‘He’s awake. Let him walk the rest of the way.’
The investigator was hoisted to his feet and the sombre face of Pope glared at him.
‘I’m very glad you’ve rejoined us, Harry, though I think you’ll wish you never had.’
‘Go screw yourself, Pope,’ Steadman replied, trying to shake the dizziness from his head. Griggs and Booth on either side prevented him from falling again.
‘Ah, still the same arrogance. I could admire it if you weren’t such a fool.’
‘You’re the fool, Pope, to think all this is actually going to happen.’ Steadman managed to steady himself, but rough hands still gripped his upper arms.
A deep scoffing sound came from the fat man’s throat. ‘Look at it this way, Harry,’ he said without smiling. ‘What’s the alternative?’
He turned away, motioning his two men to bring the investigator along. Steadman was propelled forward and felt too groggy to resist. His curiosity was aroused by the long corridor’s decorations. It was like being in a medieval castle, for the walls were dark-grey stone, tapestries hanging in the spaces between doorways. The door themselves were of intricately carved oak, the handles elaborately shaped wrought-iron. His examination of the carving on the doors was perfunctory, but they seemed to be individual coats-of-arms, with an inscription or a title worked into each, and embellished with metal and what looked like precious stones.
They soon reached a point where the corridor opened out on one side and he realized they were now on a balcony overlooking a large, darkened hall. They stopped at the head of a broad stone stairway and Steadman’s eyes widened in new alarm at the sight below him.
The huge room was decorated in the style of an ancient banqueting hall, with deep rich carpets, heavily brocaded curtains flanking the high windows; more tapestries adorned the walls. High, thick candles were placed symmetrically around the room, their colour black, providing the only light apart from the fire that raged in the deep, man-sized cavity behind what appeared to be a dais. The design theme throughout was that of a golden spear.
In the centre of the vast floor stood a huge round table, made as far as Steadman could tell from solid oak, and around it were placed wooden high-backed chairs. He could see from those facing away from him that each had an inscribed silver plate on the back. Every chair – save for two – had an occupant; and the face of each occupant was turned towards him.
‘Welcome to our Wewelsburg.’ It was Edward Gant’s voice and Steadman’s eyes darted around the table to trace the source. A figure began to rise and he saw it was Gant in a central position, his back to the curious dais. ‘Bring him down!’ There was anger in the command.
Steadman was shoved brutally from behind, causing him to lose his balance and reach out for the stout banister to one side of the stairway. It prevented the fall from being too serious, but still he tumbled down, losing his grip and rolling to the bottom. Footsteps behind, then he was again hauled to his feet. He shook the clutching hands off, forcing himself to stand alone.
‘It would appear Kristina has failed in her task.’ Gant’s voice was cold, the familiar mocking tones absent now.
‘Did you really believe I could be corrupted by that . . . thing?’ Steadman said harshly.
‘Her power is in her mind, Mr Steadman. Yes, I am surprised you resisted that. It seems she still has much to learn from her mystagogue, Dr Scheuer.’ Gant made a motion with his hand, and a chair was brought from the shadows of the room to be placed three feet away from the round table. Steadman was shoved into it. A gap had opened up between the seated figures, offering him an unrestricted view of the arms dealer opposite. He had time to notice several uniformed guards situated at strategic points around the room, submachine-guns held across their chests, before looking into the mad, glaring eyes of Edward Gant. The artificial nose was still affixed to the arms dealer’s disfigured face, making him at least look human. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, his shirt white, though it looked yellowish in the suffused light, and his tie was black. The investigator was surprised Gant and his cohorts were not clad in robes or medieval costumes, such was the atmosphere in the dark baronial hall. Around the table, neatly placed before each member of the group, was a short ceremonial dagger and he noticed that those whose hands were placed on the table’s surface wore curiously designed signet rings. The guests he had met earlier that day were among those seated, and others were familiar to him through the media. Dr Scheuer was there, looking even older and more frail; Steadman felt his eyes boring into him even though he could not see them in their dark caverns. He was distracted as the vast bulk of Pope filled one of the unoccupied chairs.
