The figure raised the Spear higher, but the point was still aimed at Steadman’s heart. It was drawing near to him now, still walking slowly around the huge table, the eyes always on him, holding him there. And then the figure was looming over him, the blackened spearhead held in two hands, raised above the head, ready to strike deep into his heart.
He was aware that the screaming had reached fever pitch, and the air was being violently disturbed by the frenzied, unseen things. He was aware that he was going to die by the hand of this unclean, drooling demon who bore the features of a man the world had despised. And he was aware there was nothing he could do to save himself.
But as the ancient weapon quivered at its zenith, ready to plunge into his unprotected chest, the table’s surface erupted in an explosion of flying splinters. The bullets embedded themselves in the old wood, then spattered into the soft body of the creature bearing the Spear of Longinus.
21
‘We shall never capitulate – no, never. We may be destroyed, but if we are, we shall drag a world with us – a world in flames.’
Adolf Hitler
‘I am a strong believer that, in the end, only good blood can achieve the greatest, most enduring things in the world.’
Heinrich Himmler
Jagged splinters from the oak table flew into Steadman’s face and the shock galvanized him into action. His strength had returned and with it, old instincts. He threw himself to the floor and lay still, stunned by the piercing sounds around him: the screams of those hit by the deadly rain of bullets; the noise of the bullets themselves, thudding into the table, into bodies, ricocheting off stonework; the agonized gurgling of the old man, Dr Scheuer, as his body was shredded, blood vomiting from his mouth in an explosive stream.
Steadman saw the old man still held the Spear aloft in one hand, but it suddenly skidded from sight as his wrist was shattered. Dr Scheuer fell to his knees, then slowly toppled forward, his head striking the floor inches from the investigator. For the first time, Steadman was able to see the old man’s eyes, as they stared into his, wide but with no disturbing force emanating from them; just the inanimate stare of the dead, even though the body twitched and seemed alive.
The hail of bullets continued, spraying the hall at random, a lethal, indiscriminate strafing. Steadman twisted his head and felt a flicker of recognition when he saw the man with the gun on the balcony above. But it couldn’t be; it was an old man up there, his hair white, his hate-filled face lined and aged. His mouth was open and he seemed to be shouting, but the investigator could not hear him over the barrage of sound. A figure appeared next to the dishevelled man and Steadman called out her name as he realized it was Holly. He saw her try to snatch the light machine-gun, but the white-haired man held her off with one hand, continuing his vengeful onslaught.
He saw her quickly scan the room, fear in her face, and when their eyes met, he knew that fear was for him. Her lips formed his name.
A wild bullet suddenly stung the side of his hand, close enough to burn, but not enough to tear the skin. Pushing himself forward with toes and knees, he dived beneath the heavy table, drawing his legs after him. There were other bodies crouched there.
He watched the carnage around the hall from his place of safety, saw the running legs, the overturned chairs that tangled and tripped them, the bodies that suddenly slumped into view as they were hit. Booth was crawling towards the table, gun in hand, but staring straight ahead. He almost made it.
As he reached the shadow of the table his head suddenly jerked up, a look of astonishment on his face. A line of bullets had raked across his back, snapping his spine. He tried to turn and fire back, but his body collapsed and he rolled over, the gun pointing at the ceiling, his finger curling around the trigger guard and squeezing it uselessly. He lay there looking into the blackness overhead and waited for the pain to begin.
Steadman began to crawl towards the other side of the table and saw there were at least three others crouched in the darkness. It was the hugeness of the shape before him that told him the identity of one of the cowering men.
