The Spear

  Holly breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed on to her haunches. She examined her broken fingernails and shrugged. ‘I hate long nails, any . . .’ The man pushed her back with a strength that belied his appearance. He grabbed the gun lying on the floor and pointed it at her, using two hands to hold the light weapon steady.

  ‘Do not move,’ he hissed fiercely. The three words were thickly accented.

  ‘Hey, I’m trying to help you,’ said Holly from her prone position. ‘We’re on the same side – I think.’ She bit her lip when she saw him flick the safety-catch off. ‘I was trying to help you,’ she said desperately.

  ‘Who are you?’ His eyes were burning, all fear from them now gone. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘My name’s Holly Miles. I’m a freelance writer.’ Better to tell him that, she thought. Better to find out more about him first. ‘I was doing a feature on Edward Gant as an arms dealer until I found out he was into something more sinister.’

  His eyes darted around the room, wild again.

  ‘Can’t you tell me your name?’ she pleaded. ‘I promise you I’ve nothing to do with Gant.’

  His eyes came to rest on her again. ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘I set you free, didn’t I?’

  He sagged back against the wall as though the sudden effort had drained him of any strength he had left. His bound feet slid out from beneath him and came to rest against Holly’s denimed legs. He motioned at her with the gun and murmured, ‘Untie them.’

  She began to work at the knots again with the paperknife.

  ‘Why would a journalist carry a gun like this?’ he asked, indicating he still had his wits about him even in his weakened state.

  Holly threw caution to the wind and told him everything, realizing she had to move fast, had to trust the man. She thought he showed some reaction when she mentioned Harry Steadman’s name and that he was also being held a prisoner in the house, but he sat up in alarm when she told him of the proposed plan for the US Secretary of State’s jet.

  ‘The missile site – where is it?’ he asked, his feet free now. He tried to rise, but the circulation was still not flowing freely.

  ‘At the back of the house, towards the cliffs.’ Holly moved closer to him and he waved her back with the gun’s barrel.

  ‘You’ve got to trust me,’ she cried out in frustration. ‘Someone might come along at any moment!’

  He ran a hand across his face, wincing in pain as it touched the bruises. ‘I . . . I don’t know. They’ve done so much to me. I cannot think.’

  ‘How long have they kept you here?’

  ‘Years . . . years. No, it cannot be. I do not know.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ she said softly.

  ‘They used me. They used my strength!’ The man rolled his head in despair. ‘They left me in this room so he could take my strength.’

  ‘Who?’ Holly urged. ‘Who took your strength?’

  ‘Him . . . him . . .’ He pointed the machine-gun at the picture on the wall behind them. She saw his finger tighten on the trigger and for a moment she thought he would fire at the portrait.

  ‘No, don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘You’ll bring the whole house down on us.’

  The hand holding the weapon dropped limply to his side and she exhaled in relief. ‘How did they take your strength?’ she asked him.

  ‘They . . . beat . . . me. Kept me tied . . . in here. That is how . . . he survives. He draws . . . power . . . from others. Used me.’

  Holly shook her head, not understanding. She glanced down at her wristwatch. Twelve thirty-five. ‘Look, we have to get moving. You must trust me.’

  He nodded, knowing there was no choice. Some of his strength was returning but he didn’t know how long it would last. They had barely fed him, just given him enough to keep him alive. Had it been years? Or was it really only weeks? Time had become meaningless to him. He had been able to stand the beatings – for a while, anyway. It was the other things that had defeated him. The humiliation. The abuse of his body by the freak human, the one that was both man and woman. The base things they had made him do with the creature, taking away his manhood, shaming him . . . Tears clouded his vision and his shaking hand wiped them from his eyes.

  He had told them everything they wanted to know, for eventually they had reduced him to an animal state. The man, Köhner, how well he knew the most vulnerable parts of the body, where to apply pressure, where to insert a blade. Even worse were the nights alone in this room where he had visited him – the Jew-hater – mocking him and existing parasitically on his spirit. Had it all been in his own mind? Had they finally driven him mad with their torture?

