‘Can you feel its power, Parsifal?’
Steadman opened his eyes and now he saw the spearhead only as an aged piece of metal, lifeless and cold. He tore his eyes away and looked into the face of Gant who was leaning forward over the spear.
‘Do you know Wolfram von Eschenbach’s legend of Parsifal?’ The arms dealer’s eyes seemed to glow in the darkness of the room. ‘The legend which inspired Wagner’s mystical opera. Parsifal served the dying king, Amfortas, and sought to regain the Spear of Longinus, the holy symbol, for his master. As you sought to regain it for your masters – the Jews!’
‘That’s not true!’ The hands on Steadman’s arms tightened their grip. ‘They wanted me to find their missing agent, Baruch Kanaan. You know that!’
‘Lies, Parsifal. Their agent came for the Spear and when he failed, they sent you.’
Why hadn’t Goldblatt told him of the Spear? Why hadn’t he levelled with him from the start? The woman, Hannah, when she lay dying in his arms, had told him to find the Spear. But why hadn’t they told him at the very beginning? Did they assume that finding Baruch would lead them to the ancient weapon? Resentment rose up in Steadman. They had used him just as the Thulists were using him. He’d been manipulated by both sides, one side using him as a tool, a lever to uncover a vipers’ nest, the other using him as a player in a symbolic ritual.
‘You were to kill me, just as the knight, Parsifal, killed Klingsor who held the Spear at his castle. Klingsor, the evil magician whose manhood was cut away by the fool king – as mine was taken from me. A sword took Klingsor’s testicles from his body – an explosion took mine. The Reichsführer saved my life and when he saw the damage that was done to me, he knew I was Klingsor reincarnated! He knew I would be the future bearer of the Spear of Longinus.’
Gant’s shoulders were heaving with the mental stress he was going through. To Steadman, it seemed as though the man was possessed. Abruptly, the tone of the arms dealer’s voice changed, and he spoke as if he were revealing a long-kept secret to friends.
‘The legend, you see, was neither a myth, nor a prophecy. It was a warning. Von Eschenbach was our guide from the thirteenth century. He was warning us of the disaster that could come if we allowed it. And he warned us again at the appropriate time in this century through Richard Wagner!’
‘It’s fantasy, Gant. Can’t any of you see that?’ There was desperation in Steadman’s voice now. ‘You’re just twisting everything to make it seem as if the story is coming true. I’m not your Parsifal and he’s not your Klingsor. The Spear has no power. It’s all in his mind.’
A rough hand was cupped over his mouth and his head jerked back. He tried to twist away, but Griggs held him firmly.
‘No, it’s not all in my mind, Mr Steadman,’ Gant said calmly. ‘We are led by another. Someone who knows you now. Someone who sent a tank against you as a test. Someone who visited you at your home just two nights ago, but who was disturbed by the meddling old Jew. Someone who wishes to meet you again.’ Gant chuckled. ‘As it were, face to face.’
There was silence in the vast room, the shadows flickering and weaving with the dancing candle-flames. Gant sat and the thirteen around the table put their hands on its rough surface as though a signal had been given. Their fingers touched and Steadman could see that their eyes had closed and each man’s face was creased in concentration. Nothing happened for a while, then suddenly he felt his muscles weakening as if all strength was being drained from them. His head was released and he felt, rather than saw, the two MI5 men step back from their position directly behind. He tried to rise but found he couldn’t; an invisible force seemed to be holding him there. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came. The sudden oppression in the room had become an increasing pressure, weighing down on him like a physical force. He saw that several members of the circle were sagging in their seats, their heads lolling forward as though their energy was being sapped. Dr Scheuer’s head was resting almost on his chest.
A stillness had crept into the room. The candle-flames seemed to be frozen solid, their light dimmed. It became cold. A terrible, cloying coldness that closed in and gripped the skin. An odour pervaded the air and the room became even darker, the chill more intense.
Steadman stared hard at the shadows behind Gant and Dr Scheuer, for he thought he had seen something move, a dark shape against a black backcloth. From the balcony overlooking the hall, he had noticed steps set to one side of the room leading down to a door, the top half only, level with the floor. The black shape had seemed to emerge from that point. But now it had disappeared and he wondered if it had been merely a trick of the fading light.
A humming vibration reached his ears and his attention was drawn to the table’s surface. Some of the Thulists’ heads were sagging, almost resting on the table, but still their fingers touched, trembling and greyish in the poor light. His eyes came to rest on the dark object lying opposite, and somehow he knew that was the source of the vibration. The ancient weapon lay unmoving, yet it seemed to throb with some inner life. He shook his head and the effort seemed almost too much; he felt giddy with fatigue. He knew the humming vibration was only in his own head, yet it seemed to come so definitely from the talisman. He became weaker and for a moment his eyes rolled in his head; he had to fight consciously to control them. He found himself looking across the table at the bowed head of the old man, Dr Scheuer, the scant white hair hanging loosely around his hidden face.
Steadman stared, for it seemed all the energy in the room had been drawn into the old man. The others, those who could, were watching him too, their bodies swaying slightly. The investigator fought against the weariness, trying to build a wall in his mind against the will-devouring force. But he could not tear away his eyes from the bowed head of Dr Scheuer.