There was just enough light for Pope to see it was Steadman moving towards him. The fat man wasn’t afraid, only angry that everything had gone so terribly wrong. He had just had time to see it was their prisoner, the Israeli agent, who was causing such havoc, before he dived for cover. They should have killed him as soon as they had captured him. He cursed Gant for his sadism, the sadism he disguised as ritualistic symbolism. Major-General Cutbush was dead – Pope had seen him rise then fall across the table, arms outstretched – and so were many of the others. Talgholm, Ewing, Oakes – he’d seen them go down. Others he could see writhing around the floor, curling themselves into tight balls to avoid being struck again. Griggs had been one of the first to be killed and Booth had not made it to cover, so he, Pope, was on his own. These others – those not dead or wounded – were not fighting men, didn’t even carry arms. Where was Gant? What had happened to him? It was only seconds since the firing had begun, but every fragment of time stretched into a bloody eternity. They had been foolish not to have kept some guards in the room. It was Gant who refused to allow them full knowledge of the Order. Now they were paying the price.
Pope reached inside his jacket pocket for the small gun, his hand fumbling in its haste. There would at least be some revenge.
Steadman accelerated his movements when he saw the big man reaching for the weapon. Unfortunately, he was too restricted and, as Pope drew the gun and aimed it at his head, Steadman realized he wasn’t going to make it. It was at that moment that another body hurled itself into the table’s shelter and staggered between Steadman and the MI5 man. Pope’s gun went off and the body in front of Steadman twitched violently but remained poised on hands and knees; the power of the small firearm was not enough to topple its victim even at that close range.
The investigator went barging on, keeping the injured man between himself and Pope. His shoulder hit the man just below his ribs and Steadman shoved hard, pushing him against Pope. Pope pumped bullets into his dying fellow-member, wanting him prone so he could get a clear aim at the investigator. It was no use; the body was pushed into him, knocking him backwards.
He struggled to prevent himself from being ejected from the table’s protective cover and, as the body finally fell to the floor, he grinned with relief, aiming the gun once more. Steadman had abruptly changed his tactics. As soon as the body he had been pushing had slumped to the floor, he had swivelled his body around in order to strike out with his feet. He lay with his back against the stone floor and kicked with all his strength.
Pope, despite his great weight, went tumbling out into the open, rolling once with the force of the thrust. There was a lull in the shooting from above and the big man had a moment to reach his knees and aim the gun at the figure beneath the table.
The firing began almost at once and bullets flew off the stone around Pope. He whirled, this time aiming upwards at the balcony, but bullets tore into him before he even had a chance to pull the trigger. He keeled over backwards and tiny explosions ripped his obese body.
It was then that Steadman saw the shadowy figure emerge from behind the altar-like structure which shielded the room’s blazing fire. The movement was fleeting, and whoever it was had ducked into the shadows of the hall. Steadman realized that the machine-gun fire was now in short bursts rather than the continuous onslaught of before. The shape appeared again, then plunged down into the stairwell that led to the door set in the room’s wall. Before it disappeared completely, Steadman had time to recognize the hawk-like features of Edward Gant.
He pushed himself from the protective cover and ran, leaping over Pope’s recumbent form, tripping once but rolling with the fall, jumping into the stairwell and crashing through the open doorway below.
Holly screeched Steadman’s name and tried to grab the machine-gun at the same time.
The Mossad agent seemed to realize who it was below and his finger suddenl
y released the trigger and he swayed backwards. Only the screams and moans of the dying filled the air now, but the atmosphere was heavy with the smell of death.
Baruch stiffened as though recovering his senses and once again, he aimed the machine-gun at the twisting bodies below.
‘No,’ Holly implored. ‘Leave them – please!’
He stared at her with uncomprehending eyes.
‘We’ve got to stop the missile from being launched.’ Holly held his head between her hands to keep him looking directly at her, desperately wanting him to understand. ‘The missile will be launched soon. We’ve got to stop them.’
A sadness swept over the Israeli. He tore his head from her grasp and surveyed the carnage he had created. When he turned to look at her once again, there was a hardness in his eyes and she knew the sorrow had not been for those he had just killed.
‘How . . . long . . .’
She guessed his meaning and glanced down at her watch. She groaned. ‘We’re too late. There’s only four minutes left.’
He gripped her arm. ‘Where . . . is the site? Where is it?’ His grip tightened.
‘Near the cliffs. It’s too late, though; we’d never make it.’
