"If my heart did stop entirely," he said, "how could it get started again?"

  When dawn came, while I watched, he went into the sleep that was not quite the sleep of the dead. Though I was trembling with fatigue and fear and was sore all over, I got out of bed and went quickly into the kitchen. I found a screwdriver and went into the big front room. With it, I pried loose one of the huge syringes glued to the coat-of-arms. Then I mixed holy water (it couldn't hurt) from one of Randolph's bottles with a lot of horse, the big H, heroin. I filled the syringe with it.

  The liquid was so thick I wasn't sure it wouldn't clog the hardwood needle. I pressed the plunger enough to shoot out a thin spray. Then I took the syringe into the bedroom. I would've preferred a hammer and a pointed wooden stake, but I had to work with the materials at hand. I don't suppose that the syringe and needle had to be made of wood, but my superiors had not taken any chances. They'd also made sure that the syringes would work before they'd mailed the coat-of-arms, along with a letter from a supposedly zealous disciple, to Rudolph.

  He was lying flat on his back on the bed, uncovered and naked. His hands were folded on his chest as if he'd been laid out for a funeral. I put my hand on his chest, which now was cooling off. I was crying; my tears fell onto his chest. I'd thought I'd feel nothing except a fierce joy when I did this. But I hadn't foreseen, of course, that I would love him.

  I told myself that the devil was the most seductive being in the world. And my superiors had warned me that his powers to charm were vast. I must think only of my duty to God and His souls. Anything I had to do to get to him and carry out my orders was justifiable and would be forgiven. I would, however, have to renounce fornication forever after I had completed this mission. I had verbally agreed to this, but my reservation about this was large. I wasn't going to give that up. It was heaven on Earth, and I certainly had that coming. On the other hand, it wasn't very likely that I would live long enough to ball anybody any more. In which case, I'd be spared having to sin again.

  I inserted the sharp point of the hardwood needle between the two ribs just as I'd been taught to. I hesitated a moment, then drove the plunger down. He opened his eyes but never said a word. I think it was just a reflex. I hope to God it was. Anyway, he now had enough horse in his heart for him to ride on all the way to Hell.

  I'd been told that maybe the substitute for the wooden stake, the wooden needle, plus the injection of heroin, might not be enough to kill him. After all, his body could repair itself devilishly fast. My orders were to cut off his head to make sure. But I couldn't make myself do that.

  Weeping, I picked up the phone. I didn't call George Reckingham. He got me through the cold turkey and then had led me to salvation. But he believed that murder was always a sin. That's why he'd left the Warriors of Jehovah and why he'd urged me to quit them. I wished I'd listened to him.

  I phoned the Warriors' general. He picked up the phone so quickly he must've waited by it all night.

  "It went as planned," I said, "It's done."

  "God bless you, Polly! You'll sit at God's right hand!"

  "Very soon, too," I said. "I can't get out of here without being caught. And I just can't kill myself so they won't be able to question me. I swore I would, but I'm a coward. I'm sorry. I can't do it. I just wish you, somebody, could've thought of how to get me out safely."

  "Nobody's perfect," he said. And he hung up.

  DRACULA 1944

  EDWARD HOCH

  ▼▼▼

  CAPTAIN Schellenberg's office window overlooked the railroad siding at Bergen-Belsen, and when he was at his desk he could observe the arrival of each new trainload of prisoners. Sometimes now there would be a train every day, with men, women and children crowded into the boxcars like cattle. Sometimes when they arrived there would be crying and screaming from those who had heard rumors of the death camps. He always wanted to go down there and shout to them how lucky they were.

  Bergen-Belsen was primarily a work camp, not an extermination camp. There were no gas chambers here. Those who came on the trains —the Jews and Gypsies, the homosexuals and criminals—would not be lined up and led to their death. True, they might be worked until they dropped, worked to death on short rations and beaten if they did not perform well. But they would not be systematically murdered. That was for the extermination camps like Auschwitz and Treblinka and the others. The pace was quickening there. It was the summer of 1944 and the enemy had landed in France.

