At Sword's Point (12 page)

* * * *

The darkness of Kluge's sanctum at Wewelsberg Castle was relieved only by the flickering points of light that danced on the candles held by initiates standing along the perimeter of the room. The silent shadows of the steel-helmeted men, their black capes reaching to their ankles, had been impassive witness to the induction of Anton von Tupilow.

Attended by four of the knights now present in the room, he had been bathed, ritually purified of all corrupting influences, then dressed in a black robe, buttoned high at the throat and closed at the wrists much like a Cossack's shirt, but reaching to the ankle and belted loosely around his waist. On his left breast was embroidered a baroque silver shield displaying twin lightning flashes—the
Sigrunen
of the SS.

Von Tupilow was escorted into the room by two knights, their black coal-scuttle helmets gleaming in the candlelight, black full-dress uniforms immaculate beneath their billowing black capes. Escorting their charge around the great, round table that dominated the room, they came to a halt a few paces back from where their leader sat in a great, carved armchair pushed back from the table, elegant and dangerous in the black full-dress uniform of his rank as an SS
Sturmbannführer
. Rather than a helmet like those sported by all the rest, he wore the high, peaked cap of the officer caste, with its SS pattern eagle and swastika cap badge. He tugged languidly at the cuff of a black leather glove as the two escorting knights snapped to attention and gave him the stiff-armed salute of the Third Reich.

"
Sieg Heil
!" they said, their upraised arms motionless.

Slowly Kluge rose from his carved gothic chair to survey the knights flanking von Tupilow, taking his time before returning their salute. To either side of him, two more cloaked and helmeted knights held the wooden staffs of the silver and black labrium of the SS and the bullet-riddled banner of crimson, white, and black known as the
Blutfahne
, the Blood Flag, perhaps the most sacred relic of the old Third Reich.

"
Heil
," Kluge said, in a voice that left no doubt as to his absolute authority over the knights. "Bring forward the postulant seeking admission to our order."

In perfect, disciplined unison, the two knights escorted von Tupilow to where Kluge stood, halting to salute again and then taking two steps back as von Tupilow sank to his knees between them, as solemn as if he knelt in some great cathedral.

"What is your loyalty?" Kluge asked from where he stood.

"
Meine Ehre heisst Treue
," von Tupilow replied. My honor is my loyalty.

"Then, affirm that loyalty by your sacred oath," Kluge commanded. "Before these knights who soon shall be your brothers, swear it upon the
Blutfahne
, sacred relic of our glorious past, drenched in the gore of our martyred brothers of the 1923 Putsch."

Glancing to his left, he signaled for the
Blutfahne
to be brought nearer. Its bearer stepped smartly forward with a stamping of polished boots and dipped the torn and bloodied banner so that von Tupilow could catch a tattered corner and press its between his hands.

"Unto the blood and soil of our race," he said steadily, paralleling another oath taken to another Führer more than half a century before, "I, Anton von Tupilow, swear loyalty and bravery, and I vow to thee obedience unto death.
Sieg Heil
!"

"
Sieg Heil
," Kluge repeated.

Drawing a thin-bladed sword from the black scabbard at his side, Kluge stepped forward and took the end of the blood-spattered banner from von Tupilow in his left hand. He saluted with the blade, then brought it down to rest lightly on von Tupilow's right shoulder.

"
Blut und Ehre
." Blood and Honor.

The sword blade flashed over von Tupilow's head and came to rest lightly on his left shoulder.

"
Treue um Treue
." Loyalty unto Loyalty.

The blade flashed again, and with a flourish Kluge sheathed his SS officer's sword.

"Never forget, Ritter von Tupilow, that it is the
Blut und Boden
—the Blood and Soil—which binds us together as knights."

As Kluge spoke, the
Blutfahne
was withdrawn and Baumann came forward carrying an SS officer's dagger and a heavy golden chalice, the rim of the latter finely wrought with swastikas and Sigrunen, its double handles supported by the wings of eagles, their talons clutching swastikas set with sapphires. Not taking his eyes from von Tupilow, Kluge pushed up the sleeve of his black SS tunic and then reached out to Baumann, who handed him the dagger.

"Prepare now to join in the holy communion of your brother knights," Kluge said.

