At Sword's Point (19 page)

Suddenly the heavyset guard struck the doctor with his rifle butt, knocking him to the ground. Two other doctors came forward and dragged their companion away from the guards, who were now drawn up uneasily next to the graves, rifles at the ready. The incident puzzled Baumann, for his own experience in the prison hospital in the Crimea had taught him that the medical team was in absolute control of the camp.

Suddenly a shot rang out, and one of the German prisoners crumpled to the ground. More shots were fired, and the other prisoners started dropping, a few staggering away from the guards. To Baumann's outrage and disgust, the heavyset guard commander approached each body and carefully put a bullet in its head.

Over the next hour, as Baumann observed in horror, the sounds of more shots drifted up from the camp. After what seemed an eternity came silence. Later, the Ivans dragged all of the bodies to the center of the prison yard, doused them with benzine, and set them ablaze. The acrid black cloud eventually drifted into the woods, and the two watchers retreated from its smell. Early in the afternoon, when Kluge seemed to have regained some of his strength, Baumann helped his commander to his feet.

"We will head to the rendezvous now," Baumann said, throwing Kluge's arm across his shoulder. "The sooner we get there, the better our chances of escape."

Kluge nodded weakly, and the two men set off through the forest. They stopped often, for Kluge was very weak. Baumann gave him to drink again, but only a little, lest his own strength be depleted. Finally, late in the afternoon, they approached the clearing where they were to meet the Cossacks.

Baumann stopped dead in his tracks, sensing that something was wrong. At first he was unable to identify what had caused him to stop; then he smelled it.

Cigarette smoke. The thick, pungent aroma of Russian cigarettes. Leaving Kluge resting against a tree, Baumann carefully made his way around the clearing, sticking close to the ground. On the far side of the woods, he spied the olive-drab uniforms of a Russian patrol intermingled with the long black coats of the Cossacks. It was obvious at a glance, from the casual way that the Ivans stood around, that the Cossacks had led them to the rendezvous.

Baumann melted back into the woods. Circling the Cossacks and the Russians, he worked his way around them until he was behind the string of Cossack horses casually picketed between two pine trees. Crouching in the bushes, he watched as a Cossack not more than sixteen years old left a group of Russian soldiers and walked over to the picket line to check the horses. Satisfied that their lead lines were secured to the picket rope, the boy stepped up to a tree to relieve himself.

Moving quickly from behind, Baumann grabbed him in a head lock and snapped his neck before he could scream out. Dragging the boy's body behind some scrub, Baumann took out his folding knife and slit his throat. Blood welled up on the boy's grimy neck, and Baumann covered the wound with his mouth, sucking hard to draw the precious fluid as quickly as he could.

He dared not take the time to drink his fill, but he got half a dozen good mouthfuls. When he had drunk enough to make up for what he had given Kluge, he let the body fold onto the ground and looked back toward the horses. No one seemed to have noticed that the boy was missing. Reaching down, Baumann pulled the handsome silver-hilted
kama
from its scabbard on the dead boy's waist. Creeping forward, he was going to cut one of the horses loose when he heard the man's voice.

"Vladimir?" the voice said, looking for the dead boy.

"
Nyet
," Baumann replied as he stood up and buried the long blade of the Cossack dagger deep in the man's chest. "
Vladimir ist todt
," he hissed as he pulled him into the bushes, his hand clamped over the Cossack's mouth.

The man died quickly. When Baumann was certain he couldn't call for help, he pulled the
kama
out of the cossack's chest and lowered him to the ground. The horses were beginning to smell the blood and started to pull at their ropes, stamping their hooves in the dust and whinnying in panic.

Baumann pulled the Cossack's
shashka
from its long black scabbard and ran to the picket line. He was not going to get another chance like this. Grabbing the lead rope of the nearest horse, he cut it with the saber and threw himself into the saddle. Digging in his heels, he urged the tough Cossack pony into a flat-out gallop, thundering into the clearing, slashing at the Russian soldiers as he raced toward where Kluge was hiding. At the far side of the clearing, the Cossack hetman drew his pistol and fired at Baumann.

Baumann felt the slug bite into his shoulder, but instead of an explosion of pain, he felt rage surge through his body. Rage that the Cossack had betrayed him to the Ivans. He jinked the horse to the right and, swinging his wounded arm in a full circle, bore down on the Cossack.

From his hiding place in the woods, Kluge watched as Baumann leaned forward in the saddle a split second before he brought his arm down, the blade of the saber flashing in the late afternoon sun. The silver arc flashed past the Cossack, and for a moment Kluge thought that Baumann had missed. Then slowly the Cossack's knees began to buckle, and as he swayed forward his head fell from his shoulders as a geyser of blood sprayed skyward.

