“So what exactly is this plan of yours?” asked Valentin. “We fly into the city, tap Dracula on the shoulder, stake him, and be back home in time for dinner?”

“That would be ideal,” said Turner. “But you should probably expect to face a little bit more resistance than that. We’re assuming he’ll keep a cadre of vampires close to him for protection. Does that tally with your experience?”

“Yes,” said Valentin. “When I fought with him, he kept his Wallachian Guards at his side. Every one would have happily died for him.”

“So we kill them and then we kill him,” said Frankenstein.

“That’s the plan,” said Turner.

Ninety minutes later, the Director watched the door swing shut behind the five people on whose shoulders he had just placed the future of humanity, and let out a deep sigh.

He knew what his reputation had always been among the men and women of Blacklight: cold, robotic, precise, a man you would definitely want beside you in a fight but would not necessarily want to be friends with. It had never been the whole truth, but it had suited Turner to let people believe it – it had made them keen to impress him and scared to let him down – and he had needed it for the meeting that had just ended.

On a personal level, he was very fond of the five men and women who had been selected for the strike team, even Valentin, in a very particular and somewhat strange way, and he knew the feeling was largely mutual. But he was asking them to do something astonishing, to go against enormous odds and save the world, and he knew there was every chance that any or all of them might not survive. They had not needed him to be their friend, to pat them on the back and tell them everything was going to be fine; what they had needed was for him to be their Director.

The intercom on his desk beeped and Turner pressed the TALK button.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant Browning is here, sir,” said the disembodied voice of Tom Gregg. “As requested.”

“Send him in,” he said, and smiled. This situation required precisely the opposite approach to the one he had just been considering.

The door opened – it occurred to Turner that he might as well just have it taken off its hinges, such was the frequency of his visitors in recent days – and Matt Browning stepped through it.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” he said. “Everything all right?”

Matt winced, but nodded. “I’m OK, sir.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, sir,” said Matt. “And Kate. And Jamie and Larissa. And about a million other things.”

I know exactly what you mean, thought Turner.

“There’s a remarkable amount happening at the moment,” he said, “so I’ll get straight to the point. We’ve spoken before about your unique status inside the Lazarus Project.”

Matt nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You were removed from the active roster when Lazarus was founded, but you are still an Operator,” said Turner. “And every Operator in the Department is going to France tomorrow to fight Dracula.”

The Director watched Matt closely as he spoke. He prided himself on his ability to read people, but the teenager’s reaction required none of his skill to interpret; the colour drained from his face as an expression of profound terror rose on to it.

“Lieutenant Browning?” he said. “Is there anything you want to say?”

This was the key test, as far as he was concerned. He had no intention of forcing the brilliant, gentle teenager to fight, but he would only excuse him if Browning didn’t ask him to. If Matt showed the bravery expected of every member of his Department, Turner would show him the mercy he unquestionably deserved for everything he had done; if he showed cowardice, his Director would not be so lenient.

Browning was staring at him, his eyes wide, his face almost translucent.

“Matt?” he said. “I asked you a question. Is there anything you want to say to me?”

The teenager swallowed hard, and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “When will I receive my orders?”

Good boy, thought Turner.

“You won’t,” he said, and sat back in his chair. “Public distribution of the cure will continue regardless of what’s taking place in Carcassonne, so you will not be allowed to go to France. I’m sure this will be disappointing, but I’m afraid my decision is final.”

The expression of relief that appeared on Matt Browning’s face was one of the most heart-warming things Paul Turner had ever seen.

“If you say so, sir,” said the teenager.

“I do,” said Turner. “Get back to work, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

Matt walked stiffly along Level A until he reached the lift at the far end. He stepped through the doors, pressed the button marked F, and slumped against the metal wall, his head lowered as he fought back tears of relief.

He could not have accurately articulated what he was feeling; the jumble of emotions was too strong, too varied. As awful a prospect as it was, if he had been ordered to go to France, he would have gone, and tried not to embarrass himself or get anyone else hurt. But he would have been afraid.

So very, very afraid.

As the lift slowed, he said a silent thank you. He knew the Director had lied to him; distribution of the cure did not require his supervision, and was no reason for him to be excused from the battle that would begin in barely twenty-four hours. What Paul Turner had done was show him mercy in the guise of orders.

Thank you, sir. Thank you.

Matt exited the lift and walked the familiar route towards the Lazarus Project. As he extended his ID card towards the black panel on the wall outside the door, guilt slammed into him, hot and sharp. What kind of person would accept a Get Out Of Jail Free card when his friends were getting ready to risk their lives? What did it say about him? Was it the action of the man he had started to believe he was becoming?

I wouldn’t be any use, he told himself. I’d just get in the way, and I’d only make everything worse.

That isn’t the reason, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Be honest with yourself, if nobody else.

Matt grimaced.

Fine. If I went to France, I would die. And I don’t want to die.

He pressed his ID to the panel and opened the door. A few of his colleagues smiled at him and returned to their work; the majority of them didn’t so much as look round. Only a single pair of eyes stayed fixed on him: the beautiful grey gaze of Natalia Lenski. He gave her a tight smile, and nodded towards the corner of the laboratory. She immediately got up from her desk and made her way over; he walked along the edge of the room to meet her.

“Are you all right?” she whispered. “What did Major Turner want?”

“I’m fine,” said Matt. “He wanted to tell me that I’m not allowed to go to France, even though I’m technically still an Operator. I have to stay here.”

Natalia grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “That is good news,” she said. “That is very good news.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “I was relieved, though, Natalia. I was so relieved. Maybe I’m just a coward.”

Natalia frowned at him. “That is stupid,” she said. “There are many ways of fighting. What we have done here, what you have done, has changed the battle before it even starts. Without PROMETHEUS, it would be much harder for Jamie and Larissa and the others. So, what? You should go and die, in France, just to prove that you are brave?”

Matt blinked. “I …”

“Turner ordered you to stay here because you are not a soldier. Do you want to be a soldier?”

“No.”

“Then it is good,” said Natalia, and smiled at him. “OK?”

Matt looked at her. The guilt still lurked in the pit of his stomach, squirming and pulsing; he knew it would not disappear until the people he cared about returned home safely, which he understood was far from a certainty. But at the same time, he knew Natalia was right.