my son!” bellowed Greg. “I’ll burn us all, I swear to God I’ll do it! I want to see my boy!”

Kate stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no idea how to handle this situation; it was so far out of her sphere of experience that she felt an enormous wave of relief roll through her when Paul Turner stepped forward.

“Put them down, Mr Browning,” said the Director. “Then we can talk. You don’t want to do this.”