Thundering hooves approached Kluge, and almost before he knew it, Baumann had grabbed him roughly by the shirt-front and swung him back behind him, onto the rump of his still-galloping horse.

* * * *

Kluge opened his eyes. Outside his window, Baumann barked orders and bullied the young knights, demanding that they equal his skill at arms. Watching, Kluge smiled to himself.

Yes
, he thought.
Oh, yes. We shall be invincible
.

* * * *

"You ride very well," Maria said, as they trotted back into the stable yard at Schloss Dielstein. "Did they teach you in the police?"

"No," Drummond said. "My father played polo, and when I was a kid I used to exercise his ponies between chukkers.

"Polo is supposed to be the sport of kings," Maria teased.

"Not the sport of kings," Drummond corrected her. "The king of sports."

"Well, nonetheless, I am impressed with your riding." She smiled at Drummond. "You can ride my horses anytime."

"Speaking of time," Drummond looked at his watch, "I have to be leaving soon."

"Leaving?" Maria said. "I thought you were staying for another two days."

"I had planned to," Drummond said awkwardly. "But since my meeting with the prince—well, I think it would be a good idea if I moved out a little ahead of schedule."

They were in the stable yard, and Maria slid off her horse and loosened its girth before handing the reins to the groom.

"You sound like a man who might be running from something," she said, as the groom led her horse away.

"In a way you're right," Drummond said, wondering how much to tell her. "A couple of men tried to kill me in Los Angeles, the day before I arrived in Austria. And you know about Baron von Liebenfalz taking me to the prince at gunpoint. Last night, at the dinner party, it seemed as if half the people I met were aware of who I was, and why I was here—or at least, why they thought I was here." Drummond handed the reins of his horse to the groom and turned to Maria. "That's why I'm leaving."

"And will you come back?" Maria asked, avoiding looking at Drummond as she spoke.

"Yes," he said, surprised at his own conviction in his answer. "I'll be back just as soon as it's safe."

"In that case," Maria said with a bright voice, "I will have Joachim pack your things while we have breakfast." She gave Drummond a dazzling smile and slid her arm around his waist.

"Now," she said, "would you prefer breakfast on the terrace, or shall we have breakfast in bed?"

With Joachim's connivance, Drummond managed to avoid meeting the prince, von Liebenfalz, or the cardinal when he left the castle later that morning. After settling his account, he pulled out of the gates of the castle and drove back in the direction of Reid. As he headed toward the autobahn that would take him into Germany, one of his classical music tapes blaring, he reflected on the twenty-four hours that had passed since his leaving Vienna.

He wished he understood what was going on. The equation was getting very complicated. It was becoming obvious that, on some level, the Prince of Antioch and an American cardinal were mixed up with the Order of the Sword, and possibly with Kluge as well. There had been something in the cardinal's unctuous manner that had put Drummond on guard—against what, he wasn't quite sure. He also wasn't quite sure about Maria.

She was another complication. He certainly hadn't started out to get involved with her, though he supposed he had returned to Schloss Dielstein partially to test the waters. When they had first met, Drummond had admired her as any man would, but had pretty much figured that she was Franz Reidl's woman. Reidl hadn't been at the party last night—but then, in Reidl's place, Drummond would have avoided it himself.

But that didn't explain her behavior toward him. Not that he was complaining.

Far from it.

After his wife's accident, it had taken Drummond two years to realize that even though the machines kept her alive, their life together was over. Only a strong sense of loyalty had prevented him seeking a divorce. It was that same sense of loyalty that had turned him into a near hermit, but it was a female detective from Auto Theft who had dragged him out of his cave.

They had met at a retirement luncheon for one of the old-timers from Hollenbeck Division, and after drinks and dinner, Drummond found himself having breakfast the next morning with one of L.A.'s finest. They spent the weekend at Drummond's beach house, and Drummond learned the difference between love and loyalty.

Drummond slowed the Range Rover as he approached the junction that led to the autobahn. Reflecting on past romances, he paid no attention to the gray Audi parked on the side of the road that tucked in behind as he headed toward the German frontier.

It had been a whirlwind affair, and after three weeks of athletic sex they stopped seeing each other. There had been three or four other women since then, but Drummond had stayed distant from all of them.

All of them, that is, except Maria. Somehow she was different.

More
, he supposed,
like my wife
.

Drummond slowed the Range Rover again, getting ready to turn onto the on ramp of the autobahn. Behind him, in the gray Audi, von Liebenfalz also slowed down.

* * * *

The Alitalia 747 from Los Angeles was just touching down at Rome's Leonardo da Vinci Airport as Drummond's Range Rover, followed by von Liebenfalz' Audi, joined the fast-moving traffic on the autobahn. The big plane rolled to a stop next to the terminal, and among the passengers disembarking was a young priest who had been flying in the first-class cabin. Shuffling along with the rest of the passengers, he moved slowly toward the Italian passport control point.

