No, civilised minds should transcend first thoughts and come to cooler conclusions, thereby building their house on rock (as Scripture so wisely advised). What did he really think about the unnatural horror show parading before his very window? Or, broader still, about the world-as-it-was come to see him in all its glory?
Answer came easy, in the form of another of his infamous epithets, said long before but in a similar death-connected context: ‘It is worse than a crime; it is a mistake!’ Which said it all as far he was concerned.
That settled, the man then chided himself that any old world-class intellect could describe the world. That was the easy bit. The point (and problem) was how to change it.
More difficult still, how could just one individual—even an exceedingly clever individual (such as he)—amend things for the better?
And, of course, have monstrous fun at the same time?
It was a quite a trip for name checks. Another important personage happened to see the new-forged regiment too. They crossed paths with Admiral Nelson, (Lord Merton, Duke of Bronte, Knight-commander of Naples, etc. etc.) as boats ferried him in his capsule to HMS Victory and them to their troopship.
Nelson curled his lip at their wafting stench of serum mixed with decaying meat—though, strictly speaking, in no position to cast stones himself.
In Germania the regiment proved its worth.
A stubborn salient of churned mud and rubble still described on maps as ‘The Prince-Archbishopric of Dresden’ was holding up the French armies. Any breakthrough by them there might lead to the recapture of Berlin for the umpteenth time. Occasion, it was decided, for a rare Allied counter-attack.
Disposed against that were legions of Lazarans (though the Conventionary army more tactfully termed them ‘New-Citizens’), backed by massed French cannon in unassailable positions.
Unassailable, that is, to soldiers with a life to lose. A life which they valued. And families. And souls.
The colonel’s ‘413th regiment of Revived Foot’ had few such qualms. Or if they did, bayonets and barbed-whips overcame them. They rushed the French emplacements and blocked grapeshot with their second-hand bodies whilst live troops manoeuvred and won the battle elsewhere.
So it was worth all the grave-robbing and serum and upsetting Littleton and Nelson after all.
Afterwards, men from the ‘Charon brigades’ went and collected any identifiable bits in order that the glorious 413th might become the glorious 414th.
Accordingly, Berlin didn’t fall for a further fortnight.
Chapter 2: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF JULIUS FRANKENSTEIN
‘…how pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is sixteen, and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter into foreign service… My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a military career in a distant country; but Ernest has never had your powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter;—his time is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him to enter on the profession he has selected.’
‘Admitted this day of our Lord and Salvation, 23rd March 1801 as sergeant first class, Herr Ernest Frankenstein, citizen of Geneva, aged 24. Widower. One dependent accompanying: son, infant, named Julius.
‘Bears own arms. Previous service with the forces of Genoa, Knights of St John, Poland, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and sundry others. Numerous citations and medals from same, cited in the appendix attached. References received from the Grand Master of Malta and Cardinal-Archbishop of Smyrna.’
Subsequently annotated, in French: ‘Deceased—Battle of the Pontine Gate, Rome, during the last conquest.’
The previously mentioned pale face at the Heathrow Hecatomb window kept a diary. The day before she came the diary entry read: ‘Same. Breakfast. Visitor, with menaces. Pretend researches. Drink. Bed.’
Which was essentially it. But to expand:
‘You are at risk of being a disappointment to us, Frankenstein. I tell you in all candour: it does not do to be a disappointment to us.’
The visitor, presumably another Secret Service man, leant back to let his words sink in.
Other senior staff enjoyed a cheroot and coffee after breakfast. It was some compensation for sitting behind steel mesh watching the new revivals relearn to eat. Increasingly however, Julius Frankenstein got hauled over the coals instead.
Yet there was flattery in this. Julius was fairly shooting up the scale of threatening interviews. Slanging matches with local management and ‘final written warnings’ were left far behind. Now there was this nameless man from nowhere, with all the assurance in the world and silky skills to match it.
‘A pity,’ Frankenstein replied. ‘I have significant aptitude in that specialist field. I was a disappointment to my father as he was to his, as I am now to you. It is a family trait polished from generation to generation. However, if my presence is not required…’
The visitor steepled his fingers.
‘I am not a child to be humoured, Herr Frankenstein…’
Indeed not. The visitor was in his seventies if he was a day, though the legacies of a lusty youth still hung around. Particularly in the eyes. As for Julius, he was less afflicted with years but equally steeped in experience.
‘You must know that this is not a post one resigns from,’ the visitor continued. ‘Your current status is a curious one: both a bucket of blessings and the sword of Damocles hang over your head. It is in my power to decide which one falls.’
‘But not in mine to influence the decision.’
The visitor pursed his lips. Julius decided he must have been a fop in earlier days, a dandy about town but with a steely core. Only now the silk and lace contained a withered frame and the man of the world had expanded round the equator.
‘Au contraire, dear sir, au contraire. As the Heathrow Hecatomb’s Head of Research you are very much master of your own destiny. Which you would find out if only we saw some research from you. As it is, at best we get only grade three and four Lazarans from your laboratory: Revivals I wouldn’t trust to make tea. Or look after my library…’
Frankenstein guessed that tea took priority over books in this man’s life by a factor of five at least. The chill between them grew accordingly.
The visitor sensed it, even if he did not understand. He frowned.
‘You must understand, sir, that such mediocrity can be matched by myriad English technicians. Trustworthy technicians. Whereas you possess neither of those admirable qualities…’
Julius Frankenstein looked round the little interview room. It was bare of consolation. Yet he knew full well that if he directed his gaze within it would only meet a similarly bleak vista.