The Excalibur Codex (7 page)

Jamie waited, wondering if Steele expected a reply to the refrain he’d heard any number of times, but the other man was only gathering his thoughts.

‘Yet throughout history there have been swords that have transcended even the swords of the masters, because they
were
the swords of the gods: the swords that won kingdoms, that created champions, or swords with
the power to change the world in which they existed. These are the swords men have followed. The swords men have died for. Show him.’

Gault marched to the fireplace and pulled the painting away from the wall to reveal a small safe. Quite suddenly the room seemed to go very cold. Jamie stared at Adam Steele as realization dawned. This was a step further than hospitality, or even friendship. It was an initiation.

Gault dialled the combination and drew out a slim file. He handed it to Jamie with a knowing smile.

The bland, grey exterior gave no hint of the contents, but he would swear there was a tremor in the hands that held it, though they seemed steady enough as he opened it and read the first line. His mind instantly made the conversion from English to German.

Meine Zeit naht, aber ich kann nicht weitergehen, ohne preiszugeben was ich gesehen und gehört habe, und vielleicht als Wiedergutmachung für das, was ich getan habe
…’

My time is close, but I cannot pass without revealing what I saw and heard and, perhaps, making amends for what I have done …

Steele’s voice cut through Jamie’s concentration. ‘I could have had it translated, but your German is as good as mine and I wanted you to see the original. As you can see, it forms part of a legal document. The main section is the last will and testament of an elderly gentleman who died in the city of Dortmund a year ago. It is of no interest to us apart from helping identify him. This was a codex added in his final hours. It has only just come into my possession.’

Jamie leafed through the contents, taking in the distinctive German typeface and archaic language until he came to a single word that made him feel as if the breath had been sucked from his body. He didn’t know whether to laugh or shake the other man’s hand. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘As far as we know the document is genuine and Wulf Ziegler believed what he wrote. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily make it true, but it does make it worth following up.’

‘But this is impossible, I—’

‘You’re the man who found a hundred-million-pound painting that had been hanging in a lost Nazi bunker for sixty years,’ Steele pointed out. ‘Would you have believed that if someone had told you a couple of years ago?’

Jamie shook his head. ‘That was different. There was evidence, clues in my grandfather’s diary.’

‘And what is this if not evidence?’ the other man demanded. ‘Every quest has to start somewhere, Jamie.’

Jamie noted the use of the word ‘quest’ and knew Adam Steele had used it deliberately. ‘I don’t know.’

Steele nodded slowly. ‘I understand your scepticism. I felt exactly the same the first time I saw the codex. Look, we’ll leave you alone for a while.’ He went to the door, smiling at Jamie’s obvious confusion. ‘Read the document and then tell me Wulf Ziegler is lying or deranged.’

Gault followed him out, leaving Jamie to wonder whether the whole world had gone mad or if it were only him. Drawing a deep breath he turned back to the codex. With every word he read the room increasingly took on the stillness of the grave and he was drawn ever further into the past.

