At Sword's Point (23 page)

After scrounging through the castle, Drummond managed to find a small three-legged chair and a carved chest, which he and one of the knights lugged up the stairs to his room. The extra furniture made the small room even more crowded. Drummond shoved the chest against the wall next to the fireplace and used it to stow the clothes he'd bought at Kettner's in Vienna. His clothes of the night before went back into his luggage, which he piled in one corner of the room. Suddenly things didn't look so crowded. There was a peg in the wall above the chest, and from this Drummond hung the sword that de Beq had given him the night before. Satisfied that the room was at least semi-habitable, he set off down the stairs toward the great hall, looking for de Beq.

The mood of earlier in the morning had changed as Drummond came back into the great hall. As he emerged from the turnpike stair, he saw de Beq with half a dozen of the other knights at the other end of the hall, struggling out the door with an oblong box. He headed toward them, thinking to offer his assistance, then realized that the box was a coffin, and whose it must be.

Hano von Linka, de Beq had said, the night before. Drummond remembered the name from his earlier visit to the castle and even remembered a face to attach to the name. He found it difficult to reconcile the vision of the "thing" he had seen the night before with the handsome blond knight who had tended him after the battle with Kluge. More chillingly, he found himself wondering just how much remained of a man no longer immortal, who should have died seven centuries ago.

He drifted after them as they maneuvered the coffin out the door and into the courtyard, drawn both by his curiosity and by an odd sense of camaraderie that he could not explain, even though he technically was one of their number. He might be a Knight of the Sword, but he had yet to manifest any of the signs of immortality.

Slowly they headed out across the courtyard, making for the drawbridge. Father Freise came out of the chapel to join them, clad in his vestments. Out of respect for de Beq and his knights, Drummond held back, not sure if he should join them, but Freise saw him standing in the doorway and motioned him to follow. Coming down the steps from the great hall, Drummond fell in next to the priest as de Beq led the procession out of the castle and into the woods.

They carried the casket in silence for nearly a mile, until the little cortege came upon the ruin of a tiny chapel, much overgrown with ivy and creepers. De Beq swung open the door and then moved aside as his men manhandled the coffin into the small building, setting it down where the altar once had stood. Stepping back then, the knights ranged along both walls of the chapel.

Slowly, his head bowed, Father Freise walked between the rows of knights to stand over the humble coffin of their departed comrade and brother, tracing the sign of the cross over it with his hand.

"
Orate, fratres
," he said quietly, clasping his hands at his breast as he began the prayers for the dead. "
Kyrie eleison, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison
. …"

Quietly, in Latin, he chanted the prayers, the knights joining brokenly in half a dozen accents. Most of the Latin went over Drummond's head, but he recognized the Lord's Prayer at the end, even though he did not know all the words in Latin.

When the simple ceremony was over, four of the knights came forward and carefully slid back the stone slab covering one of the graves near the center of the church. When Father Freise had come and sprinkled holy water over the open grave, the knights carried von Linka's coffin over and removed the lid so that Father Freise could also sprinkle what remained inside, with softly murmured words of a final prayer. The bundle the knights tipped into the grave then, wrapped in what Drummond realized was one of their white mantles, looked far too small to contain human remains…

In silence the knights replaced the stone slab, heading back to the castle then, as quietly as they had come. Only the prayers of the priest had broken the silence of their mourning. Drummond fell in next to de Beq on the way back. He had been profoundly moved by what he had seen and wanted to say something to the knight that would convey his regrets over what had happened, but he didn't know how to express it. The two men walked quietly together, and it was de Beq who finally broke the silence.

"Hano was a valiant knight," he said. "It was a shame that he could not die quickly in battle." He looked sideways at Drummond. "That is how warriors should die, is it not?"

"Yes, it is," Drummond said, seizing his chance. "A knight should face death on both feet, fighting against a worthy enemy. Otherwise, it would be as well to stake him out in a field and let him die there, like a sheep used to draw a wolf."

De Beq seemed to recoil a little at that, though he tried not to show it, and continued walking for several minutes before he spoke again.