The blade sliced deeply into Kluge's flesh as he drew it across his forearm, and bright blood welled up in the cut and streamed down his hand to drip from his fingers. In awed silence, the young Ritter von Tupilow watched as Baumann knelt to catch the blood in the golden chalice, like an acolyte serving some ancient pagan priest, clasping the cup between his two hands as if it were a precious relic. It was no trickery of the candlelight; the blood flowed strongly, pulsing with a steady rhythm of Kluge's heartbeat and quickly filling the chalice. As the blood reached the rim of the chalice, to von Tupilow's amazement, Kluge sealed the wound with the merest pressure from his fingers, smiling faintly at von Tupilow's expression as he wiped away the blood on his arm with a handkerchief that Baumann handed him. There was something thrilling in the way that Baumann raised the golden cup for Kluge to take it, and in the utter majesty with which Kluge presented it to the young man kneeling at his feet.

"Drink this, all of it, and join with us forever," Kluge whispered. His voice sounded as if it came from another world.

Trembling, von Tupilow took the chalice from Kluge's hands and raised it toward his lips, unable to take his eyes from Kluge's. He could feel the glowing warmth of the fresh blood radiating through the hammered gold between his hands—Kluge's blood—and its pungent smell filled his nostrils, promising an exquisite destiny. As he set the cup to his lips and boldly drank, he imagined he could already feel the potency of immortality beginning to sing through his veins.

It's amazing, just how much you can resolve with a good nights sleep, Drummond thought as he lathered his face with his shaving brush.

He rinsed his razor in the basin and carefully trimmed his sideburns first, then brought the razor gliding along his cheeks.

When he had left Eberle's the night before, he hadn't been sure of his next move, let alone how he was going to handle Kluge. At least he had the beginning of a game plan now; and he figured he had maybe a day or two of grace before various people interested in his whereabouts figured out he wasn't in Stockholm.

He pointed his chin at the mirror, scraping away with his razor as he mentally reviewed the day's schedule.

First he had to go to the bank and add Eberle's and Freise's names to his gold account. Next, he had to buy a car and have it fitted with a cellular telephone.

And then
, he thought, as he scraped the razor along his throat,
I'll need to do a little shopping
.

Finished, he ejected the used blade into the trash can next to the sink and tossed the razor into his shaving kit, drying his face and splashing on after-shave. Then he headed into his bedroom to dress and went down to the dining room for breakfast.

The drizzle of the night before had given way to bright sunshine, allowing Drummond the pleasure of coffee, juice, and croissants on the terrace of the Palais Schwarzenberg. As he started on his second cup of the rich Viennese coffee, he took out his notepad and made a brief list. He read the list over, signed his bill, then rose and strolled into the lobby of the hotel, heading for Herr Hubmann's desk.

The hotel manager was instantly on his feet, greeting Drummond with a polite bow.

"Good morning, Herr Kapitän," he said. "How may we help you?"

Two things, if you think you can manage." He smiled at Hubmann. "First, I'll need a taxi in about ten minutes."

Herr Hubmann nodded gravely. "Of course, Herr Kapitän. And the second thing?"

"Could you please arrange an appointment for me with the nearest Range Rover dealer here in Vienna? Tell them I will need to speak with someone who knows English, and that I'll be in their showrooms at eleven-thirty."

"Are you returning to your rooms, Herr Kapitän?" Hubmann asked.

"Yes, I am."

"Then I will have the address of the automobile dealer ready for you when your taxi arrives." Herr Hubmann gave Drummond one of his precise bows. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Nothing now, thank you," Drummond said, and headed up the stairs to his room.

Pulling his suitcase from his closet, Drummond retrieved the fax he had received from Eberle's sister, Else Schmidt, two days earlier and sat down at the small desk at one end of his bedroom to copy the address and phone number of her bank into his notebook. Then he dialed the number, which answered on the second ring.

"
Frau Schmidt hier
," said a pleasant, businesslike woman's voice.

This is John Drummond calling," he replied in English.

"Ah, Kapitän Drummond," came the reply. "My brother told me you were in town. How can I help you?" Her English was good, but heavily accented.

"I would like to stop by this morning and settle a few details of my account, if that's not inconvenient," Drummond said.

"Not at all. I will be delighted to meet you." Paper rustled as she apparently checked her desk diary. "Can you come at ten-thirty?"

That'll be just fine, Frau Schmidt.
Auf wiedersehen
." Drummond hung up, gathered up his papers, and returned them to the pocket of the suitcase. Then, folding his notebook, he placed it in the pocket of his double-breasted navy blazer and went back to the lobby of the hotel. As he came down the stone stairs that led to his room, Drummond saw Herr Hubmann waiting by the door, a small envelope in his hand. Outside, a shiny black Mercedes taxi was parked on the gravelled forecourt.

