The Spear

  He found it slightly to his right and manoeuvred himself so his eyes would be directly before it when he parted the curtains. He drew them open and looked into the strange chamber beyond, his pupils shrinking against the unimpeded light.

  It was a circular room, the walls of stone shiny with damp. Recesses containing small, black crucibles in which green flames glowed were placed at regular intervals around the room’s perimeter. It was these tiny green flames that gave the room its peculiar light, and the colour suggested that chemicals or herbs of some kind were being burned. It explained the aroma that drifted along the passageway. A stone platform ran around the wall’s edges and another door lay directly opposite to where Steadman was standing, steps leading down from it to the chamber’s lower level.

  The floor area was large even though the ceiling was comparatively low and, because of its shape and the higher-level walk around the sides, it had the appearance of a miniature arena. Twelve four-feet-high pedestals stood around the circumference at well-ordered points like stone sentinels gazing silently towards the room’s centre. And there, at the centre stood a solitary, high-backed chair.

  It was facing away from Steadman so he could not see whether it was occupied, but kneeling six or seven feet from it was the shadowy figure of a woman. The long, black flowing hair identified her as Kristina and Steadman could see she was clutching something rising from between her thighs, like a huge phallus. As he watched, she crawled forward holding the object before her, and placed it on the stone floor two feet away from the high-backed chair. She crawled back to her original position and began to sway on her knees, her arms stiff by her sides.

  Steadman knew by its shape it was the Spear of Longinus she had put down before the chair and, as he prepared himself to enter the chamber, a fresh feeling of unease swept through him. Sounds came from the hermaphrodite’s lips, but they were unintelligible, a wailing incantation. He closed his mind to his misgivings, forcing himself to ignore his frenzied imagination, and began to slip through the curtain.

  It was then he became aware that he wasn’t alone in the antechamber.

  A sound from behind. A rustle of material? A scraping of a foot against the floor? He couldn’t be sure. But as he turned, his back now to the curtain, he heard breathing. It came in jerky rasping sighs, as though whoever it was could no longer control its rhythm; and as he listened, it became even more agitated, louder, the air sucked in greedily and exhaled in short gasps.

  Steadman felt momentarily paralysed, wanting to move away from the curtain, knowing the dim light shining through must show his body in rough silhouette. The rasping grew louder and he peered into the darkness, trying desperately to discern a shape. It was no use, he could see nothing. But he could feel the warm breath on his face; and the cold fingertips that reached out to touch his cheek.

  He staggered back from sheer reaction and hardly felt the knife-blade slice across his stomach, the tip barely penetrating the skin through his shirt. He went through the curtain and his assailant came after him, the ritual dagger slashing at the air between them. The investigator fell but kept his body moving, twisting to his right, aware there was a drop on to the chamber’s floor behind him. The tall figure of Edward Gant lunged and missed again, overbalancing and falling to one knee.

  They both crouched, facing each other, Gant’s eyes wild with malice and Steadman’s cold with hate.

  ‘I still have you, Parsifal. I can still destroy you,’ Gant hissed.

  ‘You can try, you crazy bastard,’ Steadman replied, rising immediately and aiming a foot at the arms dealer’s face.

  Gant avoided the blow and rose more slowly, the silver dagger pointing at the investigator’s stomach. He inched forward, his manner even more menacing because of its deliberation. Steadman backed away.

  ‘Stay, Parsifal. You can’t run from fate.’ Gant smiled, his face evil in the soft green hue. ‘My soldiers will take care of the Jew and the slut. They won’t get far.’

  ‘It’s all over, Gant, don’t you understand?’ Steadman’s attention was directed more at keeping the blade at a safe distance than his own words. ‘There’s too many dead up there. Important men. How will you explain their disappearance?’

  ‘Why should I have to?’ The familiar mocking look had returned to Gant’s eyes. ‘No one knows they were here. Our associations have been quite discreet.’

  ‘But you’ve lost the power behind your organization.’

  Gant sneered. ‘They were only the nucleus; there are others equally revered only too eager to take their place. All we have suffered is a setback.’

  ‘Another setback, Gant? Like the war?’ The mockery now in the investigator’s attitude had the desired effect. Gant screamed with rage and leaped at his quarry, just as Steadman reached for the burning crucible in the recess he had been trying to reach. His hand encircled the hot metal and brought it from its resting-place in one swoop, smashing it into the side of Gant’s face as he advanced. The arms dealer screamed again, this time in pain, as the hot, burning oil poured into his face and down his neck. The dagger embedded itself in Steadman’s arm and was jerked free again when the arms dealer staggered away.

  Steadman cried out with the sudden tearing pain, but he had the satisfaction of knowing his assailant’s wound was far greater. Gant had dropped the dagger and was slapping at his face, trying to dislodge the fiery oil that was sizzling into his skin. Small dots of fire were spattered over his jacket and shirt, but he ignored them for the greater pain in his face. Steadman saw oil had splashed on to Gant’s nose and it was melting like wax, a pink stream flowing over his tortured lips. The investigator flinched as the naked bone and gristle beneath the artificial organ was exposed, but he felt no pity for the injured man.

