There was no sign at the entrance to the estate, but Steadman knew from the directions he had been given that this was the right place. He stopped before the open gates, feeling very much alone.
His hesitation was brief. He pushed the gear-stick into first and sped through the wide opening, changing up and gathering speed, as though his pace would override too many doubts. The road was well-laid and straight, and he saw the huge white mansion in the distance, surrounded by open fields fringed with deeply wooded areas. The brooding metal-grey sea lay beyond the house, a dark backdrop that seemed to threaten him as ominously as the building he was approaching. The stillness of it all added to his unease. There were many cars parked in the forecourt of the mansion, but no people anywhere. He slowed the car, delaying his arrival at the house, his resolve giving way to trepidation. He could turn back now, swing the car round and race back to the gates before they had a chance to lock them. But where would that leave Holly? And Baruch? He was their only chance.
A rainspot came through the open window and touched his cheek as the threatened drizzle began to soak the ground. His speed was less than ten miles per hour now, and the huge house loomed up before him, giving him the feeling that the black windows were eyes staring. Watching. Waiting for him.
He saw the main door open and a rotund figure step out on to the low terrace that ran the length of the house. A hand was raised in salutation, but Steadman failed to respond to Pope’s greeting. He stopped the car, switched off the engine, took a deep breath, and climbed out.
15
‘One day ceremonies of thanksgiving will be sung to Fascism and National Socialism for having preserved Europe from a repetition of the triumph of the Underworld.’
‘That’s a danger that especially threatens England. The Conservatives would face a terrible ordeal if the proletarian masses were to seize power.’
‘Fanaticism is a matter of climate.’
Adolf Hitler
The interior of the huge house was clinically clean: it resembled an expensive sanatorium. Pope had stepped aside wordlessly, indicating that Steadman should go ahead of him through the polished wood doors. Once inside, Pope closed the doors almost ceremoniously, then turned to face the investigator.
‘I’m glad you arrived safely,’ he said. ‘We were rather concerned this morning when we couldn’t locate you at any of the hotels in town. It was a relief when we went through the list again later on.’
‘I broke my journey,’ Steadman replied, then added by way of explanation, ‘Events kind of caught up with me.’
The hallway they stood in was wide and long, almost a room in itself. An occasional gilt-framed picture broke up the blinding whiteness of the walls.
‘It’s very quiet,’ Steadman commented.
Pope smiled, two cheeks suddenly blooming like rosy apples at each end of the smile. ‘Everything’s under control, Harry. Things have worked out rather well’
‘No trouble?’
‘None at all’
‘And the operation? Did you find out what it was?’
‘Oh yes. Come along with me and you’ll hear all about it’ The large man took Steadman’s elbow and gently propelled him towards one of the doors leading off from the main hallway. He knocked, pushed open the door, and once again invited the investigator to enter before him.
Steadman stopped just inside the room and stared into Edward Gant’s mocking eyes, too weary of the game to fake surprise.
‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Steadman. Unbelievably good.’ Gant’s artificial but perfectly natural-looking nose was back in its place, disguising his disfigurement. He looked around the room and the sight of Major Brannigan, Kristina, and the old man, Dr Scheuer, gave him a feeling of deja vu; it was like their first meeting in Guildford all over again. But there were some new faces present this time: new, yet familiar. All eyes were on him, and all eyes revealed a strange curiosity, a discerning interest in him.
He swung round as he heard the door close behind him and looked straight into the face of the still-smiling Pope. The Intelligence man was leaning against the door, both hands behind his broad back and clasped around the handle, as though his huge bulk was an extra barrier for the investigator to break through should he decide to run. The smile wavered slightly under Steadman’s steady gaze and Pope was relieved when the investigator turned back to face Gant.
‘So he’s in it with you,’ he said to Gant, not having to point at the fat man behind him.
‘Yes, Mr Steadman, Mr Pope has been enormously helpful to the cause – as you have.’
‘Me? I’ve done nothing to help you, Gant – or your crackpot organization.’
‘Ah, but you have.’ Gant walked to a high-backed easy-chair and sat facing Steadman, his hands curling round the arms of the chair like talons. ‘We have many men like Pope among the Thulists, men in positions of power who see the hopeless plight this nation is in – indeed, the world is in. Make no mistake, Mr Steadman, we are not a tiny “crackpot” organization existing in this country alone. Our society has a network spread throughout the world, the United States providing us with some extremely powerful members, one of whom will join us later tonight. We have money, influence, and most important, an ideal.’
‘An ideal to conquer the world?’
‘No, Mr Steadman. To govern it. Look at the men in this room,’ Gant said, his arm sweeping outwards. ‘I’m sure you recognize most of them. Ian Talgholm, financial adviser to the Chancellor himself – some call him the inner Cabinet’s secret member; Morgan Henry and Sir James Oakes – industrialists well-known for their nationalistic pride, envied and feared by the Jewish money-grabbers because of their wealth and power; General Calderwood, a soldier who will eventually govern all the Armed Forces of this country – he is but a representative of many other high-ranking military men who support our Society; and last, but hardly least, Lord Ewing, fast becoming the most vital and powerful man in today’s media.
