The atmosphere in the Ops Room was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Jamie felt like an electric current was being passed through him as a narrow smile rose onto the Director’s face.

“But there is something I want you all to remember,” said Turner. “Despite the legends, despite the horror stories and tales of terror, and despite the power we have seen with our own eyes, Dracula is still just a vampire. He is flesh and blood, and a single, well-placed T-Bone shot will end him just as surely as the rest of his kind. He is not a demon, he is not the Devil, and we will not fear him. Is that clear?”

A rumble of affirmation shook the Ops Room; it was as though the entire Department was speaking with one voice.

“At this very moment, across the Channel,” said Turner, “the largest force in the long history of the supernatural Departments is being mobilised. More than three-quarters of all the Operators in the world are being brought together for a single purpose: to stop Dracula now, while there’s still time. And tomorrow evening, as the sun sets on Carcassonne, we will make our stand. Detailed briefings and orders will follow throughout today and tomorrow, but the bulk of our combined forces will engage Dracula’s followers in the ruins of Carcassonne, while a small strike team is sent into the medieval city to take out the first vampire himself. It won’t be easy, and we will suffer losses, but I do not have the slightest doubt that we will be victorious.”

The Director stared out from behind the lectern, his face so pale and full of determination that it looked like it had been carved out of marble.

“We will stand together and face the creatures that inhabit the darkness,” he said, his voice low. “We will stand together and kill vampire after vampire until they surrender or until none are left alive to do so. And when the dust settles, there will be no doubt as to who has dominion over this planet. We will show the world once and for all that the future is full of hope, not fear; of light, not darkness. We will stand together, and we will win.”

Jamie looked around at his colleagues. Nobody clapped, and nobody cheered, but he saw faces full of resolve, full of calm.

Celebrating can wait, he told himself. We can clap and cheer when we get back. When this is over.

When we’ve won.

Bob Allen watched the activity taking place around him with a small smile on his face and hope flickering faintly in his chest.

The SPC had arrived forty minutes ago, descending out of the bright noon sky in a fleet of enormous helicopters, and hundreds of black-clad Russian Operators and staff had immediately got to work, unloading vehicles and case after case of weapons and equipment, erecting tents and canopies and field buildings. What had started out as a displaced persons camp filling three fields on the edge of Carcassonne was now beginning to resemble Camp Bastion in Afghanistan: a huge forward operating base covering more than three square miles of French countryside.

And more than half of the Departments aren’t even here yet, he told himself. We’re going to need to expand the perimeter again. By a long way.

The six fields of Red Cross and UNICEF tents that housed the men and women who had fled their homes were now surrounded by eight that were entirely military; the camp now contained a fully equipped field hospital with more than a hundred beds and three state-of-the-art surgical theatres, a long motor pool full of jeeps and mobile armour, a temporary hangar containing two dozen helicopters, a command centre comprising more than twenty rooms, dormitories for two thousand Operators, a mess hall and canteen the size of a small shopping mall, and mile after mile of barbed-wire fencing equipped with motion sensors and ultraviolet lights.

Precisely controlled chaos had filled the camp since just before dawn, when Military Detachment Alpha had confirmed they were on their way from Toulouse airport. The South Africans had barely touched down, however, when Allen had received a call from Colonel Maroun, informing him that Egypt’s Section G were only fifteen minutes away themselves. Since then, it had been all hands to the pumps.

Allen watched as Russian Operators swung the metal sides of a supply hut into place and began bolting it together, then turned and headed for his command centre. In the pit of his stomach, a knot of excitement and anticipation was already squirming, but alongside it was an unfamiliar sensation of camaraderie. He had no doubt that if they defeated Dracula, relations between the Departments would return to their usual state of slightly frosty distrust, but for the time being, for this short period of hours, everyone was resolutely on the same side.

As he strode into Field 1, Allen saw Guérin making his way towards him. He had officially confirmed the French Captain as his NATO second-in-command, and was already pleased with his decision to do so; Guérin was smart and capable, and possessed local knowledge that had already proven valuable. He also provided access to the conversations taking place in Paris, which was absolutely vital; Allen was not remotely convinced the French government was thinking clearly, and was far from alone in that suspicion.

“Captain,” he said. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Guérin. “The Russians know what they are doing.”

“Let them get on with it,” said Allen. “We’ll have the Chinese here before nightfall, so the more the SPC gets done before then, the better.”

“I think they will be set up in an hour,” said Guérin. “Maybe two, at the most.”

“Fine,” said Allen. “Have you talked to Paris this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What news?”

“The nuclear option remains in play,” said Guérin. “I am sorry, General. I communicated your concerns, and NATO has made a formal objection, but the government is not prepared to rule it out. A fifty-mile exclusion zone has been drawn up around Carcassonne and an evacuation order has been prepared for those living inside it.”

“Which will cause absolute panic if it’s given,” said Allen. “What the hell are they playing at, Guérin? What’s your take on this?”

“I cannot say for certain, sir,” said Guérin. “But I can give you my personal opinion, if it is of interest?”

“It is.”

“This is a way for Paris to assert some control over the situation,” said Guérin. “The entire world is watching a crisis take place in France, while everyone apart from the French appears to be dealing with it. You have sent the news helicopters away, but everyone knows that an American is in charge, and everyone can see Germans and South Africans and Russians arriving. If we fail tomorrow, I do not think the government wants to be seen to have stood by and done nothing while Dracula started his war on their soil.”

“I understand that,” said Allen. “I honestly do. What I don’t understand is why their fallback plan is to blow a big chunk of their own country off the map.”

Guérin shrugged. “They are scared, sir,” he said. “Everyone is scared. I am scared, and I do not mind admitting it.”

“There’s only one thing for us to do, then,” said Allen.

“What is that, General?”

“Make sure we don’t fail tomorrow.”

Half a mile away, a Red Cross volunteer waved Julian Carpenter forward as he nosed his car through the gates at the entrance to the camp.

A man wearing a French Army uniform stepped out from a guard post and motioned for him to stop. Julian braked, and took a deep breath. This was the moment he had been dreading; if the soldier searched the black holdall in the car’s boot, then his journey from the UK would all have been for nothing.

The flight itself had been uneventful.