10
‘Follow Hitler! He will dance, but it is I who have called the tune!
‘I have initiated him into the “Secret Doctrine”, opened his centres in vision and given him the means to communicate with the Powers.
‘Do not mourn for me: I shall have influenced history more than any other German.’
Dietrich Eckart
‘Thule members were the people to whom Hitler first turned and who first allied themselves with Hitler.’
Rudolf von Sebottendorff
‘The legend of Thule is as old as the Germanic race.’
Louis Pauwels and Jacques Bergier
‘What should we do, Mr Blake? Shall we follow them or go in?’ Steve looked towards the ex-policeman, trying to discern his features in the darkness of the Cortina’s interior.
Sexton shivered, wanting to be on the move, but his training curbed his impatience. ‘No, boy. We’ll just wait a bit longer and see what happens.’
The car was parked off the road and invisible in the darkness to anyone emerging from the gates further down. Steve had spent half the day within sight of the entrance to the house and his boredom was hard to contain. His only break had been his hasty dash to the nearest phone-box to contact Sexton and let him know what had happened and why he was there. The older man had arrived shortly after dusk and found Steve lurking in the undergrowth not far from the spot where they were now parked. He’d had to drive slowly along the quiet stretch of road twice before the apprentice detective had emerged from the trees; he had felt pleased the boy was so cautious.
‘Do you think Mr Steadman’s all right?’ Steve asked, blowing into his hands to create some warmth. ‘Maybe he was in one of those cars that left.’
‘I dunno, Steve. There’s something very funny going on. I just wish Harry had taken me into his confidence.’ Very funny indeed, Sexton thought. All starting with Mrs Wyeth’s terrible murder. Was this man Gant connected with that? Sexton had spent the best part of the day probing the few old friends he still had in Special Branch, but they couldn’t tell him much about Gant. A bit of an enigma all round, it seemed. Quietly supplying arms to governments abroad – and our own – for years, then suddenly coming to the fore, becoming one of the most important dealers in the country. His dubious association with the Arabs had worried them at first and they’d taken great pains to investigate his background, only to find he was vouched for by men of considerable power and influence. There were certain details they could give Sexton, but nothing that would reveal any deeper insight into the man. The phone call from Steve had sent him racing through town and down into the country where the boy had explained his reason for being there in greater detail.
Steve had taken a room as instructed in the same hotel as Goldblatt and his woman friend. Unable to get a room on the same floor as the two Israelis, he had spent most of his time in the reception area reading newspapers and magazines, situated close to the lifts and stairway so that neither Goldblatt nor the woman would be able to leave without his seeing them. It was a busy hotel and people – mostly businessmen, it seemed – were coming and going all day. But Steve had had trouble keeping the newspaper he was holding from shaking violently when the lift doors had opened and the two Israelis had emerged with three men pressed close to their sides, hemming them in, forming a tight group. He had seen the other three enter the lobby fifteen minutes earlier and disregarded them as they had waited for the lift; they looked like normal businessmen to him. But now, because of the nervousness on the faces of the two Israelis, the woman in particular looking quite agitated, and the rigidity of the tightly packed group, they took on an altogether more sinister aspect. He watched them walk to the reception desk, one of the men breaking off from the group, leading the woman with a hand on her arm towards the swing-doors. With the other two on either side of him, the Israeli asked for his bill, informing the clerk he was checking out and that his luggage would be collected later that day.
Steve was both nervous and excited. To him, this was real detective work, the kind he had read about. There was obviously something dangerous going on – you didn’t have to be a super-sleuth to see that – but what to do about it? He didn’t have time to ring the office or Steadman at his home, for the men would soon be leaving the hotel and he might lose them. He had to move fast. His Mini was parked in the hotel’s underground garage; if he were to follow them, he had better be ready. He folded the newspaper with trembling hands, making a great effort to look outwardly calm. Then he strolled nonchalantly towards the swing-doors and out into the open. He saw the man who had left first with the woman, sitting in a car opposite, a grey Daimler, and he gulped anxiously; he hoped his Mini would be able to keep up with it. When he was out of sight of the vehicle, he dashed down the ramp leading to the underground parking area and jumped into his little car. He dropped the keys once and then tried to use his front-door key in the ignition by mistake before he finally gunned the engine into life, and he emerged just in time to see the other three men climbing into the Daimler. Hands were taken from pockets and he realized that the two strangers must have been holding guns inside their overcoats. His bowels felt loose at the thought.
