The investigator used his elbow against the other man’s ribs, still holding the now limp arm outstretched with one hand. Steadman heard Köhner gasp, but his satisfaction was short-lived as his opponent twisted and managed to encircle the investigator’s neck with his other arm, squeezing hard to cut off his air. Steadman leaned forward and jerked Köhner off the floor, bending almost double so the other man tumbled over his shoulders on to the floor before him.
Lithe as a cat, Köhner was up again and turning to face him. But Steadman’s rage at this creature who could destroy lives without remorse, and with an ease that said he was a master of it, drove him on relentlessly. He plunged into the murderer, his fists striking the man’s face, sending him staggering back towards the low-burning fire. Fear began to show in Köhner’s eyes as Steadman bore down on him. He knew the investigator’s rage had made him unstoppable; only a weapon would have any effect. He looked around, desperate for a means of escape or a weapon within reach and saw there was nothing. The knife had disappeared into the shadows, Craven’s gun was on the other side of the room. But Craven was beginning to rise now. He was on his knees, his shoulders hunched, his hands still pressed between his legs. But he was beginning to rise! If he would only reach for the gun!
Köhner was about to call out to the kneeling man when another blow sent him reeling. ‘Wait, I can help you! Don’t . . .’ Steadman paid no heed to the words. The same hatred he had felt when Lilla had been so mercilessly killed had once again taken over.
Köhner recognized the hate and put up his hands to ward Steadman off, but they were easily knocked aside. He backed away until he could feel the heat behind him. The fire! Oh God, he was backing into the fire! He tried to make a break to one side, but Steadman grabbed his collar and struck him again, a hard, stinging blow that covered his vision with a blinding light. He fell, his arms flailing, instinctively trying to grab the sides of the fire surround. His hands made no contact and he screamed as he fell into the small, dancing flames. As the heat burnt his coat and scorched his body, he pleaded with the investigator to pull him out.
Steadman raised a foot and planted it squarely on the burning man’s chest, holding him there, his loathing rejecting any mercy. Köhner screamed again and again, twisting his body, trying to wriggle free while Steadman held him, no expression on his face. It was only when Köhner’s hair began to burn that the investigator reached forward, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him clear. Köhner’s screams echoed round the room as Steadman tore the jacket from him, much of the shirt coming away with it, and threw it towards the fireplace. The investigator beat out the smaller flames on the man’s clothing with his hands, not even wincing at the sight of the scorched flesh. Köhner’s singed hair hung in blackened clumps on the back of his head and his teeth chattered as though he was freezing.
Craven’s cry of alarm warned Steadman and he turned just in time to see the little man crawling rapidly towards the gun lying on the floor. The investigator sprang forward, racing towards the scrambling man, who looked up in fear at the sound of his approach. It was that moment of hesitation that lost Craven his chance. He was half up, no longer crawling, reaching down for the gun, when it was kicked from under his grasp. He saw it scudding away into the shadows and felt terror as a hand fell on to his exposed neck. Another hand grabbed the back of his trousers, and then he was being propelled forward, his own rush towards the gun now working against him. He was powerless in the grip that held him and the floorboards sped beneath his feet as he tried to keep his balance. They were gathering momentum, heading towards the table at the far end of the room, towards the twisting body of Köhner. He tried to sink to the floor when he realized Steadman’s intention, but the grip was too strong, the pace too fast. He felt himself lifted, skidding across the table’s surface – and then beyond.
He felt the glass break around him, yet did not hear the sound. The ground rushed towards him and, mercifully, he felt nothing as his head broke open against it.
Steadman stood with his hands resting against the table-top, breathing in deep lungfuls of the cold night air as it gushed through the shattered window, his shoulders heaving with the exertion. The fury was still in him, hardly dissipated by the violence he had just committed; but it was a cold fury now, his mind working almost dispassionately. He knew the disgust for himself would come later, would torment with the knowledge that he was little better than the men he had acted against. For the moment, though, those feelings would be held in abeyance – there was so much more to do.
