At Sword's Point (27 page)

"It's the bear, Father Frank. It's the bear," he said, although his voice seemed to come from a long way off.

Everything was getting dark, and Freise struggled to see his driver in the failing light.

"Tommy?" he said.

Then his eyes glazed over and rolled back into his head.

LeBlanc had just reached the door of the great hall when Stillman's shot toppled Father Friese from his chair. Ducking quickly behind an arras, he watched the big Mossad agent give the man he had just shot a casual nudge with his foot before he turned and left the great hall. As Stillman crossed the castle courtyard, Friese let out a low moan. Fumbling in the pocket of his waxed jacket for a first aid kit, Dr. LeBlanc darted from his hiding place and dropped to his knees beside the wounded man.

* * * *

Outside, Stillman made a cursory search of the castle, pausing only long enough in each room to make certain that there was no one else there. Satisfied that the priest had been alone, he left the tomblike silence of the ancient fortress and trotted back through the woods to his car. A quarter hour later, he was parking the Buick at the edge of the village square in Clervaux.

Crammed into a phone booth in front of the village post office, Stillman waited patiently while the recorded voice told him that Travelcare Exports was closed for the day. As soon as he heard the electronic beep at the end of the message, he tapped in his personal identification number.

There was a metallic click, and a man's voice came on the line.

"Status?"

Stillman rattled off his code number.

"Call back?" the voice asked.

Stillman gave him the number of the telephone booth in Clervaux, then hung up.

The minutes ticked by, and Stillman had to open the door of the phone booth, which had become unbearable in the afternoon sun.

The phone rang four times and Stillman answered it.

There was a slight hiss on the line and then Stillman heard Berman's voice.

"Brian, delighted you called. How'd everything go in New York?" Berman obviously reveled in his job as an agent control officer.

"The car is gone," Stillman said, with total disregard for the so-called subtleties of their conversation.

"And the players?" Berman asked.

"One batter out, two to go," Stillman replied. "But I think you should know that the first player was a last-minute substitution."

"I see," Berman said. "Call back in an hour."

The line went dead, and Stillman replaced the receiver. Unwedging himself from the phone booth, he took a deep breath of fresh air that was stirred by a gentle breeze coming out of the mountains. Crossing the village square, he went into a small hotel and booked a room, then settled down on the terrace with a cold glass of beer.

"You know, of course," von Liebenfalz said, with a I tone of smug superiority creeping into his voice, "that all of this is fake."

Drummond looked up from the new map that he had spread out on the table of the sidewalk cafe, on the outskirts of Ulm.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "What's fake?"

"Why, Ulm," von Liebenfalz replied. "The whole city was bombed flat in the war. There isn't a building here that dates before 1947."

"Oh," Drummond said, returning to his map. "Yeah, it does look like it could do with a fresh coat of paint, now that you mention it."

"God, what Philistines!" von Liebenfalz muttered, in something several decibels above a whisper.

"Ah, found it!" Drummond exclaimed, drawing a neat circle around Schloss Marienkampf on the topographical map. "Now all we have to do is hope they're there when we arrive." He folded the map and looked around the sidewalk cafe.

"Where's Eberle gone with de Beq and his men?" he asked.

"To the toilet. It seems that the beer goes through them almost as fast as they drink it." Von Liebenfalz yawned. "It just makes me drowsy."

Just then a commotion erupted in the back of the restaurant, followed by a woman's shriek and the sound of breaking glasses. Gruff laughter came echoing out of the restaurant, followed a moment later by Eberle, de Beq, and his remaining nine men.

"What was that all about?" Drummond asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

"It seems that one of the knights was fascinated by the legs on the waitress," Eberle said with a droll grimace, as the knights surrounded the adjacent tables they had occupied before and sat down, some of them calling for more beer. "I guess they've never seen a mini-skirt before, and all of that flesh was a bit too much for them. Anyway, I paid for the damage, so I don't think there will be any trouble."

"Don't look now," von Liebenfalz said. "Trouble has just pulled up at the curb."

Across the street, Tom Berringer watched from behind the wheel of his silver Ford Granada Scorpio as two burly policemen got out of a green-and-white BMW and headed purposefully toward where the knights, clad in chain mail and red surcoats, lounged rather boisterously around two tables, drinking beer. As they approached, Eberle stepped adroitly between the knights and the police.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" he asked, blocking their way to de Beq's men.

"Are you with this circus?" the gray-haired policeman asked.

"Actually," Eberle said, "we're filming a commercial, not performing in a circus."

"Commercial, huh?" the policeman said. "I don't see any cameras."

"We're filming at Schloss Marienkampf," Eberle said. "We're on a break until six o'clock."

"I see." The policeman looked at Drummond and von Liebenfalz. "Are these other guys with you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, they are," Eberle replied.

The policeman turned to Drummond.

"Who are you?" he asked in German.

Drummond gave him a blank look and turned to Eberle.

"Markus, what's up?"