As he looked, the white-haired figure began to straighten. The head came up, slowly, smoothly, taking long, long seconds for the eyes to meet Steadman’s. And when they finally looked deep and penetratingly into his, the investigator’s blood seemed to stop flowing, and the hair on his neck rose as though a cold hand had swept it upwards, for he found himself staring at the hate-filled image of SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.
19
‘Though he had the mind of an ordinary clerk or schoolmaster he was dominated by another Himmler whose imagination was controlled by such phrases as “The preservation of the Germanic race justifies cruelty”, or, “Unqualified obedience to the Führer”. This other Himmler entered realms which transcended the merely human and entered in to another world.’
Felix Kerston
‘For us the end of this war will mean an open road to the East, the creation of the Germanic Reich in this way or that . . .’
Heinrich Himmler
Holly crept stealthily down the corridor using only the balls of her feet, measuring each step and gently easing her weight on to the solid floorboards. There was a tension in the house that had nothing to do with her own nervousness. The air was heavy with it.
She wondered about the strange building, half-house, half-castle. What was the purpose of such a place? She had found her way towards the back of the house, heading for the baronial-type rooms she had seen only from the outside. There had been only a blank wall at the end of the corridor leading from her room – it was too short to have run the length of the house – and she had been forced to retrace her steps to the staircase near the front of the house.
Guessing it might be a mistake to descend – bound to be more guards around – she had decided to go up on to the next level and make her way back from there. There had to be another way of getting to the rear of the house on the second floor. She moved silently up the stairs, holding the miniature machine-gun ahead of her, wishing she had taken time to search the unconscious guard for the silencer that went with the deadly weapon. She knew that the Ingram MAC II, on which this weapon’s design had been based, could be fitted with a lightweight sound suppressor which cut out even the light ‘plopping’ noise si
lenced guns usually made. She would have to take her chances without it – if someone discovered her, she would shoot to kill and to hell with the noise.
She reached the top of the stairs and paused: the house was deadly silent.
The long corridor running down the building’s centre lay ahead of her, two minor corridors ran to the left and right from her position at the top of the stairs. She had just begun the long walk down the central corridor when a door ahead opened.
Her reaction was fast. She ducked back into the left-hand corridor, prepared to run its length if the footsteps came her way. They didn’t; she heard the footsteps receding into the distance. She stole a quick look around the corridor’s corner and caught sight of the woman, the one they called Kristina. She was holding the side of her face as though she had been hurt and Holly caught a glimpse of her leaning against the wall momentarily for support. Holly held her breath, waiting for the footsteps to fade away. She was a strange one, this woman, Holly felt intuitively. She couldn’t quite understand why, but was distinctly uneasy in her presence when Gant had introduced her. Not that she’d felt at home with the arms dealer himself.
She took another look and saw that the woman had vanished. Good. She’d definitely walked the length of the corridor, so maybe she was headed for the back of the house. There had to be a way through. Holly stole down the passageway.
There was a T-junction at the end and Holly debated with herself which way to go. She chose the right and at the end of it found a solid-looking oak door, its intricate carving suggesting it wasn’t just the door to the broom-cupboard. She tried the wrought-iron handle and discovered it was locked. Okay, the left-hand turn might have a similar door. It did, and this one was open.
It was like stepping into another world: the walls on either side of the dim passageway were of heavy grey stone and the doors along its length again were of delicately carved oak. The lights overhead were deliberately dim so their brightness would not jar against the medieval atmosphere. Holly moved forward, carefully closing the door leading from the new to the fake-old behind her. If anything, the tension was even more acute in this part of the unusual house.
She crept forward, remembering to breathe again. Fainting from lack of oxygen wasn’t going to help her any.
Holly stopped at one of the doors on her left and listened: no sounds came from within. She noticed a name was inscribed in the carving of the door and tried to decipher it in the poor light. It looked like Philip of . . . somewhere or other . . . Swabia? That was it. Where the hell was Swabia? She moved on to the next door which was even more difficult to read. Frederick Hohen . . . oh, what difference? She listened again, but still heard nothing. She gently tried the handle and found the door was unlocked. Pushing it open slowly and pointing the gun into the widening crack, she peered into the dark room. Deciding it really was empty, she pushed the door wide and was provided with a soft light from the hallway.
The room was furnished with antiques and smelled musty, unused. A four-poster bed dominated the floor-space and a portrait of someone in ceremonial – or at least, ancient – garb hung over the mantel. Maybe that was Fred what’s-his-name. Holly closed the door and went on to the next room. She was able to make out Henry I on this one and sheer instinct told her that this time the room was not empty. The question was: to look in or not to look in? Well, she decided ruefully, I’m not going to find Harry by not looking for him. She turned the handle as softly as she could.
The odour hit her nostrils immediately, vile and unclean; it was as if a malevolent spirit was rushing past her, fleeing through the opening she had created. It was a smell of dust, human sweat – and something else. Rank meat? No, it was indefinable. She pushed the door open further.
