The Blood Lance (30 page)
In the spring of 1935, caught up in preparing the French edition of the book whilst living in Paris for a few months, Rahn received an envelope with a Berlin postmark at his hotel one evening. Opening it he found a good deal of cash and a letter offering to promote his career if he would only come to 7 Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin.
In their loneliest hours writers fall victim to every fantasy. They believe as a creed of faith the book they are working on will change everything. Personal grudges, moral failings, physical deficiencies: these will fade when the imagined book becomes a reality. When life goes forward in the same mindless crush as before, it comes as something of a shock. Quite incredibly the book is forgotten, copies go unsold, and no one speaks of what has taken years to achieve. The author then takes solace in some newspaper critic's random praise and nurses his bruised spirit with hopes that the book, though lost in its own time, might yet be recognised in a future age.
But cash in an envelope and an anonymous letter from a fan who promises to promote one's career? This was something even his boldest fantasy could not have conjured! Rahn laughed, pocketed the Reichsmarks, and tossed the letter aside. He had work to do! The French edition, which he had translated himself, was important - a second chance really. Had it not been for the money in the envelope, he would have written it off as a friend's idea of a joke. But the cash was very real. He told himself it was no doubt a madman or a homosexual. He picked the letter up again before he went to sleep that evening. He looked at it once more the following morning. It was written on fine stationery and the penmanship indicated good breeding. Though too brief to show very much, he thought the language was carefully chosen, even eloquent. So not mad. Probably a homosexual, or possibly. . . a patron. Did such beings really exist in modern times?
Summer 1935.
Rahn had planned to visit Berlin again later that summer anyway. It would not hurt to go to the address and see what the anonymous letter writer had in mind. In the worst case, he could simply tell the fellow he was not interested!
He settled in an inexpensive pension and proceeded to 7 Prinz Albrechtstrasse, which turned out to be a government building. Rahn nearly turned away, quite certain now the letter was a hoax from a university chum with a great deal of money and a very lousy sense of humour, but then he thought no one sends enough money for one to travel from Paris to Berlin as a joke. On the off chance there might be some confusion about the address, some detail he was missing, he went inside and made enquiry.
The uniformed sergeant at the front desk greeted him without excitement, but his expression changed once Rahn had identified himself and presented the letter. He begged
Doctor
Rahn to be patient. Following a hurried, whispered phone call that left Rahn frankly uneasy, a military officer appeared.
'You will follow me, Doctor Rahn!' he announced.
It was almost the tone of a policeman preparing to make an arrest and, despite his pleasure at being addressed in the most flattering manner possible, Rahn endured a moment of regret. What had he got himself into?
'I wonder,' he said to the officer's back, 'if you might tell me—?'
'This way, please!' Apparently the young man had been instructed to explain nothing.
They walked through several hallways and came to an elevator where a corporal stood guard. Inside the elevator, still with his escort, Rahn examined the uniform. He thought it very handsome, very modern. The ancient runic script of SS on the collar was especially appealing. He knew of course the letters stood for
Schutzstaffel
- Security Division - and that what had once been a small faction within the military wing of the Nazi party had grown into a powerful organisation in its own right. Tasked originally with the Führer's security, the SS had now become very much like the Praetorian Guard that had served the emperors of ancient Rome - a force of elite soldiers who answered directly to the emperor. In the days of the Roman Empire, the commander of the Praetorian Guard was the second most powerful man in the Empire, and it seemed that the commander of the SS, a young man named Heinrich Himmler, was on course to achieve pretty much the same status. On the young officer's finger Rahn saw a ring with a skull in the centre. He had seen the same distinct ring on the finger of a civilian on the train coming into Berlin. 'That is very interesting ring you have,' he offered congenially.
This got him an uninterested thank you, nothing more, and Rahn contented himself with staring at the elevator door until it opened. 'This way Doctor. . .'
The officer knocked at an office door and a voice called from inside. 'Enter!'
The young man opened the door, saluted a civilian who was sitting at a large desk, and announced that Doctor Rahn was waiting to see the Reichsführer. The man nearly jumped up, went around his desk hurriedly, and knocked on another door. Soon Heinrich Himmler appeared.
Rahn, recognising Himmler on sight, was flummoxed. He had thought. . . well, he had not thought one of the most powerful men in Germany wanted to promote his career! Himmler was in his mid-thirties, only three or four years older than Rahn. He had dark hair and though he was quite thin he seemed to be an energetic man. He had a peculiarly small chin and eyes set a bit close together, but he nevertheless made a good impression. He was educated and articulate, for one thing. For another, one could see from his manners he had been born to the aristocracy. What Rahn was not prepared for was Himmler's enthusiasm for
The Crusade Against the Grail.
Rahn's visit was unaccountably important to him, and he let Doctor Rahn know it in many ways. In fact, Rahn hardly knew what had hit him. One moment he was being led through a labyrinth of government hallways wondering if he might be under arrest. In the next he was listening to Heinrich Himmler tell him he had written the greatest book of the twentieth century! And Himmler
had
read the book. He was not eager to show off his knowledge before an expert, of course, but his questions showed a certain degree of understanding and background.
They spoke for nearly three quarters of an hour, Himmler seemingly having nothing better to do but pass his time chatting about the Cathars. Finally he broached the subject of Rahn's career. As he understood it, Dr Rahn had been forced to work at various part-time jobs in order to support his writing. Was that the case? Rahn admitted that his publisher's advance had been modest, as were the sales.