  The job of Captain Schellenberg at Bergen-Belsen was to keep track of the number of able-bodied man and women available each day for the slave labor detachments. If the death rate proved unusually high and the number sank below a certain level, an extra train might be put on to increase the flow. If, on the other hand, the prisoners at Bergen-Belsen exceeded the camp's capacity, it was Schellenberg's job to send a train- load of the least healthy on to one of the extermination camps. For this purpose he kept charts of the other camps, and he could rattle off the statistics at a moment's notice. Auschwitz, for example, had four huge gas chambers each capable of accommodating two thousand people at one time. Treblinka had ten gas chambers, but they could hold only two hundred people each.

  Promptly at nine each morning he left his office to check on the work details, striding purposefully down the line of barracks, returning salutes with a quick snap of his arm. At this particular time many of the buildings housed Gypsy prisoners, but there was nothing unusual about that. Bergen-Belsen had been established when the first roundups of Gypsies began, even before the camps for Jews.

  "Captain Schellenberg!"

  It was one of his sergeants, standing at attention to deliver his report. "At ease, Kronker. Any deaths overnight?"

  "A prisoner in barracks 44." He hesitated. "And one guard."

  "A guard?"

  "A new man. He may have fallen asleep on duty."

  "You suspect foul play?"

  Sergeant Kronker did not want to say what he suspected. "He died from loss of blood."

  "Were all the prisoners locked in?"

  "Yes, sir. No one was missing."

  "Send a report to me."

  He continued on his rounds, stopping occasionally to check out one of the grim gray buildings. "Everyone working today?" he would ask, and then check off the barracks number in his notebook. The routine was broken only once, when he encountered a plump old Gypsy woman outside one of the buildings.

  "Why aren't you at work?" Schellenberg asked. "We have much labor for a healthy woman like you."

  "I tend to the ill. It is my job," she answered, speaking German with an odd, unfamiliar accent.

  "What is your name, woman? Where are you from?"

  "Olga Helsing, sir. I come from Romania with this band of Gypsy wanderers. We were seized in the night by a German patrol."

  The captain motioned toward the building. "Where is the ill person you tend to? Show me!"

  She led the way and he followed, bracing himself against the foul odors he'd encountered so many times before. Near the end of the row of bunks, in the darkest part of the building, she paused over a blanket- covered form.

  "What's wrong with him?" the captain asked.

  "He cannot work by day. The sun would rot his skin. It is a rare illness that can be fatal."

  Schellenberg lifted the blanket and gazed at the thin, pale face of a man in his late fifties. He did not stir on the bunk, and he could have been dead. "This is a labor camp," the captain told her. "Everyone works here." He walked to the foot of the bunk and inspected the prisoner's name and birthdate: Vlad Tepes, 8 November 1887. "Have him out tomorrow morning or he will be shot."

  Striding out of the building, Schellenberg wondered why he had been even that generous. In the past he might have had such a malingerer shot to death on the spot, or at least beaten as an example to others. He continued on his morning rounds, but the image of the old Gypsy asleep on the dark bunk stayed with him.

  ▼▼▼

  Often, after sundown, Captain Schellenberg liked to walk alone around the perimeter of the camp's main section. It was a peaceful place with the coming of darkness, and he was even able to fantasize that he was back home strolling the hills of the family farm. He tried not to look at the high twin fences that encircled the prisoner barracks, though it was difficult at times when the searchlights in the guard towers played upon them.

  Returning to the officers' quarters he took a shortcut close to barracks 52, forgetting for the moment that it was here he had encountered the sleeping Gypsy. As he passed near the darkened building, a voice spoke his name. "Captain Schellenberg!"

  He turned, expecting to see one of the guards who patrolled the area. Instead he could barely make out a tall, slim figure who stood in the building's shadow. "Yes?" he responded. "Who is it?"

  "We have not met formally."

  Schellenberg took a step closer and then immediately retreated as he recognized the gray prison uniform. "You are out of your barracks! I must summon the guards!"