‘And these are just a few of our Order, Mr Steadman. The rest will be joining us later today and this evening. Our special council of thirteen, I, myself, being the thirteenth and principal member.’
‘Just who are the others, Gant?’
‘Ah, you’re really interested. Excellent. Well you, of all people, have the right to know. After all, without you, the omens would not have been in our favour.’ Gant chuckled, but it was obvious that not everyone in the room shared his humour. Steadman saw several members of the ‘Order’ give the arms dealer uncertain looks. One of them – Talgholm, the financier – spoke up.
‘Look, Edward, do you think this is necessary?’ he said, irritation in his voice. ‘We’ve gone along with you on most of this, but he could have been highly dangerous to the whole project. Why tell him any more?’
‘Because,’ Gant snapped back, ‘my dear Ian, because he has played a key part. Because there is no danger from him, nor has there ever been.’
‘But the risk last night, letting him go free . . .’
‘There was no risk, everything was planned. But he had to come here of his own initiative. It had to be his choice!’
The financier looked around at his companions as though appealing for support, but they avoided his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Very well, there’s nothing he can do now, anyway.’
‘Thank you, Ian,’ Gant said icily, then proceeded to list the names of the absent members of the Order, one of whom was the racialist Member of Parliament Steadman had seen leaving the arms dealer’s estate at Guildford, the day before; the others were important men in their fields – and their fields were greatly diversified.
‘We are but the nucleus,’ Gant explained, ‘the governing body, so to speak. We make quite a powerful group, wouldn’t you agree?’
Steadman nodded, but his mind was concentrated on making a quick count of the names. ‘You said there were thirteen in the Order and you’ve mentioned, including yourself, only twelve. Who is the thirteenth member, Dr Scheuer or
Major Brannigan?’
‘Why, neither, Mr Steadman. They, although extremely important, are only tools. Men like our Major Brannigan and the unfortunate and unstable Mr Köhner – it was his unreliability, by the way, that prompted us to leave you in his hands: a calculated test for you, if you like – these men merely implement our plans. As for the esteemed Dr Scheuer,’ he smiled benignly at the wrinkled old man, ‘he is our medium, the one who brings our thirteenth member to us. He is the physical voice of our Leader.’
Even as Gant said the name, Steadman knew who the thirteenth member of the Order – the Teutonic Order of the Holy Knights – was. They had rejected Hitler because he’d failed them and switched their allegiance to the SS Reichsführer, founder of the Nazi Occult Bureau, who had encouraged and sustained the Thule Group.
Gant was smiling as he spoke, his eyes radiating a passion felt by everyone in the room. ‘He will be with us tonight. Dr Scheuer will bring him to us. And you will meet him, Mr Steadman. You will meet our Führer, Heinrich Himmler, before you die.’
Gant spoke to the investigator for over an hour, laying out his plans for the new Order before him, treating him almost as a confidant; or perhaps a guest to be dazzled by his host’s genius. The others had added their own comments, reluctant at first, then swept along by the arms dealer’s fervour, realizing Steadman could do them no harm, for he was already a dead man. They needed an outsider they could boast to, impress with the magnitude of their schemes. And Steadman listened, sometimes goading, sometimes visibly astonished at their thoroughness, at the far-reaching effects their fanatical plans would make on the governance of the country. By intricate and brilliantly devious routes, it all arrived at one simple but major conflict: Right against Left. It would be the only choice for the people of Britain. No in-betweens, no fence-sitting. The public would be forced to choose. Civil war would be balanced in favour of the Right, for the majority would be the wealthy, those whose sympathy lay towards nationalistic pride; and the middle classes who had suffered so much between the élite of the country and the working classes, would choose to join them rather than be ruled by the economy-wrecking socialists. The choice would be made easy for them. New leaders would emerge and their ideals would be uncompromising, just as Hitler’s had been in the 1930s. Edward Gant had been in the shadows for many years weaving his sinister power behind the scenes. Now he was emerging from those shadows, a new figure to the public, but already powerful enough to repel any attacks from those already in power. Steadman saw how their inner Cabinet – their Order – had been carefully chosen, comprising men already in key positions, all waiting for the right moment to throw off their disguises and unite publicly, and so unite the masses to them. Timing was of the essence, and events to further their cause were manipulated at exactly the right time.
Steadman prodded and they eagerly reacted. He drew information from them in a way that made them feel they were merely obliging a doomed man’s last wishes to know the reason for his impending death; and their fanaticism, calm though it was, made them try to convert him to their cause and accept his sacrificial role. And all the while, the woman smiled, and the old man gazed at him from shadowed pits.
