Tales of the Knights Templar (21 page)

“Heil Hitler!”
rang through the castle courtyard, and better than thirty hands shot upward in stiff-armed salute as Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer SS, arguably the most powerful man in Germany, emerged from the castle and made his way toward the waiting car. Just before the gate that led to the drawbridge, SS General Taubert stood at attention in the misting rain, his right arm rigid as he offered the Nazi salute.

Himmler enthusiastically returned the salute, smiled at Taubert, and shook his hand.

“It has been an honor to have you visit again, Reichsführer,” Taubert said, a smile of genuine hospitality beaming out from his friendly face.

Himmler gave Taubert an enigmatic smile in return. “Thank you, General Taubert. It is always a pleasure to visit the spiritual home of our beloved SS.” As if on cue, the rain stopped and a feeble ray of sunlight edged its way through the clouds.

From near the car, Becker watched as the two men shook hands and took their leave of one another, Himmler then marching quickly down the drawbridge toward his car.

“Captain Becker,” Himmler called out as he walked past.

“Yes, Reichsführer?” Becker trotted over to where Himmler had stopped beside the Mercedes.

“I want to speak to you in Berlin. My office. Tuesday.” Himmler gave Becker a crinkly smile. “You’ve done good work,
Major.”

Becker stammered out his thanks as the door to Himmler’s car slammed shut and the Reichsführer SS was chauffeured back down the mountain.

Within an hour Becker was in his own car, headed toward Berlin, 450 kilometers distant. The scarlet and black BMW 328 cabriolet chewed its way across the near-deserted German countryside until it reached the autobahn, where Becker was able to push the car to a steady 150 kph until, sometime after midnight, he reached the outskirts of Berlin.

Pulling off the autobahn, he threaded his way through the blacked-out streets of the capital, grateful that the RAF hadn’t picked this particular night to bomb the city. After a few minutes of dead-slow driving, he turned down a small alley and, half a block farther on, parked in the garage of a large house in one of Berlin’s more affluent suburbs.

Like his car, the house had once belonged to a moderately successful film producer, Emil Staubberberg. What had become of Staubberberg rarely crossed Becker’s mind. What mattered—to Becker, at any rate—was that he had been fortunate enough to buy the house, its contents, and the car for a song. Becker had met Staubberberg on the lot at UFA, the big film studios on the eastern edge of Berlin. He had gone to see him about a directing job, and when he arrived in Staubberberg’s office, found him packing a few possessions into a cardboard box.

“What do you want?” Staubberberg asked as Becker breezed into his office.

“I heard you were looking for someone to replace Victor Lazlo on your next picture,” Becker answered.

“Well, I was until about half an hour ago,” Staubberberg said, stuffing a pile of scripts into the box. “Then I got this memo from the front office saying that as and from nine
AM
tomorrow, the studio would be controlled by Dr. Goebbels and the Ministry of Propaganda.”

“So what’s that got to do with anything?” Becker asked.

Staubberberg turned around and looked at Becker for the first time since he had walked into the office.

“Are you from the dark side of the moon or something?” he asked, then continued without waiting for a reply. “Look, I produce movies—not great ones, but ones people like to see. Dr. Goebbels also produces movies—not great ones, but ones that he can force people to see.” Staubberberg sat on the edge of his desk and stared out the window.

“Did you ever watch the crap the Nazis are producing? Well, I have, and it scares the shit out of me. But what really scares the shit out of me are the people who watch these films. They are capable of anything.

“The Nazis are out to get rid of all the intellectuals, the homosexuals, and the Jews, not only in the motion picture business, but everywhere else as well. So, speaking as a closet queer with more than one Jewish granny, I’m headed for the door.” Staubberberg lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew a long plume of smoke into the air.

“You rich?” he finally asked Becker.

“Not on what they pay assistant directors,” Becker replied.

“Good. Then you can be my business partner for the next few months.” Staubberberg handed Becker the box on his desk. “These are your assets. Now we’re going to the bank.”

