He wished the mystical masseur, Kerston, was here to ease his master’s pain with those strange deft fingers that gave the Reichsführer such instant release. He wished he could provide a glass samovar containing a hot mixture of gentian and dandelion tea, for he knew how it soothed the Reichsführer’s stomach pains . . .
The explosion shook the ground beneath their feet and mud and stones spattered their clothing. They looked in horror across the field to where two bodies lay, one still, the other writhing and screaming in agony.
They raced towards the two bodies, wondering which one was dead – Gantzer or Mueller? One of them must have trodden on a landmine or disturbed a concealed unexploded bomb; whoever had made the contact would be the dead one.
They reached the twisting body and realized only by the clothing that it was Erik Gantzer. His knees were hugged to his chest, his hands between them, clutching at his lower body. Von K öhner resisted the urge to vomit as he looked at the arms manufacturer’s face – or lack of it. Blood spurted from a red hole in the centre of his face, a loose piece of flesh hanging by a thin tendril, the remnants of his nose.
Himmler’s stomach was not as strong as the SS Colonel’s. He paled and bent over as the contents of his stomach spilled on to the muddy earth. As he looked down, he caught something that made him close his eyes tightly and wheel his body away. Two feet that must have been Mueller’s, one still inside a boot, lay on the ground before him. The one in the boot was standing upright, the bloody stump facing up at him, splintered bone showing whitely against the red flesh. His vomit had covered it before he twisted away.
Himmler dropped the leather case containing the Spear and fell to his hands and knees and retched, his whole body shuddering with the effort. He crawled, trying to get away from the grotesque sight of Mueller’s dismembered feet, and when he finally found the strength to look up, he saw von Köhner’s figure kneeling beside the twitching body of Gantzer, a Luger pointed at the injured man’s temple.
Himmler staggered to his feet. Gantzer must not be shot. If there was a chance that he might live, no matter what pain he was in, he must be saved!
He pulled von Köhner’s arm away just as the SS Colonel’s finger began to squeeze the trigger. The gun never fired, but when Himmler stared down at Erik Gantzer’s body and the mass of blood that covered his face and groin area, he wondered if he, the Reichsführer, should not have been more merciful . . .
‘But Himmler was captured. He was identified before he committed suicide.’
Gant laughed and the sound echoed hollowly around the hall ‘That was another man, a double. A good German, prepared to die for his Reichsführer. Of course, his family would have suffered if his courage had failed him at the last moment. Fortunately, that was not necessary.’
‘But he was examined, surely? They’d have had to be sure.’
‘Can you imagine the confusion that was taking place in Germany at that time, Mr Steadman, with thousands – millions – fleeing? Have you any idea how many Germans the Allies caught trying to escape and whom they thought to be Himmler, Goebbels, Göring or Bormann? Or even Hitler himself? When they found one who confessed to being a Nazi leader and looked exactly like him with his disguise removed, do you really think they questioned the matter in any great detail? And when the chaos began finally to take on some order, it was too late; the body of the Reichsführer had been long buried in an unmarked grave. I promise you, the aftermath of such a war, with each nation fighting over territories like wolves over a dead carcass, is infinitely more complex than the planning of an enemy’s defeat. With the removal of the obvious enemy, the allied nations became enemies to each other. It was not difficult for mistakes to be made.’
‘But where could a man like Himmler go? Surely he would have been recognized?’
‘You forget just how insignificant our great leader looked. I mean this as no disrespect, for this was the wonderful dichotomy of the man. He was one of Germany’s greatest heroes, yet his appearance was that of an ordinary man.’
‘I’ve read that he looked like a typical filing clerk,’ said Steadman pointedly.
‘Exactly, Mr Steadman,’ said Gant as though the slight had been a compliment. ‘A filing clerk with true Nordic blood.’
‘So his very insignificance allowed his escape?’
‘It allowed him to exist in another country.’
‘Might I ask where? I take it that South America, the obvious place, was out of the question?’
‘Of course. We could have fled there, lived among the Nazi colony; but we would have been impotent. No, we needed a country where we could build again, not a place where we could sit in the sun and reminisce over the past glories of the Fatherland.’