  But even more terrible than that were the times they had taken him to the strange room below, beneath the great hall. To the room they called the crypt.

  It was there that all previous horrors had been surpassed.

  He felt the girl shaking him and he opened his eyes to look into her concerned face. He had to trust her; there was nothing else he could do.

  ‘Will you help me?’ she was saying. He nodded his head and she gently took the light machine-gun from his loose grip.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ she said. ‘Who are you? Tell me your name.’

  ‘Baruch Kanaan,’ he said. ‘My name is Baruch Kanaan.’

  The Commissioner looked around the ring of tense faces. Operational HQ had become the interior of the church overlooking the Gant estate. The vicar, who had been roused from his peaceful evening by the fireside in his nearby house earlier that evening, was busy organizing relays of coffee for the bitterly cold men, and had even allowed the ancient church’s heating system to be switched on to combat the icy cold. It was no match for the wind that had collected its chill from the ocean and sought to invade any opening in the old masonry it could find.

  The Commissioner knew his men were impatient for action; this was always the worst time for them, waiting and praying they’d come out of it all right. It bothered him too; he liked to get things over with. However, the years had taught him to be patient. So much harm could be done by rushing in at the wrong time. Sir Robert had been a great advocate of patience and the Commissioner had learned well from him.

  He caught sight of the man called Blake, the retired policeman who worked for Steadman’s agency. Blake’s face was anxious and he was looking at the Commissioner as though deciding whether to approach him or not. The police chief beckoned him over and Blake bounded forward like a puppy to its master.

  ‘We’ll be going in at any moment, Mr Blake, so please try not to worry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to be an old woman, but Mr Steadman has been in there for quite some time.’

  The Commissioner nodded sympathetically. ‘I know that, but if we move in now we could upset some carefully laid plans.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Sexton, puzzled.

  ‘We’re waiting for one last guest to arrive. The others – those we know about – have already been accounted for. Their movements have been watched for weeks and we’re sure they’re all down there with Edward Gant. They make a powerful group and we can’t just barge in and arrest them purely on grounds of conspiracy. They have to be taken away and broken separately. I’ve spent most of the day with our American colleagues in Central Intelligence persuading the Prime Minister to let us do so.’

  Sexton caught his breath. This really was the big one.

  ‘We’ve got a fair amount of evidence on this group, but much of it is circumstantial,’ the Commissioner went on. ‘We need to catch them red-handed and then, as I say, break down their stories individually. Thanks to your employer, Harry Steadman, I don’t think that will be too difficult. He seems to have triggered off quite a bit of action.’

  ‘But did you know what Harry – I mean Mr Steadman – was getting into all this time? Did you know about this man Pope?’

  The Commissioner raised a hand as if to ward off Sexton’s questions.

  ‘We’ve know
n about Nigel Pope for some time; his intolerance towards his superiors and his own colleagues could hardly go unnoticed. But he was part of the pattern and we couldn’t remove him without destroying the whole framework. It had to be allowed to fester so it could be lanced once and for all – at the right time. Harry Steadman is the instrument we are using for drawing the poison.’

  ‘You could have warned him . . .’

  ‘No, Mr Blake. We didn’t know his part in the whole business. He appeared out of the blue. For all we knew, he was one of them.’

  ‘But Mrs Wyeth!’

  The Commissioner had the good grace to look down at his shoes. ‘I’m afraid we weren’t aware of any involvement from your agency at that time. It was most unfortunate.’ He looked up again and gazed steadily into Sexton’s eyes. ‘We were only really sure of Steadman’s good intent when he sent us the warning through you last night.’

  Sexton shook his head wearily. ‘I don’t pretend to understand all this, Commissioner, but it seems to me no one was really bothered about Harry getting himself killed. He was getting kicked from all sides.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Blake,’ said the American who had just returned from the vicar’s house where he had been using the telephone. ‘We just allowed him to wander around loose for a while until we could be sure of him.’