Staubberberg’s films might have been second-rate, but his business deals were triple-A rated. At the bank he signed over the rights to all of his films to his “partner,” Becker. Using these as collateral, Becker borrowed enough money to buy Staubberberg’s house, furniture, and car. Staubberberg used the same money to guarantee that he would buy back the assets of his company from the bank, should Becker default on the loan. He then assigned the buy-back contract to a film distribution company in Sweden in which he was a partner.

As they walked out of the bank, Staubberberg handed Becker his key ring.

“Here,” he said. “These are yours now. This one is the front door, the flat silver one is the key to my—your—BMW, and these other two are for the garage in the alley. Oh, and that long skeleton key opens the family crypt in the Jewish cemetery in Worms. If you ever go there, put a pebble on my granny’s grave, huh?” With that Staubberberg turned and walked off down the street.

As he locked the BMW in the garage, Becker wondered what had become of Staubberberg; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he crossed the alley and passed through the gate that led into the back garden of his home. Whistling slightly off key, Becker bounded up the stairs to his back door and let himself in, dumped his hat and overcoat on a chair in the kitchen, and headed upstairs to his bedroom for some much-needed sleep.

* * *

“Maria,” Becker spoke into the Bakelite intercom on the corner of his desk. “Would you please call signals and tell them that I need to speak to Gestapo headquarters in Brussels?” He released the button on the top of the intercom and returned his attention to the file in front of him.

Through the greatest of good fortune, an insignificant Nazi informer in Switzerland had told the Gestapo that the Order of the Temple was trying to smuggle its archives into that country. The Gestapo, in turn, had managed to bungle the arrest of the smugglers, and in an attempt to scrape the problem off the bottom of their shoe, had sent the file on the case to the Ahnenerbe.

For a moment Becker scowled; the Ahnenerbe was becoming a dump for any project that didn’t fit neatly into a National Socialist pigeonhole in any other department, branch, or bureau of the Nazi government. In the last two weeks alone, Admiral Canaris, Chief of Abwehr—German military intelligence—had sent nearly a ton of files to his office, the fruit of having conquered France. The files contained everything the
Sûreté
had gathered on secret societies operating in France between the Franco-Prussian War and World War I.

Becker shook his head and continued to run his finger down the three-page report from the Gestapo, looking for the name of the Swiss informant. The soft purr of his telephone halted his search.

“Becker here,” he said as he brought the phone to his ear.

“Gestapo HQ Belguim is on the line, sir.” There was a crackle, and then Becker was connected with a faceless voice in Brussels.

“Geheim Staatspolizei,
Brussels. May I help you?”

“This is Major Hans Becker, Office Five of the Ahnenerbe, calling. Would you please connect me with …” Becker quickly flipped to the back of the file and read the name of the senior investigating officer, “Sergeant Adolf Lindt.”

“One moment, please.” The voice put Becker on hold, but not for long.

“Hello, this is Lindt. What do you want?” Lindt’s voice had a gravelly edge to it, and Becker sensed that the man was probably more at home kicking someone to death in a stinking little cell than he was dealing with the SS in Berlin.

“I am inquiring about an interrogation.” Becker could imagine Lindt tensing on the other end of the line.

“Yes?” Lindt’s voice was padded in caution.

“The name is …” Becker looked again at the file, “Vandenburgh. Clement Isaac Vandenburgh. Is he still in custody?”

“Just a minute. I’ll have to check,” Lindt said.

Becker winced as the other man dropped the phone on his desk. In the background he could hear indistinct swearing as Lindt dug through rustling paper.

“Hello, Becker? You still there?” Lindt sounded first impatient and then annoyed when Becker replied that he was still there. “Your Vandenburgh was here, but he was released a couple of days ago. Why?”

“I need to talk to him.” Becker was irritated by the man’s demeanor. “Can you rearrest him?”

“Not without authority,” Lindt said. “And certainly not on the authority of the Ahnenerbe.”

“Sergeant Lindt—” Becker glanced at his watch, “I am going to have lunch in twenty-five minutes with Deputy Reichsführer Heydrich. Shall I ask him to call you?”

Lindt’s voice didn’t change. “Only if you want this guy Vandenburgh shot. Otherwise I’ll hold him here until you arrive.”

“Good.” Becker knew he had won. “Call me back when Vandenburgh is in custody.”