He pushed himself away from the table and crossed the room, ignoring Köhner, who lay on his stomach, moaning softly, parts of his clothing still smouldering. Steadman knelt beside Hannah and grimaced at the sight of the terrible wound the knife had inflicted. The floor around her was awash with blood and he turned his eyes away from the long gash when he saw glistening organs beginning to protrude from the opening. He thought she was dead, but as he began to untie her bonds, her eyelids fluttered, then opened. Her lips moved as she tried to speak.
‘Don’t talk,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to get you to a hospital.’ He knew the words were without meaning, for there was no chance she would live.
Hannah knew it too. ‘Steadman,’ she said, her voice faint, as though she were calling back to him from a distance as her life seeped away. He leaned down towards her, putting his ear close to her mouth to listen. It was difficult to make out the words, but she kept repeating them as though making sure he understood. ‘The . . . Spear . . . for . . . Israel, Steadman . . . you must . . . for Israel . . . get . . .’
Her voice trailed off as Hannah sank into her death. Steadman drew away from her, closing her eyes with his fingers and arranging her clothing to cover her nakedness and the awful gaping wound. He touched a hand to her cheek, then rose to his feet. He looked towards Köhner, his eyes cold.
The burnt man was on his hands and knees, moving towards the door. He turned his head at the sound of Steadman’s approach and his eyes widened in fear when he saw the expression on the investigator’s face.
Steadman pulled him to his feet, and pushed him on to the table. Köhner screamed as his back made contact with the table-top.
‘You’re going to tell me some things, Köhner,’ Steadman said, shaking him by his shoulders. ‘You’re going to tell me what will happen tomorrow.’ He brought Köhner’s face close to his own and said, ‘You’re going to tell me where Holly Miles and Baruch Kanaan are being held.’
Köhner tried to pull himself away, but his injuries – and his fright – had weakened him. ‘I can’t tell you anything, Steadman. Please, you’ve got to get me to hospital.’
‘Not until you’ve told me all I want to know, Köhner.’
‘No, they’ll kill me!’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘Please, listen. There’s nothing you . . .’
‘Where has Gant gone to?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Steadman slammed him back down on to the table. He placed his elbow under Köhner’s chin, pushing it up, ignoring his feeble efforts to pull away. He grabbed the German’s right hand and held it by the wrist with one hand, then with the other he took hold of one of the fingers. The smallest. He pulled it back swiftly and it snapped.
He closed his mind to Köhner’s scream and fought his own revulsion. He had to fight them on their own level, evil for evil. For Holly’s sake. For Baruch’s. He would not let them be taken as Lilla had been taken.
‘Tell me, Köhner. Where have they gone? Where are they holding the girl?’
Tears ran down the sides of Köhner’s face and Steadman was afraid the man might pass out. It said much for his toughness that he hadn’t.
‘The Wewelsburg! They’ve gone there! Please don’t!’
The Wewelsburg. That name again. Steadman took hold of another finger. ‘What is the Wewelsburg, Köhner?’ he asked, beginning to apply pressure again.
‘Don’t! It’s a house –
an estate. It belongs to Gant.’
‘Where?’
‘On the coast. North Devon. Please don’t hurt me again . . .’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Near a place called Hartland. Further on!’ Köhner tried to squirm away and the investigator pressed down harder with his elbow. ‘The girl is there, Steadman. She’s all right, she’s alive!’ The words were meant to appease him.
The West Coast. Holly had said Gant had a place on the West Coast. Was that his Wewelsburg? ‘Okay. Now tell me what Gant is up to. What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘I can’t. I can’t tell you.’
It was only footsteps on the stairs that prevented another of Köhner’s fingers from being broken.
13
‘We must interpret “Parsifal” in a totally different way to the general conception . . . It is not the Christian-Schopenhaurerist religion of compassion that is acclaimed, but pure, noble blood, in the protection and glorification of whose purity the brotherhood of the initiated have come together.’