The Rover agency expects you at eleven-thirty, Herr Kapitän," Hubmann said, as he handed the pale ivory envelope to Drummond. "And your driver's name is Hans."

"Thank you very much."

The driver had the door open for him by the time he got outside, and he settled into the car's leather upholstery as the driver came back around.

"The Vienna Credit Bank,
bitte
," he said, as the driver got in.

The bank was only a few minutes from Drummond's hotel. Once he was inside the chrome and marble lobby and had identified himself at reception, a smartly dressed secretary escorted him to the second floor office of Else Schmidt.

"Kapitän Drummond," she said, standing and extending her hand as he was ushered into her office. "It is a pleasure to meet you." She had the same infectious smile as her brother, only minus the stainless steel teeth, and a firm handshake. "Please sit down. Can I offer you a coffee?"

"No, thank you," Drummond said. "I've just had breakfast."

"Well then, what can I do for you?" she asked, settling back behind her desk.

"I'd like to add two names to my account, and if possible collect my check book and check guarantee card," Drummond said.

That should be no problem." She flashed Drummond a smile. "Now, what are the names?"

"Francis Freise." Drummond watched as she jotted down the name. "And Markus Eberle."

Else Schmidt let out a small gasp. "
Mein Bruder
?" she said.

"Yes, unless you know some reason why I shouldn't trust him," Drummond replied.

"Heavens, no. Markus is too honest. Even for a policeman." She laughed. "They will have to come in and sign bank cards. When can Mr. Freise come in?"

"He can't," Drummond said. "He lives in Luxembourg. If you'll give me a card, I'll have him sign it and mail it back."

"All right." She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a signature card, which she filled in with Freise's name and the account information. "He will need to sign here and here." She made X's beside two lines and passed the card across the desk to Drummond, along with an envelope. "Then have him send it back in this. Now, let me see about your check book and bank cards."

She picked up the phone on her desk and spoke rapidly in German to someone on the other end, smiling as she set down the phone.

"Your check book and bank card will be ready in just a few minutes, Kapitän. Your credit cards will be delivered to your hotel by courier this afternoon. I hope that's not inconvenient?"

"No, that's just fine," Drummond replied.

"Excellent. So, what are your plans for the rest of today?"

"Well, I'm going to buy a car and then do some shopping. That probably won't leave much time," Drummond said.

"A car? Perhaps the bank could arrange a loan for you," she suggested.

"Well, why not? Could I have the car registered to me here at the bank until I'm settled in?"

"We can take care of everything." She smiled and handed Drummond her card. "Just have the dealer call me when you've decided what you want. I'll see to the formalities."

There was a gentle knock at the door to the office.

"
Bitte
," she said.

A young bank clerk entered carrying a large manila envelope and handed it to her.

"Your check book and bank card, Kapitän Drummond," Else said as she signed a receipt for the package. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

Drummond signed the back of the plastic card she handed him and put it in his wallet. He glanced at his watch as he tucked the check book into his jacket pocket.

"Actually, there is," he said. "Do you think you could call Markus and ask him to join me for lunch?"

"Of course," she said. "Where are you lunching?"

"Good question." Drummond laughed. "What do you suggest?"

"Have you been to the Prater?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Is it a nice restaurant?"

It was Else's turn to laugh. "It isn't a restaurant, it's a place. A big park on the west side of town. Any taxi can take you there. I'll tell Markus to meet you by the Ferris wheel at twelve-thirty."

Drummond's original taxi was waiting patiently by the curb as he came out of the bank. Climbing into the back seat, he handed the driver the address of the Rover dealer, just off the Karntnerstrasse. It was nearly twenty past eleven—just ten minutes to make his appointment.

The traffic was heavy, especially crossing the ring road, and Drummond began to worry that he would be late in arriving at the Rover showrooms. His driver must have sensed his growing impatience, for with the sixth sense that all good taxi drivers seem to possess, he suddenly turned into an alley and, with total disregard for the signs, drove the wrong way down a one-way alley. Just before reaching the end of the alley, the Mercedes pulled into an open set of garage doors, and Drummond found himself in the service department of the Rover dealer. Looking at his watch he saw that it was just 11:30.

Climbing out of the cab, Drummond made his way to the showroom, where three Rovers were parked in a veritable jungle of potted palms. The showroom seemed to be deserted, and Drummond hoped that Herr Hubmann had made it clear that he needed to talk to someone who spoke English. After pushing his way through the underbrush, Drummond was inspecting a blue Land Rover with a stuffed toy tiger on its hood when an elderly mustachioed man in a tweed suit and regimental tie seemed to appear from nowhere.