  Even in his agonized state, the arms dealer’s virulent hatred for the investigator and the force he symbolized rose to the surface like a bubbling volcano. He had known great pain before, and had learned to keep one part of his mind secure from its distracting influence. With one eye only, the other seared by the oil, he searched for the fallen dagger. It was lying close to his left foot and he quickly stooped, screeching against the intense heat in his flesh.

  Steadman saw his intention and stepped forward, his right arm outstretched, reaching for the weapon.

  Gant was faster. He picked up the silver dagger and began to bring it up, the wicked point aimed at the stooped investigator’s chest. Steadman grabbed at the wrist holding the knife and deflected its direction, using his own strength to continue the upward arc. The blade sank up to the hilt into a point just below Gant’s breastbone. He stared disbelievingly at Steadman, his fingers still curled around the dagger’s handle, the investigator’s hand still gripped around his wrist, and there was a moment of absolute silence between them. One side of Gant’s face was popping and blistering, a scorched eyelid covering one eye; the gaping wound where his nose had once been was weeping fresh blood. And then the arms dealer screamed and fell forward, his chest coming to rest against his knees, the dagger’s hilt between them, his forehead touching the cold stone floor as though he were paying homage to the victor. Blood gurgled up from his throat and created a thick, red pool around his head, and he died in that position, his body refusing to topple on to its side, escaping gas from his abdomen taking any last shred of dignity from his dying.

  Steadman stepped away to avoid the spreading pool and leaned against the wall, shock and weariness overcoming him. He looked down at the slumped body and felt no regret nor any gladness that the man was dead; only relief that it wasn’t himself crouched there.

  The throbbing in his arm reminded him of his wound. He touched a hand to his injured limb, flexing it at the elbow and wincing as the pain flared. It wasn’t too bad, though: he could still lift his arm so no muscles had been torn. He glanced back at the dead arms dealer. Was it all over? Had the death of Gant signified the end of the new Reich, or was the net too widely spread, already too powerful to falter just because its leader had
been killed? There would be chaos upstairs, the injured and the dying screaming for attention, Gant’s soldiers searching for Holly and the man she had been with – had it been Baruch? Perhaps they were already dead. The idea that Holly might have been shot filled him with a new desperation. He knew she had lied to him, that somehow she was deeply involved in the whole affair, and he was angered by the deception; but stronger feelings overrode that anger, feelings he had thought burned from him with the death of Lilla long ago.

  He had to go back and find her even though it was probably hopeless. He turned towards the curtained doorway. It was finished down here. The arms dealer was dead, there was nothing left. It was over.

  But the sudden stillness, the sudden thick, cloying odour, the sudden drop in the already cold room’s temperature, told him it was not over. Not yet.

  The presence seemed to be everywhere, filling the gloomy underground chamber, and it was a familiar thing to Steadman now. The same feeling of intense pressure, the awareness that something unseen had manifested itself. Unconsciously, the investigator had backed himself against the curved wall, his eyes darting from left to right, searching the chamber, trying to see the presence and not just perceive it. They came to rest on the figure in the centre of the room.

  The hermaphrodite was rigid, no longer swaying, no longer moaning. Kristina’s lips were open wide as though mouthing a silent scream of agony; her eyes were tightly closed. She was still in a kneeling position before the high-backed chair, and the ancient spearhead lay on the stone floor where she had placed it. It seemed to quiver slightly, as though a current were running through its black metal, and Steadman felt, rather than heard, its vibration. He knew he had to take it from her, away from that dark room, away from the forces that were using its power . . . and he wondered at himself for believing such things.

  Sounds seemed to be swirling around the circular chamber, soft voices that laughed and called, building to a crescendo as they had in the room above. The crucibles were burning black smoke and the wind swirled the smoke around the room, weaving dark patterns in the air, and Steadman imagined the shapes were lost spirits, twisting and writhing in a secret torment. Cold air brushed against his face, ruffling his hair, tearing at his clothes, seeming to beat against him, forcing him to raise an arm to protect his eyes, willing him to fall, to cower against the wall. Abruptly it ended, and silence returned to the underground chamber.

  Only the presence remained.

  The investigator forced himself away from the wall, dropping to the lower floor-level, crouching for a moment. He retched at the overpowering stench, the terrible smell of corruption, and his body felt leaden, the weakness spreading through him, drugging his brain, dragging him down. He tried to rise and staggered against one of the small pillars set around the arena. He saw the metal plate on the stone pillar, bare of any inscription, and he suddenly knew the reason for the twelve pedestals facing the room’s centre: they would bear the ashes of the members of the new Teutonic Order as each member died. How he knew was no mystery to him: the presence had made him aware. It was telling him the truth of the Spear’s legend, the power the holy relic held, the power that could be used for good or evil. It taunted him, cursed him, reviled him. And it feared him.

  The knowledge that he could be feared drove Steadman on. He stumbled across the room he now knew was a place of the dead – a crypt – feeling his energy draining from him, forcing himself onwards to reach the Spear, resisting the urge to lie down and rest, just for a moment, just for one sweet second.