My time is close, but I cannot pass without revealing what I saw and heard and, perhaps, making amends for what I have done in the name of the Führer and the Third Reich. There are two parts to my story. The first begins in the year of 1937 when I was gefolgschaftsführer of my Hitler Youth unit in Dortmund, a prestigious position that would reward me with a place at an SS-Junkerschule and a future full of promise. Among many other things of military value, we were trained in intelligence gathering and reconnaissance. In April of that year we were visited by a senior Hitler Jugend commander from Berlin and briefed for a reconnaissance mission to England to gather information on industrial, naval and military sites. Before the officer left, I was surprised when he drew me aside and offered me the opportunity to carry out a highly secret assignment on the personal orders of Heinrich Himmler. I was warned the mission could be dangerous and that I must not fail. He told me: ‘There is no pressure on you to agree, but you would have the thanks of the Reichsführer and your part in this would be remembered.’ Of course I accepted. That summer we sailed to England and spread out across the country. My eight-man section cycled east from Manchester and then north up the spine of the country. After just over a week we reached a range of low, bleak hills where seldom a tree grew. We camped with an armoured unit under training in the area and they made us welcome,
almost treating us as comrades. They appeared to have no suspicion of the war we knew was coming and for which we had trained. We thought them pleasant fellows, but very naive and not at all professional. For most of the journey, the sun shone and it was more like a holiday than an intelligence mission, but I knew we would soon be close to our objective and demanded rigorous discipline from my comrades. Our target was a small schloss by a river that lay to the north of a distinctive hill formation. At midday, following our night with the tankers, we passed through a small town with an impressive ruin, which was another of my landmarks. A little later we breasted a rise in the rolling countryside and my heart almost stopped when I saw what lay before me. There it was, exactly as I had been told, and on the far side would be the house I was looking for. You may imagine my excitement as I looked down from the upper slopes on the broad silver ribbon of the river below and focused my binoculars on a large grey building with tall chimneys. I felt an enormous pride because only I knew the true purpose of our mission and the responsibility was mine and mine alone. That evening we made a detailed reconnaissance of the area, and as darkness fell I led Gunther, Neumann and Berndt down a narrow road that brought us close to our objective. I had studied detailed plans until the terrain and the approach were etched upon my brain. Leaving Berndt, who was youngest, but
among the most reliable, with the bicycles, we crept through the undergrowth until we reached the walls of a formal garden. Thanks to our training we were as at home in the darkness as in daylight, though the trees cast grotesque, intimidating moonlit shadows on the ground around us. We followed the walls until we came to a gate, which took the work of only a few moments to open. The schloss lay on the far side of a broad, cropped lawn and I left Neumann by the gate to act as look-out while Gunther and I ran forward over the grass. We were halfway when Gunther froze and gave a little mew of terror. My heart stopped and I scanned the darkness for the threat. There! A solitary figure almost directly in front of us. Gunther turned and I could see the panic flashing in his wide eyes. I made a calming motion and he backed towards me.

‘What do we do?’

‘Wait,’ I whispered. I studied the crouching figure blocking our way to the house. If we had seen him, surely he would have seen us. Maybe he had his back to us. The minutes ticked by and still he didn’t make his move.

‘Scheisse.’

‘What is it?’

I walked forward and touched the figure on his unyielding shoulder. He was a boy of around our own age, but dressed in archaic clothing, kneeling with his hands together in supplication in front of him. He
could do us no harm, because he was carved from stone.

‘Come. We’re wasting time.’

Jamie had to pause because his mouth was so dry. True or false, the tension of Wulf Zeigler’s memoir spanned the decades. It took a long draught of Adam Steele’s Burgundy before he was ready to continue in the footsteps of the
Hitler Jugend
leader. He continued reading.