  ‘And even if he was straight, he might stir something up anyway. Is that right?’

  The American smiled, his chubby face friendly but his eyes steely. ‘You got it, Mr Blake. Let me say, though, we had someone watching out for him some of the time.’ He suddenly turned to the Commissioner, his manner now brusque. ‘We got the word from your man outside on the radio, Commissioner; I said I’d let you know. The last helicopter just landed. The General’s in.’

  ‘Right. I’ll give the order to move in immediately.’

  ‘Also, there’s activity around the estate’s perimeter. Gant’s private army is keeping the area tightly sealed, I guess.’ The American frowned and looked at his watch. ‘I’d be happier if we really knew if this meeting tonight has anything to do with the Secretary of State’s arrival in the country.’

  ‘They’ll be able to tell us that themselves.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  The Commissioner did not bother to reply. Instead he began issuing orders to the Special Branch officers around him. When his men were moving he turned back to the American. ‘I’ll be going in immediately after the first assault. Will you be with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ the American said, smiling pleasantly. ‘I wouldn’t miss it.’

  ‘You’ll have to stay here I’m afraid, Mr Blake,’ the Commissioner said, then he was gone, his officers jumping from his path. He disappeared through the church doorway. The American tucked his hands into his overcoat pockets and headed after the Commissioner. Sexton caught his arm.

  ‘You said someone was looking out for him some of the time. Who was it?’

  The American grinned. ‘One of our agents. Girl by the name of Holly Miles. We poached her from our Domestic Operations Division when we discovered she was a distant relation of Edward Gant’s late wife. She’s in there with Steadman now.’

  Blake was left standing alone in the empty church.

  20

  ‘I witnessed for the first time some of the rather strange practices resorted to by Himmler through his inclination towards mysticism. He assembled twelve of his most trusted SS leaders in a room next to the one in which von Fritsch was being questioned and ordered them all to concentrate their minds on exerting a suggestive influence over the general that would induce him to tell the truth. I happened to come into the room by accident, and to see these twelve SS leaders, all sunk in deep and silent contemplation, was indeed a remarkable sight.’

  Walther Schellenberg

  ‘The Beast does not look what he is. He may even have a comic moustache.’

  Soloviev: The Anti-Christ

  Steadman’s muscles were locked rigid.

  His mind tried desperately to deny the vision his eyes saw so clearly. Heinrich Himmler was dead! Even if he had not killed himself at the end of the war as the world believed, the arms dealer had said the Reichsführer had died of cancer at sixty-seven. Yet here he was in this room, his eyes burning with life!

  Hypnosis, Steadman rationalized. It had to be hypnosis of some kind. It couldn’t really be happening.

  ‘Ist das der lebendige Parsifal?’ It was a thin, piping voice, completely different to that of Dr Scheuer, and came from the apparition that had somehow superimposed itself over the old man’s features.

  ‘Ja, mein Reichsführer, der ist unser Feind.’ It was Gant who spoke, his face shining in a strange ecstasy.

  The men around the table were staring at the vision, some rapturously, others in fear. They all appeared unsteady, as though their energy had been drawn. One or two could barely lift their heads off the table. The figure of Kristina lay inert in her chair.

  Gant spoke again, a deferential tone to his voice. ‘Herr Reichsführer, darf ich ergebenst darum bitten, dass wir uns auf Englisch unterhalten? Viele Mitglieder unseres Ordens verstehen nicht unsere eigene Sprache.’

  ‘Er versteht sie.’ The words were hissed and the apparition glowered at the investigator.

  Steadman flinched. The vision was so real: the pudgy white face and small pig-like eyes; the clipped moustache and hair cropped to a point well above the ears; the finely formed lips marred by a weak chin receding into a flabby neck. Was it just a dream? Would he wake soon?