"I told the policeman that we're shooting a commercial at Marienkampf Castle, and he wants to know who you are," Eberle said in English.

"Well, tell him—"

"I speak English," the policeman interrupted. "You are an American?"

"That's right. We're doing a beer commercial out at Schloss Marienkampf," Drummond said.

"So I understand." He gave them both a hard look. "I suggest your break is over. Take your actors and get back to the castle."

The two policemen climbed back into their BMW and sat watching as Drummond, Eberle, and von Liebenfalz tried to convince de Beq and his men that it was time to move along.

"Look, Henri," Drummond said. "If we don't get into the cars and head out to the castle right now, there is a very good chance that the cops will arrest us."

"They can't," de Beq said. "We answer only to the Prince of Antioch. Besides, there are only two of them and we are thirteen. We would make short work of them if they tried."

"All they have to do is call for a backup, and there'd be thirty of them here in five minutes. Now, for God's sake, let's go." Drummond could see that the policemen were just about at the end of their patience.

"Do not take the Lord's name in vain, John Drummond de Beq," de Beq said. "If the police want us to leave, let them make us." He smiled. "If they can."

De Beq's men grunted approval and gave no sign of being willing to leave.

Drummond pulled Eberle aside. "What are we going to do, Markus? Can you stall the police for a few minutes?"

"Stall German police?" Eberle asked. "In case you haven't heard, all the policemen in Hell are Germans. I'll try, but don't count on it."

Drummond turned again to de Beq. "Henri," he said, "we have to go."

"I am not running from some town constable," de Beq replied. "We are the Prince of Antioch's men, and not beholden to this lot here in Ulm."

"If you are the prince's men," von Liebenfalz said, "then perhaps you recognize this." From inside his shirt he produced a small golden disk ensigned with a Jerusalem cross surmounted with a princely crown that was attached to a black silk cord looped around his neck.

"Where did you get that?" de Beq asked, as he stared at the badge of a lieutenant of the Prince of Antioch.

"From his Highness. As his lieutenant, I am charged to ask you to please return to our cars." Von Liebenfalz gave de Beq a polite but commanding smile. "Sir Henri, will you gather your troops, please?"

De Beq opened his mouth as if he was about to argue, but then shut it again and turned to his men.

"Brothers," he said, "it is time we left to face the enemy."

* * * *

Brian Stillman set down his beer and went over to the pay phone in the lobby of the hotel in Clervaux. Dialing the number of Travelcare Exports, he was connected to Berman at Mossad headquarters in a matter of minutes.

"Okay, Brian, just listen. Uptown isn't happy with your extra hit, so you'd better get your act together on this one before you're called in." Berman's voice managed to sound both angry and concerned at the same time.

"So, where's the car?" Stillman asked rather peevishly.

"Attitude, Brian," Berman said. "Don't push. The car is in Ulm. It's a dark blue Saab, and—wait a second. Oh, shit!"

"What's up?" Stillman asked.

"The goddamn car is moving again. The Lorcan system is having a hard time tracking. Don't move, I'll call you back." Berman's line went dead.

Stillman replaced the receiver and went into the bar to get another beer, staying in the vicinity of the pay phone in the lobby until he heard it ring. Setting down his drink, he went into the phone booth and picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.

"Okay, Brian. The car is just outside of Ulm, near a place called Schloss Marienkampf. It's on your big Michelin map, so you should have no trouble finding it." Berman's voice took on a patronizing tone. "And Brian, please. No more extra hits." The line went dead.

Stillman looked at the receiver mouthing:
No more extra hits
. "Fuck you" he said, and then hung up the phone.

* * * *

As Drummond pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road opposite the drive that led to Schloss Marienkampf, Berringer drove past at a steady 100 kilometers an hour. Getting out, Drummond walked back to where Eberle and von Liebenfalz had pulled in behind his car, not noticing that the silver Ford Granada had stopped a quarter mile farther on, or that the driver was training a pair of field glasses on him.

"Okay, guys, everybody out," Drummond said. "Time for a council of war."

De Beq's men gathered around the Range Rover while de Beq, Drummond, Eberle, and von Liebenfalz discussed their next move.

"I think we really only have one option," Drummond said. "That's a surprise attack on the castle. Does anybody have any other ideas?"

"Well, we could wait until nightfall," von Liebenfalz suggested.

"But what if they decide to leave before it gets dark?" Eberle asked.

Drummond turned to de Beq. "What do you think, Henri? You've fought them before. What do you suggest?"

"I agree with you, John Drummond de Beq." De Beq rested his hand on the hilt of his captured Nazi sword. "If we could create a diversion of some sort, that might make storming the gate easier."

"Well," Eberle said. "If all you want is a diversion, that's easy." He opened the wooden box containing the MP44 assault rifle and pulled it out. "I've got three hundred rounds of ammunition, and a grenade launcher and six grenades. I say we blow the door off its hinges and rush the place."