The Thule Society’s next move was imminent. Other actions had already been implemented over the past years, insignificant in themselves, but creating a pattern vital to their cause, subconsciously affecting the climate of the free world’s feelings. The worldwide terrorist attacks, the emergence of the neurotic African nations, the ever-present threat of Russia, détente merely used as a cover while they took a further step towards controlling the Western world, the gradual breaking down of the world’s economic structure, the Middle-Eastern countries’ sudden strength and bold demands because of their ownership of two-thirds of the world’s oil: all these shifts in the world’s power balance were creating fear and mistrust on a universal scale which could be easily exploited by those who sought to create a new regime where only the pure-blooded races would rule. Thulists in many countries had contributed to the unrest, working behind the scenes, encouraging, advising, building the strength of their own enemies to the point where other nations would be forced to take action to break that strength lest its greedy eyes look towards them.
Gant, and many like him, secretly sold arms to terrorists not just for profit, but to encourage them on their road to self-destruction. The more outrages they committed, the more they were reviled and feared. And fear was the perfect tool for the new Reich, for fear created revolution.
A strategic move was to be made in the early hours of the following morning – 1.55 p.m. to be exact – when the American Secretary of State would be flying to Britain for talks with the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary before journeying on to a neutral country in a new bid for peace – reconciliations between the Arab countries and Israel. The world knew that this was the culminative peace-talk, all others – particularly Egypt’s, which had begun the fresh moves towards peace in ’77 – having led up to this point, both frustrated nations poised for a war that would decide the ultimate victory for either side. But the American statesman’s jet would never touch down in England, for the Thulists wanted no such peace between Arab and Jew. The aircraft would be blown to pieces while still over the Atlantic.
No one would know just who had been to blame, although the suspicions and accusations would lean more towards the Arabs than the Israelis, for the PFLP and the PLO had the worst reputation for such atrocities. The responsibility would hardly matter though: civilized countries had had enough. The two opposing nations would be allowed to attempt mutual annihilation, the world would stand by and watch. Of course, certain evidence would be ‘discovered’ amongst the floating wreckage of the aircraft which would suggest it had been destroyed by a missile of probable Russian make. It was well-known that the Russians supplied their Middle-East friends with such weapons.
The fact that the missile had been produced by Edward Gant’s munitions factory and launched from the shores of North Devon would never be discovered; anti-radar devices would ensure its flight path was not traced. Ironically, the RAF had a Radar Tracking Station not far away at Hartland Point, but they would never suspect the missile had been launched from their own area.
At that point, Steadman’s probing had been brought to an abrupt halt, for there had been new arrivals at the estate – other members of the Order, Steadman assumed – and details of the operation had to be discussed with them. The assassination of the American Secretary of State was just one of a series of major catastrophes, Gant had explained to the investigator; there were more to follow in rapid succession, each escalating to the next, until world hysteria reached breaking-point. Anarchy by the left-wing had to be nurtured until it could be smashed, terrorism encouraged until it could no longer be tolerated by the masses.
The door was opened for Steadman and he found the two bogus MI5 men who had come to the hotel in Bideford waiting outside. Neither of them spoke as they led him away, and Steadman felt little inclined to acknowledge their previous meeting; his mind was too busy absorbing all he had learned.
They took him upstairs and along a stark, white corridor, then pushed him into a room, locking the door behind him.
Holly was sitting on a bed facing him, her face white as the walls around them.
‘Harry?’ she said, not believing what she saw. Then she was on her feet and rushing towards him. ‘What’s happening, Harry? Why are they keeping me here?’
She raised a hand towards his injured cheek, concern in her eyes, but he held her at arm’s length, looking down into her frightened face, unsure, not believing in anything any more. She smiled up at him, her pleasure at seeing him undisguised. It faded as she looked into his cold eyes, and suddenly her mouth quivered as though the toughness had finally been knocked out of her.
‘Harry, you’re not with them . . . ?’
‘Do you work for The Institute?’ he asked harshly.
‘The Institute?’
‘Come on, Ho
lly, don’t lie to me. You’re a Mossad agent. You’ve been playing me along, like all the others.’
‘No, Harry.’ She pulled away from him, angry now and defiance beginning to show through the tears. ‘They’ve been asking me the same thing. What the hell’s going on, Harry? Why do you all think I’m working with the Israelis?’
Her anger seemed genuine and he wavered for a moment. Could he trust anyone? They hadn’t reached the end yet; the Final Act had not been played out. Was Holly part of that?
‘Okay,’ he said softly, placing his hands on her upper arms. ‘Okay. Just tell me what’s happened to you, nice and slow. And tell me who you really are, Holly, it’s important that I know.’
He led her back to the bed and gently pushed her down, then sat by her side.
She looked at him, hurt and confusion showing on her face. But was it all an act? ‘You know who and what I am, Harry. I told you, I’m a freelance writer and photographer. I came here to do a feature on Edward Gant, using my family connections with his late wife. That’s all there is to it, why should I lie to you?’
He ignored the question. ‘And you’ve never heard of David Goldblatt and Hannah Rosen? You’ve never heard of Baruch Kanaan? You’re not a member of Israeli Intelligence?’ She shook her head vehemently, and then another thought struck him. ‘Or British Intelligence?’
‘No, for God’s sake, no! What have I got into, Harry? What have you got to do with all this? The other day at Long Valley, the tank – why were they trying to kill you? Who are they and who are you?’