  The figure began to rise and it was stooped, still in the shape of Dr Scheuer; its eyes never left Steadman’s. It smiled evilly. ‘Do you feel weak, Parsifal?’ The words were spoken in English. A snigger from the apparition rang round the room. ‘They feel it too. But they give me their strength willingly, while you resist.’

  The investigator tried to move his arms and found it impossible. It was all he could do to hold his head up. He tried to speak, to shout, to scream, but only a rasping sound came from his throat.

  ‘It’s useless to struggle,’ said Edward Gant as the macabre creature beside him chuckled. ‘You cannot resist his will. This is how the Reichsführer still lives, you see. He draws etheric energies from the living, and feeds upon it. Adolf Hitler could do this when he lived. Heinrich Himmler learned the art, with the help of Dr Scheuer, when he was dead.’

  ‘Adolf. Ja, der liebe Adolf. Wo ist er doch jetzt? Nicht mit uns.’ The figure swayed and a hand rested against the table-top. The head sank for a moment and the image of Himmler’s face seemed to waver, become less distinct. Then the moment was gone and the head rose again, the small eyes piercing into Steadman’s, transfixing him.

  ‘It is time, Herr Gantzer. He must die now. His death will signify our beginning.’

  ‘Yes, Reichsführer. It has finally come.’ Gant reached forward for the ancient relic lying on the table’s rough surface. ‘The Spear that protects the Holy Grail, Reichsführer. Take it now and feel its potency. Let its force flow through you. Use its power!’

  The figure took the Spear of Longinus from Gant and held it in both hands. The weapon quivered in the apparition’s hands and Steadman sensed or saw – it was all the same now – the light emanating from it. A blueness seemed to glow from the worn metal and the light stretched and grew, travelling over the gnarled hands that were still those of the old man, up along the arms, spreading and enveloping the frail body.

  The figure began to straighten and Steadman could hear a screaming sound tearing around the hall, screeching from corner to corner, an inhuman cry that told of unseen demons. The coldness of the room deepened, becoming so intense that Steadman felt ice stiffening against his skin. His limbs were trembling uncontrollably, his hands a shaking blur. He wanted to cry out against the screaming cacophony of the unseen things, but only frosty air escaped his lips. The sounds tore from wall to wall like birds trapped in a dark room, screeching across the round table, sometimes beneath it, the seated men shying away as
though their flesh had been touched by something unholy. The strident pitch grew louder, higher, reaching a crescendo.

  Steadman saw the figure was no longer stooped and frail; it stood erect, powerfully vibrant. The etheric glow encompassed the whole body and the Spear was held in arms stretched rigid at chest level. The face of Himmler was directed towards the ceiling, the eyes closed but movement beneath the eyelids showed that the pupils were active. The lids began to open slowly and Steadman could just see the slits of white between them. Then the head began to lower and the screaming became even more shrill. The investigator pushed himself against the chair, trying to break free of the invisible bonds that held his body and mind. It was no use, his strength was no longer there.

  He could not tear his eyes from the face of Himmler even though he managed to twist his head; no matter in which direction he turned, his eyes remained locked on the creature before him.

  The face was directed at him, watching his vain struggle with a grin made vile both by its intent and the shiny wetness of the lips. The eyes were watching him, but the fully opened lids revealed only blank whiteness; the pupils were still turned inside the head. The figure laughed aloud and the laughter mingled with the undulating screams. Suddenly the pupils dropped into place and Steadman tried to close his eyes against their glare.

  He had to make himself move! He had to will himself to run!

  The figure began to move, the Spear held before it. Around the table it came, moving nearer to the investigator, the wicked point aimed low, ready to strike at his heart.

  Gant was on his feet, his face covered with a sheen of excitement. This was the time! This was the time for Parsifal to die, not by the hands of Klingsor, but by the true Master – the Antichrist! And the Spear of Longinus would pierce the side of their adversary just as it had pierced the side of the Nazarene two thousand years before!