The house loomed over us, massive and threatening, the moonlight painting the stones silver. I shivered as I moved into its shadow. It was a place of myth and legend. The man who had built it was long dead, but it was as if his presence was all around us. I knew I must quickly thrust this foolishness from my mind. From this moment on we were on a war footing. We had trained often using a building of similar proportions on the outskirts of Dortmund, and Gunther followed as I dropped to the ground and slipped round the corner, keeping my silhouette to a minimum. We squirmed through what must be a rose garden – and by the scent, one which had been recently manured – ignoring the thorns that clawed at our flesh and clothing. Eventually we reached the base of a thick stem of ancient ivy that had attached itself to the house. I grasped hold of the stem and Gunther made a back so that I was able to boost myself the first two metres or so with comparative
ease, before hauling myself into the thick foliage where I would be hidden from anyone below. When he saw I was safely in position, Gunther withdrew to his place beside Neumann, leaving me alone. One of the reasons I had been chosen for the assignment was my slight frame. It was obvious by now that the way here had been paved for me and I wondered as I climbed why whoever had been my pathfinder could not have carried out the mission in my stead. Only in later years did I realize my guide must have been a highly placed agent too important to risk on such an unlikely mission. High to my right, and just above the level of the foliage, lay a darkened window barely large enough to allow a child access. Everything depended on whether the ivy stems to which I clung were strong enough to hold my weight. If not, I had an alternative, but much more perilous, route. I held my breath as I inched my way towards the window, as if the act would somehow reduce my weight. I could feel the stems beneath my feet narrowing and becoming more fragile and I was struck by – and grateful for – the strength of the tiny hairs that held the plant to the flaking stone in an elemental death grip. By now I was six metres up and a single slip would send me plunging to the garden below, to certain injury if not death. I used the stems as a ladder, climbing until I was just below the window. This was where my training proved invaluable. Clinging with one hand and with the
toes of my boots only having the slightest purchase, I used my free hand to unloop the short length of rope that hung from my shoulder. My comrades called me ‘Monkey’ because of my climbing abilities, but even my simian namesake would have struggled to make the leap from ivy to ledge. Fortunately, my controllers had considered every eventuality. With a single rotation I swung the rope so that the specially designed metal claw caught hold on the window’s sandstone sill. It made a distinct clatter that froze me in place for a few moments, but when there was no apparent reaction from inside the house or out, I tested it with my free hand. This was the moment of truth. I closed my eyes and switched my right hand from ivy stem to rope and swung outward, allowing the thin cord to take my full weight. The sound of metal scraping on stone above made my heart stop and I dropped slightly before the hooks held fast. Terrified, I hung for a moment, twisting in the air, before hauling myself hand over hand until I reached the sill. It provided just enough room for me to crouch with my back wedged against one pillar and my shoulder against the other, while I reached down to check the bottom of the window. A narrow gap allowed me to insert my fingers and pull it upwards. At first I thought the information I had been given was wrong or that the faulty catch I had been told to expect had been repaired. In my cramped position I found it difficult to exert much pressure, but I shifted
a little to my right, gritted my teeth and pulled till my muscles were on fire. It came up with a shriek like a strangled cat and a jerk that almost threw me from my perch. Somehow I managed to hold on and wriggled through the narrow space. Sweating with relief, I dropped into a cramped water closet with a toilet bowl and a tiny sink. The entrance was at the far end and I felt for the handle, praying no one had heard the din as the window opened. With enormous care, I opened the door a few centimetres. In the gloom beyond I could just make out a passageway with a polished wood floor and a strip of carpet down the centre. I waited another few seconds to ensure I was still alone and then slipped out into the corridor. It was full dark, but I knew the layout of the house as well as I knew my own home and I was able to make my way to a broad stairway, imagining the disapproving eyes that followed me from the paintings lining the wall. The stairs led down to the main level of the house and I descended one step at a time, testing each as I went. The carpet would deaden the sound of my feet, but a creaking board had betrayed many a burglar before me and I knew not to take any risks. I counted the steps and when I reached the bottom I could picture the wood-panelled hall in the pictures I’d been shown. Turn sharp right and twenty paces ahead would be the armoury. Large windows allowed in something that might be called light and I became aware of the displays lining
the wall: full suits of armour, breastplates, daggers, swords and long spears, ancient flintlock pistols and muskets. Something that could only be a Napoleonic regiment’s eagle. The smell of floor polish was familiar enough, but there was another, musty odour that tickled my nose; the scent of great antiquity. A marble bust on a pedestal depicted the house’s former owner, a severe man with receding hair, a long nose and fleshy features. Behind it hung a painting of the same man with a fine dog, a wolfhound of some sort, at his side. This proof that I was a few steps from my goal made my heart beat faster, if that were possible, and I hurried towards the far end of the room. Here the panelled wall was decorated with a much larger display of very fine swords, formed in a circle, their blades shining dully in the gloom. I walked towards the swords and turned left, down a narrow, concealed passageway that led to a windowless room. When I reached it, I closed the door behind me and risked flicking on my torch, blinking as the thin beam cut through an almost Stygian blackness. The room was entirely empty. Bare stone walls and grey flagstones, but a worn step in the centre of the far wall indicated the existence of a long filled-in doorway. My legs shook as I crossed the last few paces. I laid the torch aside so that I could use both hands as I knelt before the step. It seemed massive, utterly immovable, but I had been instructed what to do. I ran my hands over the block until my fingers found a narrow crevice on
the right, between the step and the wall. I pulled with all my strength using my own weight to exert more power. To my astonishment the great stone slid back, pivoting away from the wall on some sort of hidden mechanism. For a few moments I couldn’t move, paralysed by the enormity of what I had achieved. A thousand voices roared out the ‘Fahnenlied’ in my head. I lifted the torch and shone it into the cavity I had exposed
.