‘So where, Gant? Where did you choose?’
‘Why, England, of course. What better place?’
Steadman looked incredulously at the smiling faces around him. ‘But that would have been impossible!’
‘At the time, yes,’ said Gant. ‘Although we had many friends in Great Britain, even then – several were Thulists – many had been interned for the duration of the war because of their sympathies, and were never entirely trusted after.
‘No, our first stop was Denmark. It hadn’t been our intention, but we stayed hidden there for many months. I had been severely injured, you see. It was the Reichsführer who saved my life.’
The arms dealer paused as though the memory was a precious thing. ‘We left Flensburg on 10th May 1945; Reichsführer Himmler, Colonel Franz von Köhner – the father of the inept fool you disposed of last night, Reichskriminaldirektor Ernest Mueller, and myself. Unfortunately, after making good progress towards Kiel, a bomb killed Mueller and almost killed me. It was only the Reichsführer’s intervention that prevented von Köhner from putting a bullet through my brain. Herr Himmler insisted that I should be carried to our rendezvous point where my wounds could be treated. He even sacrificed his sacred files for my life. They were buried, along with Mueller, in that very same field. Colonel von Köhner carried me, and the Reichsführer carried our valuables and our talisman, the one object he refused to leave behind: the Heilige Lance!
‘I was almost dead by the time we reached our contact near Kiel, but again Herr Himmler refused to allow me to die. They treated my wounds as best they could and then we went on by sea to Ebeltoft in Denmark. The journey was an extraordinary nightmare for me, Mr Steadman, and I pleaded with the Reichsführer a hundred times to put me to death; he would not allow it, though. He saw that some day, I would be the new leader, the Grand Master, in his place. His vision was far beyond human limitations.
‘We stayed in an area far inland from Ebeltoft until I had recovered from my injuries; not fully, you understand, but enough to travel on. From there we were flown to Iceland and, a few years later, to Canada. Seven years passed before we dared enter the United States of America. Our contacts, both in America and England, had been renewed long before, and our movement was already beginning to thrive. We kept undercover, for obvious reasons, allowing the more vulgar nationalistic organizations to take all attention from us. Subterfuge and progressive infiltration has been our policy since the setback.’
‘You call the last World War a setback?’
‘Yes, Mr Steadman. Nothing more than that!’ There was silence around the table as though each member was defying the investigator to refute Gant’s statement. Steadman shrugged.
‘So Himmler was alive all that time,’ he said.
Gant nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. Colonel von Köhner died in ’51 while we were still in Canada. A stroke. Before he died he made us promise to find the young son he’d left behind in Germany, and to indoctrinate him into our cause. We readily agreed. The offspring of a man like Franz von Köhner would indeed be valuable to the Society. Perhaps it was fortunate for the Colonel that he never knew the incompetent his son was to become. The youth, Felix, readily joined us, for in Germany he had nothing. Von Köhner’s wife had died shortly after the war and the
boy was being raised by relatives. They allowed him to come to us, for they were poor, the war having stripped many such families of their wealth. Felix joined us in England when he was twenty-one.’
‘When . . . when did you . . . and Himmler come to this country?’
Gant smiled and the smile made Steadman shudder. ‘In 1963, Mr Steadman. An historic date.’
The others around the table voiced their agreement. ‘He was very ill by then. The stomach pains that had plagued him most of his life had finally broken his health, but even at that time, we did not realize how serious his condition was . . .’
Steadman was so stunned at the idea of the infamous mass murderer living in England that he missed the arms dealer’s next few words. When he had recovered enough to listen again, Gant was talking of his marriage in America.
‘Louise was an extremely rich American, from the Deep South. Our ideals matched, for the Southerner’s intolerance towards race impurity was almost on a par with the Nazis’. She never really knew the true strength of our ambitions, and the real identity of our permanent, reclusive house-guest was kept a secret from her. She suspected he was an ex-Nazi, I’m sure, for she knew I was, but I don’t think it ever occurred to her she was housing one of the world’s most “notorious” men. She was an extraordinary woman who shared our ideals and demanded nothing physically from me. She lived only for the day when our ideals would find fruition, and I cannot tell you how much her wealth and contacts furthered our cause. It was tragic that a road accident should have taken her from us so early in our rising.’