'But you are interested in pursuing a career as a writer and historian?' Himmler asked.
'I'm
interested
. Whether I am going to be able to do so is another question.'
Himmler smiled. 'What if I were to put you on my personal staff at, say, a captain's salary? I could give you an office and secretary as well. Would you be interested in such an arrangement?'
'I would be very interested. Of course I would want to know the nature of my duties. . .'
'That is the point, Dr Rahn! You would have no duties other than to pursue whatever research you wanted.' At Rahn's look of disbelief, he added, 'In addition to an office and secretary, I can provide research assistants as you need them, and, depending on the nature of the projects you decide to develop, ample funds for travel and research - even expeditions if you should care to lead any.
Rahn fought down his excitement but could not quite stop himself from asking, 'Are you serious?'
Himmler smiled. He was very serious.
Stadtpark, Hamburg
The first armoured squads entered the park less than an hour after the police had established a perimeter. They wore night vision goggles and moved with military precision. Ethan, who had been running between various lookout points, opened light fire at the flanks of the squad and then sprinted to a position across the park where there was a marsh. Finding a second team staging at the perimeter some two hundred metres distant, he laid down a burst around them, hitting lights and steel mostly.
At a third staging area, he popped a couple more headlights and then pulled back toward the centre of the park, where the tallest trees stood.
'What is he doing?' Josh Sutter asked when he heard the gunshots.
Malloy didn't know, but as Ethan continued firing from different positions he said, 'Sounds like he's making them think the three of us are spread out and holding our ground.'
'What is that going to get him?'
'Time.'
'Is he one of your people, T. K.?'
'You mean is he an accountant?'
'Yeah. . . a
State Department accountant.'
'No. He and Girl worked black ops for Dale - strictly contract work, as I understand it.'
'That Girl is a beauty, isn't she? I mean even in a flak jacket and combat gear. . . she was. . . I mean. . . if I wasn't married!'
'I take it you're feeling better?'
'Except for the cold, the pain in my chest, and the nausea, I'm doing just fine.'
A bit later Malloy said, 'I just remembered I turned fifty at midnight.'
Josh Sutter laughed quietly, but it took some effort. 'Man! And I thought I had it bad with a bullet in my chest!'
'You know Patton was fifty-six at the start of World War II?
They say that old bastard couldn't wait to get over here for
the fight.'
'They made the men tough back then, I guess.'
'They sure did.'
'You think Patton was ever scared, T. K.?'
'Everybody gets scared, Josh. Even old Blood and Guts.'
'When I'm fifty. . .'
'What?'
'I was going to say I don't want to be doing things like this, but the truth is I just might turn fifty in prison. That's like. . . twelve years from now.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Looked at that way,' he whispered, 'being out in the field at fifty and getting shot at. . . well, it looks pretty darn good.'
'Don't tell me you are actually looking forward to a desk job when you're fifty?'
'You can't tell me you
like
this?'
'Not
this
exactly, but. . . I don't know. Even this beats pushing paper while the kids are out in the streets having all the fun.'
'First time we met you, you know what Jim said? He said, "Accountants! I never met one yet that wasn't just balls-out-crazy." '
All three probe teams were deep inside the park by five. Within the next twenty minutes they had two helicopters hovering over the area and had doubled their number on the ground. Instead of running or burrowing as he gave ground Ethan went up. He heard two squads pass under him but could no longer watch them. The batteries on both NVGs were dead. A helicopter hovered for a few seconds over his position, casting its light about, even crossing over him once, but they were looking to the ground, not the treetops. A couple of seconds later, it moved on.
By six, the sun still thirty minutes or so away, the police had overrun the park. Ethan could hear the bark of the radio chatter and sensed a growing frustration, the gnawing fear that
they had somehow let their prey escape.
*
A patrol walked along the narrow road next to Malloy's and Josh Sutter's position four different times in the last hour of the night. After the last of these passed, Malloy clicked on his headset, as per instruction, and heard Ethan's steady breathing. 'How are we doing?' he whispered.
Ethan didn't answer, but Malloy heard a single tap.'
'Can't talk?'
Two taps - no.
Twenty minutes later Ethan said, 'You're going to have to move in exactly two minutes. Head due north across the road and through the trees. Kate will pick us up in the meadow in three minutes.'
With another patrol approaching, Malloy thought better than to speak. He tapped once. Message received. He counted to sixty and then covered Josh Sutter's mouth, stirring him from his restive sleep. 'We're going to make a run for it.'
'I can't, T. K. I'm done.'
'Don't make me carry you, Josh. Remember, I'm an old man.'
'T. K., I can't do it.'
They heard the patrol leader say something. One of the squad ran toward them quickly. Malloy kept his hand on his Kalashnikov and prayed he would not have to use it. The squad leader called out, 'Check under those bushes!'
Malloy flipped off the safety and was about to roll free of the branches when a grenade exploded on the far side of the park. Seconds later a report came over the radio. 'All units to. . .'
Another grenade and then a third blew, each in a different sector. The entire squad took off at a sprint - following the sound of the closest grenade - and Malloy dragged Josh from under the heavy branches of the rhododendron bush. 'Come on!' he whispered, pulling the younger man to his feet. 'Don't quit on me now!'