‘Helicopter. All day . . . I have heard . . . a helicopter landing and . . . taking off. If we can find it . . .’
‘Can you fly helicopters?’ she asked, hope rising in her.
He nodded, then clung to the balcony for support. ‘Get me to it, quickly,’ he whispered.
Holly gripped him around his back, her shoulder beneath him. ‘Give me the gun,’ she said, and he handed it to her without any reluctance.
They staggered down the stairs, almost stumbling once but Holly’s determined effort saving them. She averted her eyes from the terrible scene below and prayed that those still alive would not try to stop them. She hated to kill.
Once again Holly called out Steadman’s name, but there was no answer. She had seen him leap into the stairwell at the side of the hall and knew he had been chasing somebody – why else would he have broken cover? She longed to go after him, but the stairwell would only lead to the lower level of the house, and not to the outside. Her priority was to prevent the US Secretary of State’s jet from being blown to pieces. She said a silent prayer for the investigator and ignored the awful wrenching feeling inside her.
‘This way,’ she said to the Israeli, pointing the gun into the shadows. ‘I think there’s a door over there. It’s in the right direction, anyway.’
The pilot and the two guards who had been patrolling the exterior of the house glanced nervously at each other. They had heard gunfire inside and were making towards the back entrance when a different sound, much further away, had attracted their attention.
‘What’s that?’ one asked, skidding to a halt with the others. Instead of going on towards the back door, they rushed to the corner of the house and peered inland, towards the estate’s easterly perimeter. They were filled with dismay at what they saw.
‘Oh, fucking hell,’ one said in a low voice.
Four helicopters, powerful light beams descending from them, hovered in the distance. They began to fly along the estate’s boundaries where Edward Gant’s private army was deployed and dropping what looked like small bombs on to the soldiers below. The three men realized they were gas canisters as white vapour erupted from the ground. Lights suddenly appeared on the road leading down to the estate as vehicles began moving in.
‘It’s the bloody Army!’ the pilot exclaimed. ‘We’re under attack from the bloody Army!’
Even as he spoke, one machine broke away from the action and came racing towards the house. The others began to settle on the ground and the three men saw figures begin to pour from them. Above the whirring of rotor blades they heard the crackle of gunfire.
‘I’m getting out!’ the pilot suddenly announced, whirling round and racing back to the Gazelle.
The two soldiers glanced at each other, their faces white in the moonlight. Without a word, they turned and chased after the pilot. ‘Wait for us,’ one of them called out, ‘we’re coming with you!’
The pilot was already in his seat and had set the chopper’s blades in motion, thankful that the aircraft’s engine was still warm from its previous flight. The two soldiers had almost reached him when the door of the house behind them opened and Holly Miles and Baruch Kanaan staggered through.
The brightness of the moon gave Holly a clear picture of the two running soldiers and the small four-seater helicopter they were headed for. She and Baruch had the advantage; the men had their backs to them and the pilot was too busy with his controls to notice them.
She freed herself from the Israeli and raised the light machine-gun.
‘Hold it!’ she shouted and the running soldiers halted dead in their tracks. They turned and one went down on his knee aiming his standard machine-gun at the two figures in the doorway.
Regretfully, she squeezed the trigger and the fast-firing machine-gun spewed its lethal dosage at the soldier. As he fell, his companion threw down his own gun and ran to the right, screaming back at Holly not to shoot. She let him go.
The pilot inside his cabin was frantically increasing his engine’s power to give him lift and the machine was trembling around him. Holly shouted, ordering him to cut his motors, but he didn’t hear her over the noise of the whirring blades. She bit her lip and said, ‘Shit,’ then raised the gun in both hands and sighted it at arm’s length. Only when she was sure of her aim did she squeeze the trigger; she did not want to damage any of the Gazelle’s machinery.
The pilot toppled from his aircraft, the short burst killing him instantly. He hit the hard landing pad with a dull thud.
Holly stole a quick look at her wristwatch, but the moon suddenly vanished behind a heavy black cloud and she failed to see its hands.