"When there are no worthy enemies, knights become as sheep." He stopped and turned to Drummond. "Hano was a great knight, but in the end he died like a sick sheep. I think I will choose a better death."

"The only really better death would be to fall having killed the last of the Nazis." Drummond's voice made it sound like a challenge.

"Perhaps," de Beq said. "If we knew they were coming, I would stay to fight them."

"Would you lead your men to fight them, if we knew where they were?" Drummond asked.

"They could be anywhere. How would we find them?" A look of impatience crossed de Beq's face. "Do you know how old I am, John Drummond?"

Drummond shook his head.

"Well, I will tell you," de Beq continued. "I am nearly seven hundred and sixty years old. And do you know what I've done for the last seven hundred of those years? I've waited—waited for God to call me up to heaven. And I will tell you something else. I grow tired of waiting."

"I can take you to Kluge," Drummond said.

"I am so tired of—what was that you said?" de Beq asked, looking at him sharply.

"I said I think I know where the Nazis are." Drummond looked de Beq straight in the eye. "If you can wait a few more days, I may be able to lead you to him."

After a short silence, de Beq nodded.

"We will have need of horses," he said. "I cannot ask my knights to set out on foot."

"I'll see what I can do."

As they crossed the drawbridge back into the castle, Drummond smiled to himself. De Beq would wait a little longer.

* * * *

Dr. LeBlanc's battered blue Citroën Dyane growled its way up the mountainside to the small town of Clervaux. After parking under the shadow of the fortress that had guarded the villagers since the Middle Ages, the doctor crossed the street to the Ardennes Hotel. He had no idea what Baron von Holtzhauser looked like; only that his instructions had been to meet him on the terrace of the small hotel.

There was only one guest on the terrace: a man in a blue blazer, Panama hat, and mirrored sunglasses, sitting at a white wrought iron table under a red umbrella. Somewhat hesitantly, Dr. LeBlanc approached the man.

"
Vous êtes Baron von Holtzhauser
?" he asked.

The mirrored sunglasses reflected LeBlanc's image for several long seconds before the man answered.

"
Oui, je m'appelle von Holtzhauser
," Berringer replied. "But if you don't mind, I'd rather we spoke English." He took off his sunglasses and set them on the table beside him. "Please sit down," he said indicating an empty chair next to him. "May I order you a drink?"

"A vermouth Cassis, please," Dr. LeBlanc said as he sat down.

Berringer signaled to the waiter, who came and took their order.

"Now, what, if any, instructions do you have for me?" Berringer asked.

"None that I am aware of," Leblanc replied. "I was told to give you some maps…" He stopped talking as the waiter arrived with their drinks. "Maps of the local area."

He reached into his pocket and produced several folded maps. "Here," he said, handing them to Berringer.

Berringer spread one of the maps open on the table. With his pen, he drew a circle around Clervaux.

"Show me where your surgery is," he said.

LeBlanc pointed to a small village, and Berringer drew another circle. Using the edge of one of the folded maps as a ruler, he drew a straight line between the village and Clervaux. Circling the other nearby villages, he connected them to Clervaux as well. Then, after studying the map for a few seconds, he drew a series of other circles at or near the center of each of the lines.

All, that is, except one. There was no circle on the line that connected Clervaux to LeBlanc's village.

"The priest is somewhere along here," Berringer said, moving his finger up and down along the line between the village and Clervaux.

"How do you know?" LeBlanc asked, wide-eyed.

"Because midway between each of these other villages and Clervaux is a ruined castle—a medieval fortress placed in such a way that it could come quickly to the defense of the villages, or rush to the aid of the town.

"But there isn't a castle on the line you've drawn," LeBlanc said.

"Precisely. Although there should be, and," he smiled at LeBlanc, "I'll bet there is. Call your contact and ask him if he wants me to visit Father Freise."

* * * *

The gray Audi pulled to the side of the road beside some yellow surveyor's marks painted on the pavement, and von Liebenfalz gritted his teeth as the car jumped the curb and bounced along the rough path between the trees. Several hundred yards into the woods, von Liebenfalz pulled the Audi well off the track and proceeded on foot. He hadn't gone very far when he had the sensation that he was being watched, perhaps even followed.