"Ha, you must be Drummond." The man spoke with a patrician British accent. "I'm Adrian Hamilton-Bolt, Rover's resident Englishman." He extended a large bony hand. "The man from Schwarzenberg telephoned and said to expect you." He gave Drummond a quizzical stare. "Said you were a captain, but you don't look like a navy man to me."

"You're right there, sir," Drummond said with a slight smile. "I'm a captain with the Los Angeles Police Department."

"Good," said Hamilton-Bolt. "Never really cared for navy types. Now, what sort of motor do you need?"

"Something that'll cope with snow and ice, stick to dirt roads in the rain, and won't look out of place at Palais Schwarzenberg," Drummond said with a chuckle.

"Well, unless you fancy mock tigers," Hamilton-Bolt gave the offending toy a dismissive nod, "I'd suggest you can give this one a pass. What you want is a Range Rover. They're over here." Pushing his way through the potted palms, he led Drummond over to a white two-door. "Best town and country car in the world," he said to Drummond as he opened the door. "What do you think?"

"What I'm after is a Range Rover Vogue SE, with automatic transmission." Drummond enjoyed the look of surprise that passed over Hamilton-Bolt's face.

"Ha. The Rolls-Royce of off-road vehicles." He closed the door of the white Range Rover. "I've got one in the basement. Give me a moment or two to have it brought up."

Hamilton-Bolt walked over to his desk and pressed a button on the intercom. In German punctuated with an English accent he gave a few sharp orders, then turned back to Drummond.

"If you don't mind, I rather think you had better stand over here by the desk," he said. That whole side of the room is a giant elevator."

Drummond stepped over to the desk just as the white car began to slowly sink into the floor.

"Always reminds me of the Titanic when I see them go down like that," Hamilton-Bolt mused. "Especially the white one here. Makes me think of an iceberg."

Drummond watched as the "iceberg" sank from sight, only to be replaced a few moments later by a black Range Rover Vogue rising majestically up out of the depths.

"Ha. Tell me if that's what you've had in mind, Captain Drummond," Hamilton-Bolt snorted. "Top of the line. Best damned car we've got." He brushed his snow-white mustache smooth with his thumb and forefinger as he spoke. "The Pride of England, and the Envy of the Krauts."

Walking over to the car, Drummond opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel. The gray leather interior was smartly trimmed in burr walnut, and Drummond noticed that the car was fitted with air-conditioning and a sun roof.

"What's the top speed?" he asked Hamilton-Bolt.

"She'll just clear the ton," he said. "But she'll cruise at eighty all day long."

Drummond hopped out and walked around the car, giving it a careful inspection. The car was dignified if not stylish, and its four-liter V-8 engine would more than cope with anything Drummond would be likely to encounter short of a Ferrari. Satisfied that the Range Rover was what he wanted, he turned back to Hamilton-Bolt.

"Ill take it," he said. Then, as an afterthought, "Can you fit a cellular telephone to it?"

"Ha. I can have it painted in the Drummond tartan, if you want. A cell-phone is no problem."

Drummond reached into his pocket and pulled out Else Schmidt's card.

"Call my bank," he said as he handed Hamilton-Bolt her card. "They'll take care of payment. How soon can you deliver it to my hotel?"

Hamilton-Bolt screwed a monocle into his left eye and examined the card. "Well, it's noon now," he said. "Would first thing in the morning suit?"

Drummond thought for a moment. "Yes, that would be fine. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Hamilton-Bolt said. "Can I drop you anywhere?"

"No, thank you," Drummond replied. "I have a taxi waiting to take me to the Prater."

"The Prater?" The old man frowned. "Why on earth are you going there? There's no racing today."

"I'm meeting a friend at the Ferris wheel for lunch," Drummond said.

"Ha. In that case, tell your driver to take you to the Volksprater." He smoothed his mustache again. "Otherwise, you're apt to be dropped miles from where you want to be."

"Thanks for the tip," Drummond said, extending his hand. "Good-bye."

"Yes," Hamilton-Bolt said as the two men shook hands. "And thank you very much."

The taxi driver was talking to one of the mechanics when Drummond came out of the showroom, but the moment he saw Drummond approach the car, he ended the conversation and rushed over to open Drummond's door.

"
Volksprater, bitte
," Drummond said, once the driver was behind the wheel.

With a nod, the man started the engine and drove out into the Vienna traffic.