  He fell, and began to crawl, one hand before the other, one knee forward then the other, one hand, one knee, one hand, one knee . . .

  Kristina watched him, a tremor running through her body with a ferocity that made her shape blurred. Her mouth was still wide, and black smoke from the low flames in the crucibles entered her throat, descending into her lungs, filling her.

  Steadman was near the spearhead, his hand reaching out, meeting a force that pushed his grasping fingers away. He looked up at Kristina and her eyes were straining against their sockets as she stared down at him, the pupils glazed yet strangely filled with life. Her body convulsed once, twice, became rigid again, her back arching but her gaze still on him. One more convulsion, this time even more violent, her hair crackling with the tension, her grimace stretching her lips and tearing them in several places. Then, with a long rattling exhalation of air, she fell backwards, and life was drawn from her body.

  Steadman closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold floor for a brief moment, wanting to stay there, to sleep and so take himself away from the malevolent force in the chamber. He resisted, knowing to succumb would mean his death. Forcing his eyes open again, he saw the slumped form of the hermaphrodite, her tortured face mercifully turned away from him. He twisted his head, not wanting to look at the miscreation, and his eyes fell on something far worse. He faced the husk sitting in the high-backed chair.

  The rotted corpse wore the faded uniform of the Nazi Schutzstaffeln: the brown shirt and black tie, the tunic with three silver-thread leaves enclosed in an oak-leaf wreath on each lapel, the sword-belt with ceremonial dagger attached, the cross-belt passed beneath silver braiding on the right shoulder, the swastika armband on the sleeve, the breeches tucked into long jackboots. On its head was the silver-braided cap with the Death’s Head emblem at its centre. The whole uniform was covered in a fine layer of dust and hung loosely over the still form, as if the body had shrivelled within it.

  It sat upright as though locked in position, and Steadman’s horrified gaze travelled up from the jackboots, across the body, to the shrunken head that stared sightlessly across the dark chamber. The flesh on its face was stretched taut, greyish cheekbones showing through clearly, huge, festering rents in the skin alive with tiny, white moving shapes. The yellow skin at the throat sagged over the shirt collar, a shrivelled sack resembling a balloon that had been punctured. The lower lip had been eaten away revealing an uneven row of teeth stumps, and white, wispy hair clung sparsely to the upper lip. The face appeared chinless, as though the jawbone had receded back into the throat. One ear was missing completely, while all that remained of the other was a remnant of twisted, dried flesh. Thin strands of white hair hung from beneath the cap, whose peak fell low over the forehead, several sizes too big.

  Peculiarly, pince-nez glasses were stuck firmly against the bridge of the nose as though permanently glued there, and one eye had escaped from its retaining socket and pressed against a lens. The tip of the nose was missing but the rest, although wrinkled and pitted, was intact. As Steadman watched, something black crawled from a nostril and scurried down the lower lip into the gaping mouth, disappearing from sight.

  The investigator’s stomach heaved and he could no longer control the bile that rose in his throat. It poured from him in pain-wracking convulsions, steam rising in the deeply cold air. He pushed himself away, away from his own sickness and away from the vile, stinking creature they had kept embalmed in the underground crypt.

  He knew, without any doubt, whose mummified body it was: the Gestapo uniform, the pince-nez, the remnants of a moustache – their Reichsführer, Heinrich Himmler. The stupid, demented bastards had kept his body all these years!

  He shook with the horror of it. They had continued to worship not just his memory, but his physical body as well, hiding it here, a corrupted husk of dried flesh, an abomination which they could idolize as though he were still there to lead them!

  He looked at the skeletal hands resting on the cadaver’s lap, withered and yellow, conscious that they had written the orders which had sent millions to their deaths: the hands of a clerk, the hands of a murderous butcher. And as he looked at them, the fingers began to move.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he said as the head slowly swivelled round to look down at him.

  23

  ‘And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall
be tormented day and night for ever and ever.’

  The Revelation of St John the Divine: 20:10 (RSV)

  ‘Quickly. In which direction is . . . the launching site?’ Baruch’s voice was raised so it could be heard over the sound of the Gazelle’s engine and the whirring blades overhead.

  ‘It’s too late, Baruch. There’s less than twenty seconds left,’ Holly shouted. She sat next to the Israeli in the small cockpit, tugging at his arm to make him understand.

  ‘Just point,’ he commanded, and she did so immediately.

  ‘Towards the cliffs . . . there, you can just make it out in the moonlight . . . that bushy area!’

  Baruch weakly moved the collective pitch lever upwards and the helicopter began to lift; he pressed the foot pedals, changing the pitch of the tail rotor blades to swing the machine round so it faced the direction they wanted to go. It was a jerky ascent and the Israeli concentrated his mind on controlling the engine power with the twist-grip throttle, thinking only of flying, shutting the nightmare from his mind. The machinery around him, the smell, the noise, brought him back to the world of the normal and he adjusted the cyclic control stick to speed the helicopter towards the cliff-tops.