He glanced around but saw no one. Putting his hand in his pocket, he touched the pearl handles of his .25-caliber Browning pistol for reassurance, then moved deeper into the woods.

The sun had just set as von Liebenfalz reached the edge of the meadow surrounding the castle of the Order of the Sword. In the fading light, he could see Drummond's black Range Rover parked near the edge of the moat, over by the drawbridge. He was about to go forward toward the castle when he saw Drummond come out across the drawbridge and climb into his car. A moment later, the car started and the headlamps came on, and Drummond drove across the clearing and back into the woods. Puzzled as to what he should do next, von Liebenfalz sat down next to a tree to wait for Drummond's return.

* * * *

As soon as he was on the highway, Drummond pushed the big four-wheel drive vehicle up to eighty-five miles an hour and headed south toward Luxembourg City. An hour later, he was easing into the outskirts of the city itself. Pulling off to the side of the road, he picked up his cellular phone and made a call.

"Hotel Bristol," said the slightly hollow voice that answered.

"Concierge, please," Drummond said. A few moments went by, then an urbane and cultured voice came on the line.

"Concierge desk. May I help you?" it asked.

"Yes," said Drummond. "I was wondering if you could give me directions to the hotel?"

The concierge gave precise directions, and in five minutes Drummond was parking the black Range Rover out in front of the Hotel Bristol. Inside the hotel, Drummond crossed the lobby and went straight to the concierge's desk.

"
Oui, monsieur
?" the concierge said as Drummond approached his desk.

"I wanted to thank you for the directions to the hotel," Drummond said, slipping the man two hundred Austrian schillings. "I'm meeting a friend for drinks—sort of a thick set man with stainless steel teeth. If he asks, I'm in the bar. If anyone else asks, you haven't seen us. Okay?" He put another two hundred schillings on the desk.

"Certainly, sir. And your name?" The concierge's hand covered the Austrian bank notes.

Drummond thought fast. "Eberle," he said. "Hieronymous Eberle." Smiling at the concierge, he turned and went into the bar.

Sitting with his back to the wall, Drummond was able to watch the door of the hotel and the car park outside. As he slowly sipped a scotch and water, he saw a familiar red Corvette nose into the parking lot and pull up in front of the glass-fronted lobby. Markus Eberle got out, casually scanning the lot, and pushed his way through the old-fashioned revolving door. As Drummond watched him tromp over to the concierge's desk and speak to the man, a dark blue Saab slowed to a stop behind Eberle's red Corvette, then reversed into an empty space at the edge of the lot.

Eberle walked into the bar and sat down opposite Drummond.

"Hello, Cousin Hieronymous," he said with a silver grin. "Hear anything from Count Dracula and his pals lately?"

"Only that they're waiting to meet you," Drummond replied.

"Does this mean we haven't got time for dinner?" Eberle asked in a mock serious voice.

Drummond looked at his watch. "If we're fast, we can grab a bite at the Italian restaurant next door."

The driver of the Saab crouched low behind the wheel of his car and watched as Eberle left the hotel with Drummond and walked over to the small Italian restaurant. He had hardly dared to hope that Eberle really was going to
meet
Drummond. Having them both in the same place made life much easier. Satisfied that the two police officers were going to be occupied over their dinners for some time, he left his car and went into the hotel to phone his superiors.

"Travelcare Exports," the recorded voice on the other end of the line announced. "Our offices are closed for the day. If you would like to leave a message, please do so after the tone."

Once he had heard the tone signal, the driver of the Saab punched 3-3-3-6 on the keypad of the pay phone in the hotel lobby. The toned signals traveled down the line, and a computer in Omaha, Nebraska, automatically transferred his call to a satellite up-link that connected him to a Mossad office in New York.

"Status, please," a man's voice asked in Hebrew.

"Thirty-three thirty-six. I've followed our man to Luxembourg, where he has met with another man. They are having dinner at present. Please advise." The agent's report was brief and to the point. At four hundred dollars a minute, they weren't encouraged to waste time on the telephone.