The car moved slowly out of the forecourt and nosed its way into the stream of main-road traffic, Steve following and checking his mileage indicator before he, too, eased into the flow. He would have to charge for mileage, of course, and Sexton insisted on accurate figures and no rounding off. The Daimler was easy to follow through London, but once they were past the busy roads of the southern suburbs, the pace increased, and Steve broke into a sweat trying to keep the fast-moving car in sight. He managed to, though, more than once due to opportune traffic lights halting the Daimler’s progress, and it was with relief that he saw the car turn off the road to stop outside a pair of ornate wrought-iron gates. He drove by slowly, glancing quickly to his right as he drew level with the opening gates, and just having time to see the guard and two vicious-looking Alsatian dogs. He parked his car further down the road and round a bend where it couldn’t be seen from the gates, then he crept back through the trees on that side of the road. A high wall enclosed the property, the only break being the iron gate itself. He settled down behind a tree when he was opposite the gate and wondered what his next course of action should be. The words of his tutor came to him. ‘When in doubt,’ old Sexton would say, ‘sit and wait for something to happen. Remember, you’re an observer, not a partaker in the action.’
So he settled down to wait, checking the time and making a note of the morning’s events in his notebook. He felt pleased with himself, but soon the cold dampness in the air and the increasing boredom of the observation began to depress him. He had just made up his mind to find a pub and have a beer and a sandwich – after all, he was entitled to have lunch – when a familiar car slowed down and pulled over into the gates’ entrance. It was Harry Steadman’s grey Celica! He almost called out, but ducked down when he saw the guard emerge from his wooden hut on the other side of the gates. Steve watched as the detective left his car and walked over to the guard, passing something through the bars. The temptation again to call out when Steadman strolled back and rested against the bonnet of the Celica was overpowering and he had a hand cupped to his mouth ready to shout when the guard was back at the gate. He stilled his voice and swore under his breath. There was nothing he could do.
Dismally, he watched the car drive into the grounds and disappear down a road leading into a clump of trees. Only a few moments later, a BMW emerged from the drive and stopped before the gates for them to be swung open. He thought he recognized the passenger as the car swept into the road, but he couldn’t quite place the face. Steve waited another twenty minutes before he made up his mind. He would have to get in touch with Sexton – he would know what to do.
He found the phone-box a few miles further down the road and fortunately the ex-policeman was still at the agency. Steve returned to his lonely vigil, happy in the knowledge that Sexton would so
on join him and glowing with the praise that had been bestowed upon him. An hour or so later, Sexton’s Cortina had slowly driven by, but he had waited until he was sure it really was the ex-policeman before he’d run further down through the undergrowth and stood by the roadside waiting for the car to pass again.
‘Do you think Mr Steadman’s in trouble?’ he asked Sexton for the third time. ‘He’s been in there a long time.’
The old man pondered over the question again. Finally, he said, ‘Let’s give it another hour. Then we’ll go and find out.’
‘Have you heard of the Thule Gesellschaft, Mr Steadman?’ Gant stood over the investigator, his hands tucked neatly into his jacket pockets, his body straight, the smile on his face now arrogant rather than mocking.
Steadman tried to clear his thoughts. He wasn’t tied, but the .38 Webley, pressed into his neck by Major Brannigan, bound him to the chair more securely than any ropes. He saw the hate in Goldblatt’s eyes as the Israeli glared at the arms dealer. Hannah’s body was still slumped, held to the chair by restraining ropes. Goldblatt had recovered consciousness minutes before and had groaned aloud when he saw Steadman, utter despair filling his face. He had tried to speak, but a vicious slap from Köhner had quickly silenced him.