  The tall man stepped forward a pace so the moonlight fell partly on his face. He smiled slightly and said, "I mean you no harm."

  "The barracks are kept locked at night. How did you get out here? Are you on a special work detail?"

  "Yes, I am on a special detail. I am monitoring the other prisoners to be certain they do not leave their barracks."

  It was then that Schellenberg recognized him. This man facing him, seeming in the best of health, was the same sick Gypsy he'd observed in the barracks that morning. "Vlad Tepes—that's your name, isn't it?"

  "I am known by that name."

  "I'm pleased to see that you've recovered. I expect you to be on the morning work detail with the others."

  "I can work only at night. The sunlight affects my skin."

  The captain grunted. He started to turn away and then a thought struck him. "How did you know my name?"

  "I may have heard the old woman addressing you."

  Schellenberg accepted that, though he knew it wasn't true. He was anxious to get away from this strange prisoner. Perhaps he was remembering that Gypsies sometimes had unnatural powers.

  That night, another guard died.

  ▼▼▼

  The report of this latest death was on Captain Schellenberg's desk when he arrived at his office the following morning. There was also the report he'd requested about the earlier death. He read through both of them and was astonished to discover that each of the guards had died from loss of blood. Yet there was no evidence of bleeding and no blood had been found in the vicinity of the bodies. He took the reports with him when he went in to see Colonel Rausch later that morning.

  "Do you suspect foul play?" the colonel asked, repeating the captain's own question of the previous day.

  "I don't know what I suspect. I think I should speak with the doctor."

  Rausch nodded his glistening bald head. "Do so, by all means. I will leave the matter in your hands, Captain."

  Schellenberg sought out the doctor who had autopsied the bodies. His name was Fredericks and he held the rank of major. A short man with eyes that seemed too big for his head, he seemed to present a figure of vague menace. "Both men died the same way," he said in answer to the captain's questions. "Loss of blood."

  "Was there a wound?"

  Major Fredericks shrugged. "Puncture marks on the throat, but that means nothing, unless you believe they were attacked by vampire bats."

  "I suppose anything is possible." He had another thought. "There's something else I wanted to ask you, Major. Is there a type of illness that could cause someone to be especially sensitive to sunlight?"

  "You're probably thinking of lupus erythematosus. Exposure to sunlight or X-rays can cause a patchy red skin rash to appear on the cheeks and the bridge of the nose, roughly in the shape of a butterfly."

  "We have a Gypsy prisoner in barracks 52 who claims to have such a condition. He says he can't work during the day."

  "Nonsense! Simply cover his face with a cloth to keep the sun off it and he'll be fine."

  "Thanks for the advice, Major."

  "Barracks 52, you say? I should have his name for my records."

  "Vlad Tepes."

  "Tepes? Odd sort of name. Seems vaguely familiar to me."

  He went back to his paperwork and Captain Schellenberg started on his rounds. When he reached barracks 52 he saw the stout Gypsy woman, Olga Helsing, hovering outside. "Good morning," he greeted her. "It is a fine summer's day. Has your patient returned to the labor force?"

  "No, no! This sun would kill him, in his condition."

  "I have spoken to the doctor about his so-called condition. If he covers his face with a piece of cloth, a handkerchief, he will be all right. Have him do that and report to the work detail this afternoon."

  "How does the doctor know, without even examining him?" She spat it out in disgust, and Captain Schellenberg's left hand came up in a reflex motion, striking her a backhanded blow across the mouth. She staggered back, more shocked than hurt.

  "Obey me, woman, or you and your patient will both be food for the worms!"

  She retreated in silence with a hand to her mouth. Schellenberg strode away, already regretting that he'd struck her. But authority had to be shown to these people. It was all they understood.

  In the afternoon he took a staff car out to the far end of the camp, where prisoners were building new barracks for future arrivals. He stood by the car for some time until he spotted a tall, slender man wearing a hat and with a handkerchief tied over his face. Satisfied, he drove back to his office.