Placing his phone back on its cradle, Becker smiled slightly. The bluff about lunch with Heydrich always worked. Invoking the name of the most sinister figure in the hierarchy of the Third Reich inevitably provoked full and unquestioning compliance. Becker tidied the papers on his desk, then stood up and crossed over to where he had tossed his hat and greatcoat on a chair. Putting them on, he adjusted his tie so that his Nazi party pin was just visible, then headed out the door to meet with Himmler.

As happened to virtually all of the Reichsführer’s visitors, Becker was kept waiting for more than an hour outside Himmler’s office. Finally the polished mahogany doors opened and he was ushered into the very center of the spider’s web.

“Welcome, Major.” Himmler smiled as he came around his massive desk and took Becker by the arm. “You’re just in time for coffee.” The Reichsführer led him toward the corner of the room where two leather armchairs were drawn intimately together. Flanked by the dark green chairs was a small table set with an elegant porcelain coffee service, the black cups and saucers monogramed with the silver lightning flashes of the SS. As Becker and Himmler settled into the deep leather cushions, an orderly in a white mess jacket appeared with a steaming silver pot filled with dark, rich coffee. Having carefully placed it on the table, he withdrew.

“I must say,” Himmler began, once they were alone, “that I have been rather impressed with your work on the Templars.” He interrupted himself as he poured the coffee into the small cups. “One lump or two?”

Becker was slightly amused at the way Himmler fussed over the coffee.

“Two, please,” he replied.

Silver tongs gripped in spidery fingers carefully lowered two small white cubes of sugar into Becker’s cup.

“Milk, Major Becker?”

“Thank you.”
What does he want?
Becker wondered as he took the black and silver cup and saucer from Himmler’s outstretched hand.

“You see, Major,” Himmler continued as if their meeting concerned some mundane matter of administration, “I am creating a new Order of Knighthood. One that will resurrect the ideals of the old Teutonic knights; an order that will send a shiver of revitalization through the spine of all Germans.”

“I see,” said Becker, hoping that he had chosen the right response.

“I know you do,” said Himmler. “I could tell it in your reports. The detail, the depth of research. It’s all there. Especially your most recent report. Some would say that it reads like fiction, like some sort of high adventure.” Himmler allowed himself a high-pitched, nervous chuckle. “That’s because you understand, the same way I understand, the importance of the Templars.” He set his cup down on the table and leaned forward, coming closer to Becker, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And you understand the importance of their ancient secret powers.”

I may be producing
The Secret of the Templars
before the war is over,
Becker thought as the Reichsführer SS continued.

“Major Becker.” Himmler regarded Becker over the rim of his cup. “You are to find the Grand Master of the Knight Templars before the twenty-first of June. Once you have him, you are to convince him to come to Berlin, and to resign his office in my favor.”

Becker nearly choked on his coffee. Himmler wanted to be the Grand Master of the Templars.

“So,” Himmler went on, “I have appointed you to my personal staff.” He reached over to the table and picked up a small black leather folder embossed with a silver SS eagle.

“Here, take this,” he said, handing the folder to Becker. “Open it.”

Becker did as he was told. Inside, on the personal letter paper of the Reichsführer SS, and above his spidery signature, was a single typewritten paragraph:

ATTENTION! The bearer of this document is traveling under my personal orders on a matter of the utmost urgency to the SS and the Greater German Reich. He is to be given every assistance in the execution of his duty, and any request that he may make is to be considered as having the full effect of a direct order issued by me. HEIL HITLER!

Becker slowly closed the folder and allowed it to rest on his lap. A more intelligent man would have trembled in fear at the mere thought of the wide-ranging powers conferred by the document he had been handed by Himmler. But Becker wasn’t intelligent. Cunning, yes. Smart, certainly. But he lacked the depth of insight necessary to recognize the little black leather folder for what it might be: his death warrant.

Himmler suddenly stood up. “Well, Major Becker,” he said, “thank you for coming to my office.”

For a brief moment Becker was afraid to stand. Afraid that the trembling excitement that ran through his body at that moment would cause his legs to buckle under him and send him crashing to the floor. But he did stand up.

“Thank you, Reichsführer, for the great trust you have put in me and my abilities.” Becker gave a curt bow.