Flickering shadows, cast by a blazing fire, played on the room’s high ceiling, creating sinister patterns which were never still. The room itself was large and lit only by the red flames and a single corner lamp. The only furniture was the straight-back chairs on which Steadman, the woman and the old man and the two Israelis sat, and a long table at the far end. Gant, Brannigan and Köhner stood over them all; their very stance seemed threatening.
‘The Thule Gesellschaft, Mr Steadman. The Thule Society. Surely, in your years in Military Intelligence and with the Israelis you learned something of our organization?’
Steadman tried to clear the clouding fear from his mind. There was a coldness around him: a coldness that shouldn’t have been, for the fire was fierce, its flames high. The chill made his limbs tremble and he consciously fought to keep them still. He vaguely remembered mention of the Thules in the many lectures on the Second World War he’d had to attend as part of his training in Intelligence. They were some kind of occult society which had come into prominence just before the war, but had faded since.
‘Ah, I see you have heard of us.’ There was some satisfaction in Gant’s voice. ‘But obviously, our part in the events leading to the last war has not been emphasized to you enough.’ He looked around at the assembled group. ‘It seems our knight needs some education if he is to know his enemy.’
Köhner, standing over the Mossad agent, chuckled and looked at Steadman with contempt. ‘I think our knight will soon shit himself,’ he said.
Gant joined in the laughter but the remark, if anything, helped steady the investigator’s nerves. His fear gave way to anger and Steadman had learned a long time ago to control that anger and channel it into a single-minded strength. And curiosity helped too. Why had they referred to him as a knight? Just what was his part in this whole bizarre affair?
‘I’m sure you’ve heard, read – perhaps studied – the allegations that Adolf Hitler was involved in Black Magic, Satanic Rites and such like, in his rise to power, haven’t you, Mr Steadman?’ Gant raised his eyebrows and waited for a reply, his flat face even more repulsive now that it was bathed in a red glow from the fire, almost shadowless because of the absence of any prominent feature.
‘I’ve heard the theories,’ Steadman answered, ‘but nothing’s ever been proved conclusively.’
‘Not proved? Hah! The refusal of men to accept such things is astounding! Keep such things away in the shadows, don’t examine them too closely, don’t bring them into the light. We might find it’s true; then what? We might decide we like the joys such worship brings.’ His sarcasm bit through the air. ‘And that might mean the rejection of everything we’ve achieved since the Dark Ages. And look at those achievements: poverty, starvation, continual wars! What has happened to our spiritual quest? We believe we are advancing, mankind, aided by science, moving further away from his primitive beginnings; but just the reverse is happening, Mr Steadman. We are moving further away from our spiritual – our ethereal – beginnings! That was our sin, don’t you see! Our Original Sin! Mankind’s bestiality! His lust for the physical. And Hitler’s great crime against mankind – in the eyes of mankind – was trying to lead us away from that evolvement, back to the spiritual. That’s why he was rejected, that’s why he had to die. They killed your Christ for the same reason!’
Steadman shuddered at the madness in Gant’s eyes. He had seen that same madness in the eyes of fanatics all over the world – that same blind reasoning, that same passion for a belief that was based on perverted logic. And he knew the hypnotic efect it had on others, men who looked to a leader because of their own inadequacies, who yearned for someone to give a greater meaning to their own existence. He looked around the room and saw that yearning on their faces, their eyes shining with the emotion that the words had instilled. Only Goldblatt’s eyes were filled with loathing.