  ▼▼▼

  It was three days later before another guard was found dead, and Captain Schellenberg had almost put the first two incidents out of his mind. When he saw the latest report on his desk, and noted the cause of death, he hurried in to Colonel Rausch's office. "There's been another guard death overnight," he announced without preamble. "Somehow they're being killed."

  The colonel lifted his bald head. "Loss of blood again?"

  "That's right. We must take action."

  "I'll issue an order that nightly patrols must be conducted in pairs. And I'll see that all locks are checked."

  "It might not be a prisoner," Schellenberg pointed out.

  "A guard wouldn't kill other guards when killing a prisoner is so much easier."

  The captain couldn't argue with that logic. "I'm on my way to see Major Fredericks. If I learn anything further I'll let you know."

  Word of the killings had not yet spread among the prisoners, and as Schellenberg strode across the grass toward the doctor's office all seemed calm. Lines of newly arrived prisoners were marching from the railroad siding, bound for some of the recently completed barracks. There was a shout as one man broke from the line and ran back toward the train, but he was quickly intercepted and beaten to the ground with rifle butts. He was carried off to the prison hospital while the others continued their march.

  Captain Schellenberg had to wait about five minutes before Major Fredericks returned to his office. "Well, Captain, what can I do for you today?"

  "I'm looking into the death of those guards. I don't want to take your time, though, if you have a patient. I saw them carry that prisoner in here."

  Fredericks barely blinked. "The man is dead. They waste my time with dead men."

  Schellenberg nodded, as if agreeing. "What has been killing these guards, Major? Is it some sort of natural virus, or an animal—"

  "No animal could suck out that much blood."

  "Then what—?"

  "You mentioned the name Vlad Tepes the other day. I knew it sounded familiar." He walked to the bookshelf behind his desk and took down a textbook on Eastern European history. "Here—Vlad Tepes was the ruler of Wallachia during the 15th century, when he is said to have tortured and murdered more than thirty thousand people. He was the basis for the character of Dracula in the novel by that Irish writer, Bram Stoker."

  "Vlad was a vampire?"

  "No—only in Stoker's imagination. But it is interesting that someone

  should take the name of such a fiend. Have you seen this prisoner lately?"

  "Not in some days," Captain Schellenberg admitted. "I should check up on him."

  The major's face remained impassive. "Be careful," he advised. "If you suspect him of these crimes it would be easier to place him on the next train to Auschwitz."

  Schellenberg took the staff car and drove out to the area of new barracks where the Gypsy prisoners were working. He sought out the tall man with the handkerchief over his face, and found him pushing a barrow full of bricks. "Vlad!" he called out, but the man did not turn.

  Schellenberg walked up to him and snatched the handkerchief from his face. It was not Vlad Tepes. It was a young Gypsy he had never seen before.

  ▼▼▼

  It took him less than a half-hour to establish that Vlad was not among the members of the work crew. Nor was he back in the bunk at barracks 52. That afternoon he had the woman, Olga Helsing, brought to his office. "Where is Vlad Tepes?" he asked her, leaning forward across his desk.

  "I do not know, sir," she answered, touching her lips with one hand as if remembering his blow.

  "How long has he been gone?"

  "Many nights."

  "And the young Gypsy who works in his place?"

  "He was incorrectly reported to have died in barracks 44. We moved him to our barracks and he took the place of Vlad Tepes."

  "Has the man escaped?"

  "I do not know."

  "Perhaps a night in the dungeon will refresh your memory. Life is very cheap here. Your body would make fine food for the pigs."

  "I am an old woman. I do not frighten easily."

  He nodded sadly. "Return to your barracks. I will tend to you later."

  After she'd been taken away he sat for a long time staring at the opposite wall of his office. He heard another train arriving on the siding below, but did not bother to look. They were coming in twice a day now. The pace was beginning to pick up. Soon there would have to be another shipment to the extermination camps. Bergen-Belsen was treating them

 

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