"Do you think that will cause enough confusion to let us get in?" von Liebenfalz asked.

"Well," Drummond replied, "if Kluge's current batch of recruits are anything like the punkers who attacked us at de Beq's castle, I'd say we'll have the element of surprise on our side the moment the door blows. Henri?" Drummond looked to the leader of the knights for agreement.

"I think it is a good plan," de Beq said. "Which is fortunate," he added after a moment's pause.

"Why fortunate?" von Liebenfalz asked.

"Because it is our only plan—that's why." De Beq tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently. "Shall we be off, then?"

* * * *

Berringer watched as Drummond and his war party crossed the road and moved off along the side of the drive leading to Kluge's headquarters. The knights all seemed to be armed with swords, though one of them had a rather deadly looking crossbow over his shoulder. The other three carried firearms of various sorts. Most strange.

Tossing his binoculars on the seat of his car, he reached into the glove box and brought out a SIG P228 9mm pistol and trotted off after Drummond and his men.

* * * *

Moving along the edge of the wooded drive, Drummond and his men came to a second set of closed gates, this one with a sentry posted in a small box set on the top of the wall. De Beq signaled for Miles Brabazon to come forward with the crossbow Drummond had provided, a reel of shark-line attached. The knight hurried forward and dropped to the ground next to de Beq without making a sound.

De Beq reached over and touched Brabazon lightly on the throat. The knight nodded, then shouldered the crossbow. Standing up, de Beq coughed loudly. The sentry turned and looked at de Beq, and for a brief moment couldn't believe his eyes. In that brief instant, Brabazon fired the crossbow.

The heavy, broad bolt slammed into the sentry's throat, tearing through the vocal cords and severing the carotid artery. Gasping, the man grabbed the shaft of the bolt and tried to pull the short arrow out of his neck. The shaft slipped easily from the arrowhead, which had embedded itself in the roof of his mouth.

Grabbing the heavy nylon shark-line, Brabazon wrapped it quickly around the stock of the crossbow and pulled, dragging the sentry halfway out of the box on the wall. Realizing that he was caught like a fish, the Nazi vampire grabbed a handful of the line and tried to jerk it out of Brabazon's grasp.

Brabazon gave the man a little slack—just enough to wrap the line once around his hand. The moment he had done that, Brabazon pulled again. The line cut through the flesh and sank to the bones of the sentry's hand. Throwing his arm around Brabazon's waist, de Beq helped him to pull the sentry from the box, watching with grim satisfaction as he fell with a sickening thud onto the driveway of the castle. De Beq rushed forward as the vampire struggled to push himself up from the pavement and cut off his head with a powerful swipe of his sword.

After dragging the sentry off the drive, de Beq pushed the gates open and rushed through, closely followed by Drummond and the rest of the warriors. Inside Kluge's inner compound, the drive turned sharply to the right and headed for the castle, nearly two hundred meters away. Sliding to an abrupt halt, de Beq turned toward the stragglers and waved them forward with his sword.

Coming up to where de Beq was crouched at the edge of the bend in the drive, Eberle dropped down onto one knee and fitted a grenade into the launcher on the end of the barrel of his assault rifle. Taking careful aim at the door to the castle, he fired.

With a muffled bang the grenade was launched in a gentle arc towards the studded oak door. The grenade banged against the door and then clattered harmlessly against the cobbles in the courtyard.

Shaking his head, Eberle quickly reloaded and fired again. Another dud struck the door. He had just fitted the third grenade to the launcher when one of Kluge's knights opened the door to see what was the cause of the pounding they could hear inside.

Eberle fired, and the grenade streaked in through the open door and vanished into the great hall of the castle. A bright orange flash filled the doorway, followed an instant later by a deafening explosion. The knight who, a moment before, had opened the door seemed to dissolve into a mass of shredded rags as the shrapnel from the grenade tore through his body. Shrieking, he was blown clear of the door and landed in the courtyard, a tangle of intestines and shredded uniform.

"
Dieu le veult
!" de Beq thundered at the top of his lungs, as he sprinted down the drive and launched himself into the castle. Hot on his heels Drummond charged in, de Beq's crusader sword swinging wildly as he crossed the threshold of the castle door.

The speed with which de Beq and Drummond stormed the castle took the others by surprise, and for a brief moment the two were alone in their charge against the enemy. Then, as if they were one being, the knights of the Order of the Sword broke into a screaming yell and charged into the castle.

In the courtyard, Eberle jerked the grenade launcher from the muzzle of the MP44 and pushed the selector lever to full auto. Slapping von Liebenfalz on the shoulder, he gave him a smile.

"Come on, Tony," he shouted. "Let's kick ass!" And he was running toward the castle, von Liebenfalz trying hard to keep up.

Unsure of what was happening, Berringer slowly made his way to the edge of the drive, his SIG at the ready. He had almost reached the discarded grenade launcher when the sound of firing inside the castle made him drop to the ground and scurry for cover.