‘You are an honoured person, Mr Steadman,’ Gant’s voice echoed around the stone walls, increasing its sibilance.
‘Honoured? To be part of this?’
‘To be one of the few outsiders to visit the Wewelsburg.’
‘I’m overwhelmed.’
‘Don’t mock us, Mr Steadman!’ Gant warned, his hand toying with the dagger before him. ‘Your death will be painful enough, but it can be made excruciating. The honour bestowed upon you is to see this, almost an exact replica of the Reichsführer’s fortress which he had built in Westphalia. A shrine devoted to the Teutonic Knights. Only a select few, twelve in all, were allowed to visit Himmler’s domain, all SS officers. There they meditated, remembered their Nordic origins. Each had his own room and those rooms were dedicated to great kings and emperors such as Otto the Great, Henry the Lion, Frederick Hohenstauffen, Philip of Swabia and Conrad IV. The Reichsführer’s own room was in honour of Henry I. Adolf Hitler’s belonged to Frederick Barbarossa. But Hitler refused to visit the Wewelsburg! He turned his back on the forces that brought him to power. He would not even allow Himmler to bring the Spear to its natural resting-place! That is why the Führer failed, you see. Because at the end, he no longer possessed the Holy Spear – Heinrich Himmler had taken it for himself!’
Gant twisted in his chair and pointed towards the altar-like dais. ‘And we have possessed it ever since!’
Steadman saw the leather case resting on top of the dais and guessed at the object lying inside. So the Heilige Lance was here!
The arms dealer turned back to face Steadman across the table, but his eyes flicked upwards to the balcony above.
‘Come, Kristina, join us. You have failed, but then so did the original Kundra. It matters little now; the final achievement will be ours.’
Steadman heard the footsteps on the stone stairway behind him and the man/woman came into view. Her face was swollen and bruised where he had struck her, and her beauty now seemed obscene. She scurried around the table, avoiding all the eyes that were on her, and sat in a chair placed behind Dr Scheuer. The old man ignored her, still looking directly at Steadman.
The figure of Major Brannigan emerged from the shadows then, pure hatred in his eyes. He strode towards Steadman, a hand reaching for the revolver strapped to his side.
‘Major!’
Brannigan halted at Gant’s harsh command. ‘Wait outside for our latecomer, Major Brannigan, and take your guards with you. We have no need for them here.’
‘But what about Steadman? You know he’s dangerous.’ The Major’s voice was resentful.
‘I’m sure Griggs and Booth are capable of taking care of Mr Steadman should he become . . . restless. Now go and wait by the helicopter pad. Our visitor should be here at any minute and I want him brought straight in.’
Brannigan whirled and called for the soldiers around the room to fall in after him. They marched out, boots heavy on the solid floor.
‘Forgive the Major, Mr Steadman,’ Gant said. ‘He’s insanely jealous over Kristina. Rather pathetic, don’t you think, to be so concerned over such an aberration?’
The hermaphrodite’s head snapped up and she looked balefully at Gant.
‘Unfortunately,’ the arms dealer went on smoothly, ‘she is of the utmost importance to our cause. She will eventually take over f
rom Dr Scheuer, you see. Our poor doctor’s health is failing and I’m afraid he has not much longer for this world. Somehow, I think he will prefer the next.’ Gant smiled warmly at the old man.
‘Don’t you think we should get on with the ceremony, Edward?’ Sir James Oakes, the industrialist Steadman had been introduced to earlier that day, said from the far side of the table.
‘I agree.’ It was Talgholm who spoke, and a few others murmured their approval. ‘Time’s running out, Edward. The missile will soon be launched.’
‘Gentlemen, there is ample time. Our ally from overseas expressed a specific desire to be present tonight and we shall abide by his wish. You all know how necessary he is to us.’ Gant held up a hand, warding off any further protests, but when the voices still persisted he banged his fist down hard on the table. ‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘Have you forgotten what is to happen tonight? The atmosphere must not be disturbed for Dr Scheuer!’
