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valet watched as his master’s lined, weathered face broke into a rare smile.

      “It is possible,” he continued, “that we may make more of you than just a valet, Carpenter.”

      Chapter 9

      A HARD DAY’S NIGHT

      Frankenstein walked Jamie down a long grey corridor until they reached a white door with INFIRMARY stencilled on it in red letters. There was a rush of cold air as the giant man pushed it open and led Jamie inside.

      Rows of empty beds ran down one side of the spotlessly clean room. Lying unconscious on one of them was the man who had been carried from the helicopter. The wound in his arm gaped horribly wide, and his face was ghostly pale. A steady stream of blood ran down a plastic tube from a hanging bag, and disappeared into his uninjured arm.

      At the far end three frosted glass doors were set into the wall, marked X-RAY, CT SCANNING and THEATRE. Through the one marked THEATRE Jamie could see a frenzy of movement, and hear raised voices and a steady mechanical beeping. There was a figure lying on a table, surrounded by white shapes and blocky rectangles of machinery. As he watched, a spray of blood, bright, garish red, splashed against the glass of the door, and Jamie’s stomach turned.

      Then the door marked X-RAY was flung open and a middle-aged man in a white coat hurried towards them, his face red and flustered. When he reached them, he stopped, took a PDA from his pocket and poised the stylus over it.

      “Name?” he asked.

      Jamie looked up at Frankenstein, who nodded.

      “Jamie Carpenter,” he replied.

      Surprise flashed across the doctor’s face, and Jamie wondered absently why his name seemed to provoke a startled reaction in everyone who heard it.

      But it was a question for another time. He was so tired he could hardly see straight, his legs felt like they were made of wet clay, and it had taken an enormous effort to simply say his own name correctly.

      “What are your symptoms?”

      Jamie opened his mouth, but could shape no further words. He looked helplessly up at Frankenstein, who took over.

      “He is suffering from post-traumatic shock, his throat is severely bruised from attempted strangulation, and he is physically and mentally exhausted. He needs to rest. Immediately.”

      The doctor nodded at this and, with surprising gentleness, took Jamie’s arm and led him to the nearest bed. Jamie sat on the starched white sheet, staring up at Frankenstein, dimly aware that he was complying with the doctor’s requests to open his eyes for examination, to follow a finger from left to right, to breathe in, hold it, and breathe out as the cold metal of the stethoscope was placed on his chest. The doctor examined his neck, where purple bruising was starting to rise in ugly, violent ridges, then placed a needle in his arm, attached a saline drip, and asked Frankenstein for a word in private. The two men walked quickly over to the door, and began to converse in rapid whispers, Frankenstein casting his eyes over at Jamie every few seconds.

      Jamie stared at him, his sluggish mind trying to frame the questions he wanted to ask the huge man. He found he was unable to do so; the words ran away from him like sand through his fingers. When the two men finished their conversation and made their way back towards him, he was only able to manage two.

      “What happened?”

      Frankenstein sat down on the bed next to him. Jamie heard the steel of the frame creak, and felt himself slide an inch towards the monster as his huge weight tilted the bed. The doctor was attaching a second bag to the IV drip as Frankenstein spoke to him.

      “Now is not the time for explanations,” he said. “You need to rest, and there are things I need to do. I will tell you as much as I can tomorrow.”

      The doctor turned the valve on the second bag and Jamie felt a glorious calm settle over him, like a warm blanket.

      “You... promise?” he whispered, his eyes already closing, and as he drifted into gentle oblivion he heard Frankenstein say that he did.

      Frankenstein stood, silently watching the teenager. Jamie’s chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, and his face was peaceful. The doctor had told him that the boy would be out for at least twelve hours, but Frankenstein had ignored him. He found himself unable to look at the swollen purple of Jamie’s neck; it ignited a familiar rage inside him, a rage that, were he to give in to it, could only be satisfied by violence.

      He pushed it down, and continued to watch the boy. He had been doing so for a long time when there was a tap on the glass of the door behind him.

      He turned to see Henry Seward looking in at him. The Admiral beckoned him with a pale finger, and Frankenstein pushed open the infirmary door and stepped into the corridor.

      “Walk with me to my quarters, Victor,” Seward said. His tone made it clear that it was not a request.

      The two men walked down a series of grey corridors until they reached a plain metallic door. Seward placed his hand on a black panel set into the wall and lowered his face to the level of a red bulb just above it. A scarlet laser beam moved across the Admiral’s retina, and the door opened with a complicated series of unlocking noises.

      Henry Seward’s quarters could not have been more incongruous with their grey, military surroundings. As the metal door opened the scent of hardwood drifted out into the corridor, mingled with the aromas of Darjeeling tea and rich Arabica coffee. The two men stepped inside.

      This was only the third time that Frankenstein had visited the Admiral’s private rooms since Seward had taken up residence. He had spent many afternoons and evenings in them when they had been occupied by Stephen Holmwood, and occasions too numerous to mention when the great Quincey Harker had been in charge. But Seward was different from those open, gregarious men; he kept his own counsel, and guarded his privacy.

      The door opened on to a wood-panelled drawing room, furnished in a style that was elegant and yet unmistakably official; worn leather armchairs flanked a fireplace that was no longer in use, separated from a mahogany desk by a beautiful Indian rug, now fraying slightly at the edges, that depicted a meditating Shiva, his vast form swathed in clouds. Two doors led from the rear of the room into what Frankenstein knew were a small kitchen and a modest bedroom.

      Admiral Seward lowered himself into one of the armchairs and motioned for Frankenstein to do likewise. Frankenstein squeezed himself into the seat, the leather creaking as he did so. He declined when Seward offered him an open wooden box of Montecristo’s, and waited for the Director of Department 19 to light his cigar with a wooden match. Seward drew hard until the tapered end was glowing cherry red, and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air. Finally, he looked at Frankenstein.

      “How did you know where the Carpenters were?”

      Frankenstein bristled. “The boy is fine, sir, if that’s what you meant to ask.”

      “I’m glad to hear it. But, no, it’s damn well not what I meant to ask. I meant to ask how you knew where the Carpenters were.”

      “Sir—”

      Seward cut him off. “I didn’t know where they were, Victor. Nor did anyone else on this base. Do you know why?”

      “I think—”

      “Because not knowing where they were was the best possible way of keeping them safe!” Seward roared. “If one person knows, then very quickly two people will know, then four, and so on, and so on. If no one knows, nothing can happen to them. That’s how it works, Victor.”

      “With all due respect, sir, it didn’t work tonight,” Frankenstein replied, evenly.

      He was looking directly at the Director, refusing to defer to him by looking away, and as he watched he saw the anger in Seward’s eyes fade; he suddenly looked very tired. “Marie is really gone?” he asked.

      “Yes sir.”

      “Alexandru

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