The whirr of helicopter blades suddenly drew everyone’s attention. ‘Ah, that sounds like the arrival of our twelfth member,’ Gant said.
‘It’s about time!’ said Lord Ewing, the news magnate.
‘The General has had a long journey,’ Gant reproached, and the man fell silent.
Astonished by the arms dealer’s authority over such powerful men, Steadman looked around the table at each one in turn, then said, ‘How can you follow a man like this? An ex-Nazi, a man who helped one of the most evil men in history, a man who fought against us in the war. How can you betray your country for someone like that?’
‘Betray? You’re the one who’s a traitor, Steadman,’ said Talgholm. ‘You claim to be British, but you’d sit by while the country sinks. What kind of loyalty is that?’
‘Look . . .’ Steadman began.
‘Shut up!’ It was Ewing who shouted across the table, his face red, his eyes bulbous with rage. ‘We’re sick of do-gooders like you. Live and let live, that’s what you believe, don’t you? Do you think they’ll let us live once they’ve taken over? Your kind are almost as bad as them!’
‘Let’s get rid of him now, Edward,’ came another cry.
‘Yes, we don’t need him,’ Talgholm agreed. ‘The legend will still be fulfilled.’
‘Not yet!’ Gant’s voice was stern. ‘You know how it’s to be done.’
‘We’re running short . . .’
‘There is time.’ The pronouncement was made quietly, but the assembled group became silent again.
‘Tell me more, Gant,’ Steadman said with a calm he hardly felt. ‘How . . . where did Himmler live in this country.’
‘Always in this area, Mr Steadman. He was fascinated by the Arthurian legends. King Arthur’s Knights were based on the Teutonic Order, and their activities took place mainly in this part of the country. He was so overjoyed when I had the Wewelsburg built here for him.
‘The Thule Gesellschaft was a wealthy organization by then. The arms industry I had set up, aided substantially by the money my dear, late wife had left me, was thriving, and donations from our secret members were flooding in. We had recovered the files von Köhner had buried so many years before and they opened many . . .’ he smiled and looked at the faces around the table ‘. . . so many doors for us.’
Steadman began to realize how blackmail had played such an important part in the rebuilding of their movement.
‘The Reichsführer, despite the pain he was in, was very happy in his final days,’ the arms dealer said softly. ‘He knew this time we would win.’
‘He died here?’ Steadman asked, somehow – inexplicably – expecting a denial of the Reichsführer’s death, for his presence felt so real.
‘Yes, Mr Steadman. In a sense. He was sixty-seven when cancer took his life. But even though his body failed him, his spirit did not. Almost a year after his death he sent someone to us.’ Gant turned to Dr Scheuer seated next to him. ‘Dr Scheuer was a spiritualist living in Austria. The Reichsführer chose the Herr Doktor to be his intermediary.’
At that point, approaching footsteps were heard outside the hall. A door set back in the shadows against the wall opened, and a broad-shouldered figure strode in briskly followed by Major Brannigan.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ The voice was unmistakably American, and when the man drew closer to the light, Steadman groaned inwardly as he recognized him. The assembly stood in deference as he took his place in the empty chair beside Dr Scheuer.
‘Is this the man?’ He glowered across at Steadman.
‘Yes, General, this is our Parsifal,’ Gant said smoothly. ‘Mr Steadman, I’m sure you recognize Major-General Cutbush, the US Forces Deputy Commander.’
They weren’t crazy at all, Steadman realized. They really had the power and influence to dominate a nation’s thinking. Over the years, by bribery, blackmail, or sheer mutual agreement on racial ideals, they’d built up an incredible force, a force strong enough to direct public motivation wavering between the two extremes towards their own aims. It was just the worship of the dead Himmler and all it entailed that was their madness, and he was puzzled at the necrophiliac devotion displayed by such men. What could instigate such an insanity? Suddenly, he was terrified.