Their protests faded into silence and Gant smiled grimly. ‘There is too much tension in the air,’ he said by way of explanation to Steadman. ‘Our members are – shall we say – on edge.’
‘They’re as crazy as you, Gant,’ Steadman said evenly.
‘Yes. And you are the only sane one here tonight.’ The mockery was back in the arms dealer’s eyes. ‘I wonder if you will still be sane before you die?’
Steadman’s brain was racing. What had happened to Sexton and Steve? Had they failed to convince the authorities? Were they still trying to? Or worse – had they been taken by Gant’s men at Guildford? They were his only chance, but now it looked a very poor one.
‘Okay, Gant,’ he said. ‘I’d like to hear more about your organization. You say you’re Thulists, but I thought such societies in Germany were wiped out after the last war.’
‘Only people are “wiped out” in wars, not ideals. Some of us survived to further those ideals.’
‘You were in Germany during the war?’
‘Oh yes.’ Gant chuckled, enjoying the puzzlement on the investigator’s face. ‘I was not a common soldier, but I served the Reich in a more meaningful way. I’ve already told you how Hitler rejected us and how, because of the Führer’s final foolishness, the power passed on to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler. Thanks to plans carefully laid out long before the end of the war, Herr Himmler and I managed to escape the clutches of the Allies . . .’
The four men hurried single-file across the field, their feet sinking inches into the mud at each step, their breathing – particularly the third man’s – laboured and sharp. It was quiet in this part of the country, for the rumble of guns had been left far behind. But still they hurried, knowing they were near to freedom, near to Kiel where a boat would be waiting.
They had successfully evaded the clutches of the US Ninth Army, abandoning their armour-plated Mercedes early on in their hazardous journey for a less-conspicuous grey Volkswagen. The little car had taken them a great distance and they had kept to the smaller roads and away from the jammed autobahns, travelling only when it appeared safe to do so, hiding the vehicle in wooded areas off the road when not. But now they were on foot for, in their haste, they had neglected to bring along extra cans of petrol. It may have been for the best though: the roads were too dangerous and SS Colonel von Köhner felt they had pushed their luck far enough in that respect.
The third man in line suddenly stumbled and went down on one knee in the mud. Von Köhner took him by the elbow and gently helped him back to his feet, asking if he might carry the faded leather case for the Reichsführer. Himmler shook his head and they continued their traverse of the field, eyes wary for any other signs of life.
Heinrich Himmler held the leather case containing the ancient spearhead tightly against his chest, refusing to let anyone else take possession, unwilling to let it out of his grasp, even for one second. The others – Reichskriminaldirektor Mueller, Erik Gantzer, and SS Colonel von Köhner – could carry the money and the valuables that would buy their escape and ensure their freedom. And of course, the secret files, his beloved files kept through the years: documents concerning not only the devious activities of his fellow countrymen, but men, influential men, of other countries. Regretfully, they had taken only the most important, those which could be used again at another time; they would have needed ten trucks to bring all the others along. His three loyal followers would manage those between them but he, alone, would bear the holy relic.
All four wore civilian clothing, Himmler, Mueller, and Köh-ner having discarded their uniforms at the beginning of the journey, Erik Gantzer a civilian anyway. A strange and powerful man, this Gantzer, Himmler reflected, studying the tall figure ahead of him. His grandfather, Otto Gantzer, had been apprenticed to the Royal Prussian Arms Factory in Spandau, near Berlin, working there as a master gunsmith for many years until he left to establish his own business in the port of Rostok, which his son Ernst, also a master gunsmith, had continued. The business had prospered after the old man’s death, Ernst developing and diversifying the range of weapons he produced. His son, Erik Gantzer, after graduating from high school, was apprenticed to the arms factories in Suhl and Zella-Mehlis, following the family tradition, and eventually took over the whole Gantzer industry when the father died. Spared from service in the army because of his immense contribution to the war effort, Erik Gantzer had played a great part in introducing the Führer himself into the Thule Gesellschaft, the society in which Gantzer had become a key member. He had proved to be extremely useful, a brilliant young man with no conscience, who fought only for the future of the Aryan race. A man whose eventual disenchantment with the madman, Hitler, had led him to switch his allegiance to the Reichsführer himself. And now, even though their beloved country had been crushed, he would still serve him. It was his connections that would see they survived, his genius that would ensure the furtherance of the cause! It was he who had devised the escape, planned the route, made the contacts, long before it was inevitable that Germany would lose. He had ignored the normal Nazi escape routes, had dissuaded Himmler from making deals with the Allies, had insisted all was not finished, that the new beginning would be better planned, more guile, more subterfuge, would be used. Nothing was lost; only the moment delayed.