"Passport, please," a small man in a natty uniform said, as the priest finally reached his desk.

"Sure thing."

The priest handed him a Vatican diplomatic passport, which the man opened and inspected, comparing its photo with the suntanned young man before him.

"Your name, please, Father?"

"Reverend Thomas Berringer, Office of the Cardinal Secretary of State for the Holy See," he said, smiling as the man looked up.

The man handed back the passport. "
Si. Grazie
." He saluted. "Follow the blue line, please, Father."

Father Berringer followed the blue line into customs and walked up to one of the blue-clad customs officers. Presenting his diplomatic passport, he spoke rapidly in Italian and then, nodding at the customs official's salute, left the customs hall without opening his one carry-on bag.

Outside in the arrivals concourse, a chauffeur in a black uniform was waiting for him, holding a sign with his name on it.

"I'm Berringer," the priest said.

Without a word, the man took Bellinger's flight bag and led him out to a dark blue Cadillac waiting at the curb, briskly installing bag and priest in the limousine's spacious back seat. With an efficiency that surprised Berringer, the man very quickly worked the big Caddy clear of the traffic snarl that perpetually engulfed da Vinci Airport, and soon had them heading north along the Mediterranean coast.

"How long?" Father Berringer asked in Italian.

"If you're asking 'how long,' I should tell you I don't speak Italian," the voice said in English, in an accent that was pure New York. "But I can tell you that it's about an hour. If you want a drink, there are some Pepsis in the bar back there."

"Thanks," Berringer said, leaning down to open the small refrigerated bar in the back of the limousine. "So tell me, who called the meeting?"

"Do me a favor, huh. Father? Just drink your drink and don't ask no questions.
Capiche
?"

With a shrug, Father Berringer popped the pull-tab on his Pepsi and took a long, thirsty swig. The driver checked him in the mirror, then raised the smoked glass partition that separated the front from the back of the car, returning his attention to his driving.

After another swallow, Father Berringer set the Pepsi aside and reached into his flight bag, pulling out a small map of Italy. He decided that if they stuck to the coast road, an hour would bring them somewhere near Orbetello; if they turned inland, they could be going almost anywhere. Not that it mattered. The summons was not to be questioned.

He stuffed the map back in his bag and finished off his Pepsi, then stretched out across the seat and closed his eyes. Might as well try to catch a nap, since his driver was not going to be helpful.

Despite the fourteen hours spent on the plane, Father Berringer found sleep impossible as the limousine rocked gently from side to side along the twisting coast road. He dozed, but he never really dropped off. The snippets of dreams he could recall were a trifle odd, as one might expect, but provided no insight into what might lie ahead.

Finally, he could feel the car slowing to a near halt, and he sat up and looked out. The limo was turning left, toward the sea. A sign by the side of the road read "Monte Argentario."

Sweeping across the causeway that linked the island to the coast of Italy, the limousine turned onto the narrow road that ran between the two villages at opposite ends of the island. After about a mile, the driver turned between the gateposts of a white-washed villa whose circular driveway was paved with crushed clamshells, blindingly white. They stopped at the far side of the drive in the shade of an olive tree. The driver's shoes made a crunching sound as he came around to the back door and opened it for Berringer, directly in front of the steps going up to the villa's entrance.

"Hop out, Father," he said. "You're here."

Berringer got out of the car and allowed himself the pleasure of a good stretch before heading up the steps. As he stepped onto the porch, two men in silk shirts and white linen pants emerged and stopped him.

"Hands up," one of them said in Italian, gesturing to Father Berringer to raise his hands as he spoke.

Berringer raised his hands, and the other man frisked him. Satisfied that Father Berringer was clean, the first man motioned for the priest to follow him into the villa. The second one followed.

There was a toilet just off the entry to the villa, and the two men indicated that Father Berringer should use it. It didn't matter that he didn't need to use the toilet; they made it clear from their gestures that he was expected to use the toilet before his meeting.

Father Berringer went in and washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, and dried off on an immaculate linen towel from a rack to one side. Before he left he flushed the toilet, then stepped back out into the entry.

One of the men motioned for him to follow, while the other one stayed at Father Berringer's elbow. The three of them walked through the front hall of the villa and out onto the terrace that overlooked the sparkling Mediterranean. It took Father Berringer several seconds to recognize the man in the pale blue polo shirt, white linen slacks, and pale straw Panama, standing at the railing of white wrought iron.

"Your Eminence," he said, bowing as the cardinal turned to smile at him.