‘Hitler tried to purify his race from the breeds that had infiltrated it, mingled and brought it down to their own animal level, away from its natural Germanic heritage. That he failed meant a step backards in man’s national evolution – I might say reversion, for Thulists believe we need to return to our beginnings, not progress away from it. Hitler’s plans for the Master Race were based on völkish occultism, and it was there the Thulists were able to help and guide him, for we were the roots of National Socialism! Even in those early days, our arms was the swastika with a curved sword and a wreath. A Thulist even designed the Nazi flag for Hitler! A swastika on a white circle against a red background, a symbol of the movement’s ideology: the white its nationalism, the red its social ideal – and the swastika, itself, the struggle for victory of Aryan man.’ Gant turned away from the group, his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets, and walked towards the huge fireplace. He gazed into the flames for a few moments then spun round to face them again. ‘Do you know the meaning of the swastika, Mr Steadman?’ he said harshly.
With the blaze behind him, Gant’s body was thrown into silhouette, the outline tinged red. Without waiting for a reply he said, ‘It’s a symbol of the sun, light, life itself and for thousands of years, among many races, it’s been used as such. The Buddhists believe it to be an accumulation of luck signs possessing ten thousand virtues. For the Thulists – and for Hitler – it was a symbolic link with our own esoteric prehistory, when we were not as we are now, but energy patterns existing on the lost island of Thule. Ethereal shadows, Mr Steadman. You might call them spirits.’
Steadman shivered again. The temperature of the room had dropped even more – or was it only his imagination? The air seemed charged and the arms dealer’s silhouette had grown more dense, blacker.
‘Signs, symbols, rituals – all are used by occultists to evoke power, just as the Eucharist and the Mass are used in the Church to evoke power. Whether that power is used for good or bad is up to whoever calls on it. Think of how the Catholic Church has abused its use over recent centuries, the crimes committed in God’s name. But there is a direct way to tap evil forces and Hitler was advanced spiritually enough to know the Christian Good was evil, the Christian Evil was good! His reading of Nietzsche, the man who claimed God was dead, had convinced him of this. Hitler sought to draw from those evil powers and to do this he used the knowledge he had been given by men like Dietrich Eckart, the Thule propagandist, a dedicated satanist; Karl Haushofer, the astrologist, who later persuaded Hess to defect to England; Heilscher, the spiritual teacher to many of the Nazis. Even Wagner played his part in Hitler’s spiritual ascension. Men like the Englishman, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, who had written the Foundations of the Nineteenth Century, the inspiration of the Third Reich, while possessed by demons. And Friedrich Nietzsche, who had announced that the time was right for the übermensch – the Superma
n, the Élite of the Race. They had helped form Hitler’s ideologies. But it was the magicians who initiated him into the practices that would enable him to draw on the forces he needed to reach total power.
‘And one of those practices was the reversal of magic symbols. As the Black Mass is a reversal of the Holy Mass in order to evoke powers of evil – the ceremony performed by an unfrocked priest, feasting rather than fasting takes place as a preparation, lust replaces chastity, the altar is the body of a naked woman, preferably a prostitute, the Crucifix is reversed and broken, and the Host becomes a black turnip which is consecrated in the whore’s vagina – so symbols are reversed to do the same. The swastika, as a solar symbol, spins clockwise to attract the Powers of Light, the trailing arms indicating the direction of the spin. Hitler ordered that his swastika be reversed to spin anti-clockwise, to attract the Powers of Darkness! And the whole world was witness to his meteoric rise!’
Gant was still speaking in low tones, but the words were hissed sibilant, as they carried round the room. His audience was rapt and Steadman considered tackling Brannigan, who stood behind him, but the pressure from the gun on his neck never ceased for a moment. He glanced over at Goldblatt and flinched at the desperation on the man’s face.
‘But Hitler rejected all occult societies, didn’t he?’ he suddenly shouted at the arms dealer. ‘He banned them from the Party.’
All heads swung towards Steadman as though he had suddenly roused them from a dream. A thin laugh came from Gant as he moved away from the fire and approached the investigator, his steps slow and deliberate. He stopped before Steadman, hands still inside his jacket pockets. One hand suddenly snaked out and grabbed the investigator’s hair, forcing his head back, and he brought his own forward so that his flat face was only inches away.