From Kiel, the boat would take them through the Kieler Bucht, travelling by night till they reached the rough waters of the Store Baelt, then on to Ebeltoft in Denmark, where they would journey overland to a small landing-strip owned by a contact of Gantzer’s. From there they would fly to Iceland and eventually, when world affairs had moved on to more important matters than the hunting down of elusive Nazis, they would go to Canada, then down into America, and finally, the ironic twist – back across the ocean to England. A bitter smile contorted Himmler’s lips at the thought and, if he had had the breath, he would have laughed aloud. No South America for Heinrich Himmler! Let the Bormanns and the Mengeles go there!
He suddenly doubled over as pain wrenched his gut and, once again, Colonel Köhner was there to support him. Himmler waved him away, grateful for his concern but indicating he would be all right in a short while. Franz von Köhner: another good man! A true German, prepared to leave his wife and young baby son – as he, himself, had left his own family, not to mention sweet Hedwig, his mistress – for the good of the cause! It was von Köhner who had secretly replaced the real Heilige Lance with a skilfully made replica which Himmler, himself, had had made even before the annexation of Austria. The fool Hitler had never realized he possessed only a forgery painstakingly reproduced with metal almost as ancient as the Spear itself! He, Himmler, kept the original spearhead in the Wewelsburg, his mighty fortress in Paperdorn, Westphalia, dedicated to the Teutonic Knights: it was the natural resting-place for the legendary relic.
Despite the pain, Himmler smiled grimly. Von Köhner had served him well. And so had Heinz Hintzinger, the corporal in the Feldpolizei who looked so incredibly like him! When it had become an indisputable fact that Germany would lose the war, the hunt for doubles had
almost become a game among the Nazi generals and officials, so many of them unwilling to face the wrath of the Allies. Cowards, all of them! For Himmler, it was different. It was his duty to survive! Now that the Führer had lost his mind, someone had to carry on, to rise like the Phoenix when the ashes had settled. He was that man.
Von Köhner had found many who resembled Himmler, but all had been rejected for Hintzinger; this man was prepared to die for his Reichsführer. His zeal for the Nazi cause amounted to fanaticism and the Schutzstaffeln knew how to use fanatics. He had been sent out under an escort who believed him to be their real leader, thinly disguised, and ready to admit he was no less than Heinrich Himmler himself when caught. And ready to crush the cyanide capsule between his teeth when he was sure the officials believed his statement.
Himmler again sank to his knees. He had to rest, just for a little while. The other three gathered round him, but he waved them on. See if it was safe on the other side of the field. Von K öhner could stay with him, help him on when the pain in his belly had subsided.
Mueller and Gantzer turned away, concern on their faces. They began to trot towards the screening hedge at the far side of the field.
Von Köhner squatted beside the Reichsführer and waited patiently.
He had been present when Himmler had received the message from Hitler’s successor, Admiral Dönitz, dismissing the SS Reichsführer from the service of the Reich. How could they humble such a great man in that manner, a man who was prepared to fight on when others had given up? He had never looked impressive, this middle-aged man with his paunch, his narrow shoulders and curved back – too many hours hunched over paper-work – but what vision! What stature! The generals – traitors like SS General Wolf – already falling over each other to make deals with the enemy, to save their own necks, were not fit to lick his boots! The Untermenschen would never defeat this man!