Adolf Hitler
The two guards, both armed with a general-purpose machine-gun and rifle similar to the NATO FN, but of Gant’s own manufacture and considerably lighter because of it, raced up the stairs to the room where the prisoner was being held. They were veteran mercenaries who had finally found a binding allegiance – as had all the soldiers in Edward Gant’s private army. It was a small army, no more than fifty carefully chosen soldiers, a Guard really – a corps d'elite. Some were mercenaries who fought battles for others, their loyalty only bought with money; others were taken from the crack SAS regiments, chosen because of their special skills and aptitudes by Major Brannigan and steered into Gant’s organization. Their common bond was their extreme right-wing views and a dislike for the world in general. They admired strength and craved strong leadership: Gant provided them with that leadership. Officially, they were merely employees of Gant’s weapons factory, testing the weapons in practical ways and acting as security for the plant. They wore dark green overalls which somehow succeeded in having a military air without actually being uniforms. There were no insignia, no badges of rank; but each man knew his position and who his superiors were. They enjoyed their secret military ceremonies which took place only on the arms dealer’s vast North Devon estate, even grateful for the harsh discipline imposed on them there, and disliked their dealings with the various factions who visited the estate to learn how to use the many weapons they were buying from Gant. They sneered at the groups of Arabs, Africans, Japanese and Irish they had to teach, wanting to turn the weapons on them, but patiently went through the exercises, demonstrating, explaining, because they knew it helped the cause of world disunity. These groups of fanatics would help create the world unrest which would succour their own movement. They had learned to obey their orders without question, the fate of their comrades who had failed to do so ever-present in their minds. Hanging may have been abolished in England, but Edward Gant worked to his own laws. They had no title, but sometimes, when they were very drunk and only when they were safely inside the estate’s boundaries, they laughingly gave themselves a name. They called themselves the Soldiers of the Fourth Reich.
These two, McGough and Blair, had been left behind with the guard on the gate, the three others of their unit returning to the estate by lorry that night. The rumour was that a special op was planned for the next day, but as yet no briefing had been given and speculation on their part was strictly forbidden. They had regretted being left behind, though did not question it. Nor did they question Gant’s particular instructions.
They rounded the bend in the wide stairs and stopped abruptly, aiming their guns at the two figures that had appeared on the landing above them. One of the figures was Köhner, his face contorted with pain and his blackened shirt hanging loosely around him; the other man standing immediately behind Köhner was the prisoner, the private investigator who had been shown through the weapons store at the back of the house that afternoon.
‘Don’t move!’ Blair commanded and resumed his ascent of the stairs, McGough following close behind.
Steadman did not hesitate. There was no time to search for the fallen gun in the room he and Köhner had just left, so he used the nearest thing at hand to stop the progress of the two men below: Felix Köhner. He shoved the injured man hard, sending him careering down the stairs, his arms flailing wildly. Köhner’s body struck McGough and Blair with a force that sent all three tumbling backwards until they landed in a tangled heap at the bend. Steadman descended the stairs three at a time and was able to kick the gun from one of the soldiers’ hands before it could be aimed at him. The other man was scrambling towards his gun which had clattered further down the stairs, and Steadman hooked a foot beneath him, sending the soldier well beyond the fallen weapon.
The investigator lifted the dazed Köhner to his feet and said, ‘Come on, I still need you.’ He pushed him forward and turned to the soldier who was beginning to rise. Steadman’s knee hit him full in the face and the soldier slammed back against the wall, then slid to the floor. The investigator pulled Köhner away from the banister and raced him down the stairs past the disorientated second man lying at the bottom. He dragged Köhner down the hall towards the doorway, knowing only speed would prevent a bullet in his back. If he had tried for one of the guns himself, the men would been on him before he’d had a chance even to aim it; past experience told him, when outnumbered, keep on the move. He reached the front door and yanked it open, pushing Köhner ahead of him into the night.