‘Come on,’ she said to Baruch and pulled him towards her. ‘We don’t have much longer.’
Baruch took a deep breath, then pushed himself away from her and stood erect. ‘I will be all right.’ The words were spoken singularly, but there was a certain strength behind them. He began to move towards the helicopter, his legs stiff, as though he were consciously willing them to bear his weight.
Holly caught up and the wind tore at their bodies as if to hold them back; she held on to his arm to keep him steady. The moon suddenly burst through again and she took advantage of the light to have another look at her watch.
She swore silently. They would never make it. There were only thirty seconds to go.
22
‘The German conscience is clear because the blame for everything sinister, contemptible, criminal and horrible that happened in Germany and the occupied countries between 1933 and 1945 rests on Himmler.’
Willi Frischauer
Darkness enveloped Steadman like black liquid. He had fallen through the doorway at the bottom of the stairwell and continued his descent, for there were more stairs on the other side.
The stone steps had scraped painfully at his limbs as he had tried in vain to halt his tumbling fall. He reached the bottom with stunning force and lay there, gasping to fill his lungs with air again.
He managed to push himself to a sitting position, groaning softly at the effort. He blinked and tried to see into the blackness ahead, but the only light was coming from the doorway above and behind him, and that was very faint. He reached out and felt nothing before him, then waved his hand from side to side. It came in contact with a wall to his left.
The wall was damp and he could feel the velvety smoothness of moss. He rose to one knee, leaning against the wall for support, and drew in a deep breath. Jesus, it was freezing. Cold like a tomb.
He stood, cautious of broken limbs. The plunge had numbed him and he could not be sure he hadn’t damaged himself badly. His legs supported him and he could move his arms around, so all he had suffered was some nasty bruising.
Keeping one hand against the wall, he moved out at right angles to it and st
retched his other hand outwards. The fingertips touched another smooth surface and he guessed he was in a fairly narrow passageway. He knew what lay behind him, so the only way to go was forward. Dropping his right arm, he inched forward, using his left to feel his way. It was an eerie sensation; at any moment he expected his hand to come in contact with human flesh, Gant lurking there, waiting for him in the dark.
The only sound he heard was his own harsh breathing and he briefly wondered what was happening above.
His hand came in contact with a wall running across the one he was following. He ran his fingers along it and felt it dip forward again. He touched a rough surface; there was a door in front of him. Holding his breath, he felt around for a handle, hesitated, then gave it a twist.
The handle was stiff, rusted by the dampness of the underground passage, but with extra pressure, it gave. Steadman pushed the door open slightly, listening for any sounds before he entered. Then he opened it fully and stood to one side.
A wave of icy air hit him and he shivered against it. It had been cold enough in the narrow passageway, but it was even colder ahead. A faint aroma reached his nostrils and it was familiar to him. Just a waft of – what? Oil, spices? It was too slight to be certain.
There was a diffused light coming from a point in the blackness ahead and the investigator narrowed his eyes to make out some shape or form. The light was too soft though; it was just a dull hue against a black backdrop. For some reason, Steadman felt it was beckoning, inviting him to come closer. He fought down the inclination to go back the way he had come; he had to find Edward Gant. And kill him.
He stepped through the doorway and crept stealthily towards the light source, each step measured and slow. He stretched out his hands on both sides as he walked and neither made any contact with the walls. He was either in a wider passage or in a room of some kind, perhaps an antechamber. He drew nearer to the hazy light and realized it was being diffused by something and, when he was close enough to touch, he reached out, his fingers brushing against coarse material. It was a curtain and the light shone through the tiny apertures in its rough texture. Once again, he stood and listened, controlling his breathing, but unable to still the pounding in his chest. A small voice inside told him not to look, to turn away and run from whatever lay in wait on the other side of that curtain, that some things were better left unseen. The voice persisted, but he succumbed to the compelling fascination that had taken hold of him. It was as if there was no choice; he dreaded what might be there, but there was no denying its lure. Steadman ran his fingers over the rough, mildewed material, searching for an opening.