"Hello, Thomas," the cardinal said, extending his hand. "No need to kiss the ring. A handshake will do as well."

A nod dismissed Berringer's keepers. The two men shook hands, and then the cardinal led Father Berringer over to some chairs pulled up around a white wrought iron table underneath a striped umbrella.

"Sit down. Take off your coat, if you want," he said, inviting Berringer to sit. "Myself, I can't abide clericals in this heat. Take off your collar, if you want."

Father Berringer did take off his coat, draping it over the back of one of the spare chairs, but he decided that removing his collar tab might be a bit too presumptuous, even though the cardinal had suggested it.

"Thomas, we may have a problem," the cardinal said, leaning back in his chair when his guest had sat. "What have you found out about Captain John Drummond?"

Father Berringer reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a small notebook.

"Drummond is a captain with the Los Angeles Police Department, in charge of the Homicide Division at Police Headquarters." He turned the page. "He has an excellent service record, a bachelor's degree in Social Science, an MBA, and is working on a doctorate in criminology. He's on the fast track to the chief's office."

"What about his personal life?" the Cardinal asked.

"Married to an actress seven years ago. She was injured in an accident on the set and has been in a coma for the last five years. Drummond dates occasionally, but no real relationships." Father Berringer closed his notebook. "The guy's a real saint."

"So it would seem," the cardinal said. "Is he still married?"

"He is. Still wears his wedding ring. Like I said, a real saint."

Father Berringer put his notebook away just as a servant brought over a pitcher of iced tea and two frosty glasses on a tray. The cardinal himself poured, handing one to Berringer and then sipping silently at his own for several minutes, gazing out at the deep blue of the Mediterranean.

"What does our agent in the LAPD have to say about Drummond?" he finally asked.

"Not much," Father Berringer replied. "He was shot near Police Headquarters last week."

"Killed?" the cardinal interrupted.

"No, but he'll be out of commission for at least another month."

"Go on," the cardinal said.

"According to Morwood's last report, the Israeli Secret Service stopped by Drummond's office the day before the shooting. They accused him of being involved with a bunch of Austrian Nazis and of the death of some old Jew in Vienna. Drummond seemed to have cleared himself, but the next day, the same guys tried to hit him. They got Morwood by mistake. It was later determined that the men were Mossad."

Father Berringer topped up the cardinal's iced tea at his gesture and poured himself another glass.

"Are you convinced that the Morwood shooting was an accident?" the cardinal asked.

"It seems reasonable. Morwood was wearing Drummond's raincoat, and the hit man shot him in the back." Father Berringer sipped his iced tea. "Yes, I'd say the shooting was a mistake."

"I see." The cardinal stretched his legs, and a bit of red silk stocking flashed at his ankle. "Aside from the incident with the Mossad, did Morwood give you any other information about Drummond?"

"Only that he seemed very interested in any killings where the victims displayed an inordinate amount of blood loss," Father Berringer said. "Probably something to do with his doctoral thesis on the vampire murders in Los Angeles back in the seventies. That's what first brought him to my attention, as you know."

"And where do you think Drummond is now?" the cardinal asked.

Berringer considered. "A very good question. He's not at his home or his beach house, and he's not at his office. At first I thought he might be at one of the LAPD safe houses up at Big Bear Lake, but he isn't. I heard from one of our contacts in the FBI that he got on a flight to Sweden, but he didn't arrive at the other end. He did make it as far as London." Father Berringer set down his glass. "My guess is, he's on the run."

"I would say that's a fair guess," the cardinal said, leaning forward. "But where, Thomas? From the Mossad, or to the Nazis?"

Father Berringer gave him a blank look. "I don't think I understand," he began.

"Thomas," the cardinal interrupted, "I want you to go to Luxembourg. There's a doctor there that I want you to contact, and when you do, show him this." He handed Father Berringer a small black velvet bag. "Go ahead," he said. "Open it."

Father Berringer pulled open the mouth of the little bag and dumped a gold signet ring out into the palm of his hand.

"Am I supposed to wear this?" he asked.

"Not yet," the cardinal said. "The doctor will give you your instructions. If he tells you to wear the ring, then put it on. Otherwise," the cardinal's voice took on a hard edge, "it stays in the bag. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Eminence." Realizing the meeting was over, Father Berringer stood up, returning the ring to its bag and slipping it into his trouser pocket.

"Good," the cardinal said, extending his hand. "I'll have my driver see to the details."

Father Berringer genuflected in front of the cardinal, kissing the ring, then rose and collected his jacket.

"By the way, Thomas," the cardinal said, as Berringer turned to leave. "Do be careful."

Berringer nodded and left the terrace. When he had disappeared in the company of the two men who had escorted him in, the cardinal signaled to the servant who had brought out the iced tea.