On the stairs, McGough had reached his weapon and was automatically sighting it on Steadman’s back below, when he caught sight of Blair’s upturned face. It was white and the lips were clenched, but it shook hastily. McGough lowered the gun and stared regretfully at the front door as it slammed shut.
Steadman was relieved to find no guards outside and his car still waiting. He hurried the dazed Köhner over to it and yanked open the passenger door, pushing the injured man into the seat. He ran round the front of the car, reaching in his trouser pocket for the keys, then jumped into the driver’s seat, hauling the weakened Köhner back as he tried to scramble out.
‘I told you I need you, Köhner. You’re going to get me through the gate.’
He gunned the engine, expecting the door of the house to be flung open at any moment and the two guards to run out, machine-guns blazing. But his luck held: there was no movement from the house. They still must have been stunned. The Celica spewed up gravel as it roared away from the building towards the main gate. Steadman switched on full-beam to blind the guard and his dogs, knowing he would have to be through those gates within seconds, for the two soldiers would soon ring the hut from the house – if they hadn’t already done so.
As the car sped round the curve in the long drive, the guard, standing before the solid gate with the menacing Alsatians, was frozen in the headlights. The investigator brought the car to a halt ten yards away from him and the guard raised an arm up to his brow to cut out the blinding glare. The dogs strained at their leash.
‘Who’s there?’ the guard called out. ‘Turn those bloody lights out so I can see you.’
‘Tell him to let us through, Köhner,’ Steadman said quietly.
Köhner shook his head, his injured hand clasped to his stomach. His smoke-dirtied face was streaked with tears. ‘Go to hell,’ he managed to gasp.
The guard began advancing on the car, a hand reaching inside his tunic for a gun he kept hidden away from usual visitors to the house. The dogs were excited, instinctively catching the mood of the situation. The guard’s arm was at full stretch as he tried to hold them back and he had to dig his heels into the gravel to prevent himself being dragged forward too fast. The growls of the dogs became barks and then howls as they struggled to break free.
Steadman moved fast. He reached across the injured man and hooked his finger around the door-catch, pushing the door open. Then he shoved Köhner out of the car.
 
; Köhner rolled on to his back, screamed and tried to rise. It was too much for the Alsatians. They broke away from the guard and pounded towards the rising man. They leaped upon him, teeth slashing, sensing their victim was injured and easy prey.
The confused guard was hurrying forward, his gun aimed at the frenzied group, the car’s lights still dazzling his vision. Steadman depressed the accelerator and the car shot forward, striking the guard, knocking him over the bonnet and into the gravel. Hitting the brakes immediately, Steadman leaped from the car, snatched the revolver from the stunned guard’s grasp and reached for the key to the gate which hung on a chain from the man’s belt. It was a huge key and Steadman’s shaking hands fumbled at the clasp securing it to the chain for several precious seconds before it was free. He could hear Köhner’s screams and the blood-chilling snarls of the dogs on the other side of the car as he fumbled. The guard, whose legs felt numb and lifeless from the blow they had received, raised himself on to his elbows and tried to grab at the gun. Steadman pushed the man’s head back on to the driveway with a force that put him completely out of action.
The investigator finally yanked the key free and ran to the gate, keeping a wary eye over his shoulder in the direction of the dogs who, by now, were wild with bloodlust. He inserted the key and twisted, then swung the gates wide. As he returned to the car, holding a hand up against the headlights’ glare, he knew he could not just leave Köhner to the mercy of the Alsatians. He stepped out of the beam of light, the gun raised before him, and blinked his eyes rapidly to get them used to the sudden darkness again. The screams had stopped and the snarls were less wild as the dogs pulled and tugged at the inert body. One of the Alsatians sensed his approach and turned its eyes towards him. Its growl was deep-throated and full of warning. The other looked up too, its mouth bloody and drooling pink foam. Steadman saw their muscles tense as they readied themselves to spring at him. He raised the gun and fired two rounds into each body as they leaped, taking a step back as one of the dogs slumped against his legs.