‘Okay, Edward, I said I’d go along with all this because he wanted it this way.’ The American’s burly figure and grizzled features looked strange to Steadman, for he had been used to seeing pictures and film of him in full military uniform. ‘But I don’t like it one bit. It’s too . . .’ he searched for the word ‘. . . theatrical.’
‘I understand your feelings, General, but it would be unwise not to comply with his wishes now,’ said Gant.
‘Mebbe,’ the General said gruffly, ‘but I still don’t like it. Brannigan!’ The British major flinched to attention. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the launching site?’
‘We were just waiting for your arrival, sir. I’m on my way now.’ Brannigan marched from the room, his back stiff and his stride determined.
‘Goddamn fag,’ Cutbush muttered to no one in particular when the door closed. ‘Okay, let’s get on.’
Gant stood and made to move away from the table towards the dais, but Steadman’s shout stopped him.
‘For God’s sake, General, you’re a veteran of the Second World War. You fought against men like him!’ The investigator’s finger was pointing at Gant and the two guards on either side had stepped forward and clamped their hands on his shoulders to prevent him rising from the chair.
The General looked across at him and his eyes narrowed. ‘Now you . . . shut . . . your . . . mouth, mister. Sure, I fought against him and his kind. That was my mistake. I was with Patton throughout the damn war and I saw how his ass was kicked around by the so-called free-thinking leaders of our country. We had long chats, the old war-horse and me, and I know the kind of man he was. He saw the Russian threat while everyone else was still messing with the Germans. He wanted to march right through Germany and straight on into Moscow itself! It was he who told me the legend of the Spear – even though he was a pragmatist, he had a deep belief in such things – an’ I was with him in a Nuremberg bunker when he thought he’d found it. We didn’t know it then, but there’d been a switch. “Blood and Guts” never could figure out why nothing had happened for him. Himmler had already vamoosed with it!
‘Now I don’t mind admitting it: General Patton was my God, an’ if he said
there was something in the legend, there sure as hell was! I saw what they did to Patton when they no longer needed him. You think the car smash that killed him after the war was an accident? And I see what they’re trying to do to me because they think I’m not needed. Old “Blood and Guts” aggression became an embarrassment to them, and they feel the same about my hardline views. But unlike the General, I started making plans a long, long time ago and it was our good fortune . . .’ he waved his hand around the table ‘. . . that Edward Gant brought us together. We all believe in the same thing, sonny, and we don’t need any crap about who we were fightin’ in the last fuckin’ war!’
Steadman relaxed back into his chair and managed to stare insolently at Cutbush. ‘So they were putting you out to pasture.’
‘You fuckin’ crud. I’ll break . . .’ Gant checked the General’s rising figure with a hand on his shoulder. The General sat but glowered at the investigator. ‘I’m goin’ to enjoy the next few minutes, jerk,’ he said.
Steadman returned the glare.
Gant nodded at Griggs and Booth, and Steadman felt his arms gripped tightly.
‘The time has come, Parsifal,’ Gant said, walking towards the dais. He reached inside the leather case and turned with a long dark object in his hands. Steadman saw it was the spearhead, the holy relic whose legendary powers had caused the bloodshed of millions and the glory of a chosen few. There was no shine to the ancient black metal, only a dull glow from the section of gold, but the blade still tapered to a menacing point. Gant placed it on the table, its flattened blade pointed towards the investigator.
Steadman looked at the ancient relic and began to tremble inwardly. It was strange, but it felt as if a force were emanating from the cold metal, a force that was already piercing his heart. And then, he knew what was to be his fate: he was to die from a spear thrust. Gant would refute the Parsifal legend by using the weapon itself to kill his adversary.
He closed his eyes, but the image was still there in his mind: the evil tapering blade, the nail driven into an aperture in the blade, the small crosses engraved in the dark metal. He tried to force it from his thoughts but it stayed, a cold, dark object, a dead thing that somehow thrummed with energy. In his mind’s eye he saw it was bloodstained.