Holly saw the rows of books lining the walls first, then, as she cautiously stepped into the room, its other contents were revealed to her. It was a larger room than the one she had just peeked into, containing a long, solid-looking desk, two high-backed chairs, a carpet of richly woven design, the shelves running around the walls on three sides, holding volumes of books. In a break between the shelves to her left, hung a picture – it looked like a portrait in the dim light – and again, the subject seemed to be wearing the clothing of centuries before. Old Henry, presumably. Opposite, on the wall to her right, another picture hung between two bookshelves, its enclosure almost shrine-like. It was a portrait also, but this time the clothing was not as ancient. The man in the picture wore a uniform. A black uniform.
She guessed the identity of the subject: the modern-day Nazis still worshipped their old heroes.
A sudden sound drew her attention back towards the desk. Something had moved there, she was sure. She raised the machine-gun, her hand trembling slightly. Above the desk, between the heavy drapes concealing the room’s two high windows, hung their symbol – the white circle on a red background, the circle containing the evil black swastika. She felt exposed under its glare and suddenly sensed that the two portraits on either side were watching her. She quickly shrugged off the uncanny feeling.
Again she heard the noise, a slithering sound as if something had dragged along the floor. It came from behind the desk.
She wondered if she should turn and run, but quickly dismissed the thought. If someone was hiding from her, someone who’d seen she had a gun, they would raise the alarm as soon as she left the room. Whoever it was had to be temporarily put out of action. The decision made, she crept towards the desk.
It was a wide-top desk and its base was solid, a panel covering the centre leg-space. It was a pity, for Holly could not duck down to see if anyone was lurking behind. The smell seemed to hit her in waves now, but it was human staleness that dominated the general rancidity of the room.
The natural course of action would have been to move around the desk, rapidly but cautiously, ready to spring away from anybody crouched behind it; Holly believed in unpredictability, though. She smoothly swung her hip on to the desk and slid herself across its surface, ready to poke the machinegun into any enquiring face. As she peered over the edge she realized she had been mistaken: the noise hadn’t come from beneath it, but beyond it.
What looked like a bundle of rags lay on the floor against the wall and, even in the gloomy light from the hallway, she could see two frightened eyes staring at her. The bedraggled figure seemed to be pushing itself away, trying to sink into the wall itself. That had been the sounds she had heard: the slithering of bare feet on the floor, as the figure had tried hopelessly to get away from whoever had entered the room.
Holly slid off the desk and knelt beside the quivering bundle and it was then she realized the figure was that of a man and that he was cruelly tied, a noose-like rope around his neck, biting into the flesh, making it raw; the rope stretched down behind his back to bound wrists and ankles. A shirt hung loosely round him, the front completely open and exposing a chest which bore the marks of severe beatings. His trousers were filthy and stiff with stains as though the man had soiled himself many times. He lay on his side, his neck craned round to see her, and she noticed his wrists and ankles were caked in dry blood caused by the tightness of the ropes. Fresh blood was seeping around the ropes binding his ankles, probably caused by his struggle to get away from her. His hair was completely white, yet, as she looked into his frightened eyes, she realized he was not an old man. His face was lined with strain, heavy dark circles surrounding his eyes, the lips cracked and sore. But even through that, and through the bruises and dried blood that marred his features, she could see he was young. His face had aged not because of years but because of shock. She’d seen the same kind of ageing in released Nam prisoners – the ones who had been returned to their own country, but would probably never return to their own homes. Their minds had deteriorated beyond repair.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
The eyes only watched her in terror.
‘Can’t you speak? Can’t you tell me who you are?’
Still the eyes watched her, but
now a wariness had crept into them.
‘Look, I’m a friend,’ Holly tried to reassure him. ‘I’m not with these people, I’m against them. Something’s going to happen here tonight that I’ve got to prevent and time’s running out. You’ve got to tell me who you are.’
She reached forward to touch his shoulder and the figure tried desperately to move away. The sudden movement jerked the noose around his neck tighter and a gurgling noise came from his throat as he began to choke.
‘Hey, take it easy,’ Holly whispered in alarm. She grabbed his wrists and pulled them upwards to ease the pressure on the noose. He stopped twisting and kept his body still. Holly wondered if his mind was functioning normally again or sheer animal instinct had made him stop moving.
‘Look, I’m going to untie these ropes, but before I do, I want you to realize I’m not with the people who did this to you. I’m a friend, okay?’ Holly placed the machine-gun on the floor and reached for the ropes binding his wrists. The knots were difficult, obviously pulled tighter by the man’s own efforts to free himself. She looked around for something sharp to cut them with. Rising, she scanned the desk-top and found what she had been searching for. The paperknife had a long point to it and could be pushed between the twists of rope to loosen the knots. She knelt beside the tensed figure again, placing her free hand on his upper arm. This time, he did not flinch.
‘I’m going to get you free with this, so just try and relax. If you pull against the ropes they’ll only get tighter.’
Holly tossed her hair back over her shoulder and set to work on the knots.
It took several minutes, but eventually she pulled with her fingers, using the knife as a lever, and then his wrists were free, one length of rope hanging loose from his neck, the other from his still-bound ankles.