The Sword of Moses (40 page)

——————— ◆ ———————

The Bunker

Thamesmead

London SE2

England

The United Kingdom

Uri checked his watch.

He had thrown away his Luminox and replaced it with a Prada—much more Danny Motson. The quartermaster back in Tel Aviv would give him grief over the additional paperwork. But no doubt the old soldier would eventually come to see the trendy accessory as a useful addition to his cavernous warehouse of operational props.

It was 8:40 p.m. He was twenty minutes early—exactly as he had planned.

Walking casually, blending in with the other pedestrians, he easily found the
Khyber Pass Curry House
. Peering through its net-curtained windows, the heavy chairs and deep damask fabrics looked like they came from the same catalogue as the furnishings in the dozens of similar restaurants he had noticed dotted around London’s suburbs.

He still did not quite understand why English people insisted on calling Pakistani restaurants ‘Indian’ more than sixty years after Lord Mountbatten oversaw the partition of the country. But there was a lot he still did not get about the English. Including why they partitioned so many countries in the first place.

Weaving his way across the bus lanes and slow-moving traffic to the other side of the busy street, he wandered a further twenty yards down, before taking up an observation position inside a run-down off-licence. Feigning interest in a range of gaudily packaged discount beers, he kept his eye on the battered grey metal door next to the restaurant.

It was still light, enabling him to see clearly the succession of visitors who presented themselves at the door before pressing a small grey bell on the metal jamb beside it. A square grille at eye height slid back for them to identify themselves, then the door was opened just wide enough to let them through.

He could not see anything behind the door beyond a dark corridor.

Unsurprisingly, the visitors were all men. They looked on average a little older than the crowd who had been at
The Lord Nelson
the night he had met Otto.

So this was a more senior gathering.

Uri’s watch now showed 9:05 p.m. He would not start to get concerned about Otto until 9:45 p.m. In his experience, transport was notoriously unpredictable in all the world’s big cities.

The selection of budget beers lining the cramped shelves in the off-licence was quite impressive. He had not heard of most of them. He doubted many people had.

Catching sight of someone who looked a little like Otto a few hundred yards away on the other side of the street, he moved to the window and peered around a pyramid display of promotional cans.

“Are you buying?” The stubbly man behind the counter was plainly annoyed at Uri’s lengthy indecision. Uri realized he had been the only customer in the shop for the last twenty minutes.

“Not today.” Uri left the shop, now sure the man on the other side of the street was Otto. He headed back towards the restaurant, leaving the shop-owner grunting with frustration at the lost opportunity for an argument.

Uri timed it so he arrived in front of the metal door at the same time as Otto.

“Alright?” Otto nodded at Uri, as he pressed the bell.

The grille slid across, and was immediately followed by the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back on the other side of the door. The bouncer had recognized Otto instantly, Uri noted. There had been no need for any form of identification.

Once inside, Otto appeared to know his way. He showed Uri into a dark corridor—dimly illuminated by three low-power bulbs hanging from a high ceiling, each shrouded by a cracked industrial lampshade.

At the end of the bare corridor, Otto led him through a fire-door into a hot dingy hallway which ended in a decrepit flight of stairs going up, and a dirty goods elevator going down.

Stepping towards the elevator, Otto dragged aside the diamond-latticed iron grille gates and motioned for Uri to enter the doorless elevator. Once inside with the gates closed, he punched the grubby green button on the control panel—a metal box hanging off the wall on a thick stalk of wires, and the elevator began to judder downwards.

As the cage hit the bottom and Otto again pulled the gates aside, they emerged into another gloomy hallway.

Otto led him past two scuffed grey doors, and made for an identical one at the far end. As he pushed it open and ushered Uri through, Uri was temporarily disorientated by the sight that greeted him.

He had been expecting a neon strip-lit basement converted into some kind of meeting room or clubhouse—perhaps with a small snooker table and maybe a fridge full of beer.

Instead, what he walked into took him totally by surprise.

It was a large room—three or four times bigger than he had been imagining. The walls were whitewashed brick, with no windows or doors. The sense of unexpected size was magnified by the double-height ceiling.

It was a cavernous space.

He took in all the relevant details in an instant.

Only one way in and one way out.

He tried hard to imagine what the room had once been. It was hard to tell—perhaps a workshop?

The plain walls were sparsely hung with cheap framed photographs from the 1920s and 1930s. They depicted scenes of glamorous women in double-breasted suits or silk dresses and furs drinking from champagne coupes; men with razor-sharp partings and black evening dress smoking unfiltered cigarettes; jazz musicians perspiring over small drum kits and upright basses; and policemen with surly expressions wielding wooden truncheons beside Black Mariahs with white-walled tyres.

It only took Uri a second to work out where he was.

It was a speakeasy—an illegal unlicensed drinking club.

He knew they were becoming ever more popular in Europe and the States as people were tiring of the usual pubs, clubs, and cafés, and were now seeking the thrill of illicit entertainment.

But it captured none of the yesteryear glamour and panache of America’s prohibition-era night spots shown in the photographs on the walls.

The bar Uri was looking at was not decked out with exotic cocktail glasses or curvy bottles of tantalizingly coloured liquids. And there were no dimly lit velvet alcoves, tables draped in crisp linen, voluptuous hostesses, or jazzmen in spangled suits on the stage.

The owners of this London dive had made a clear choice. The focus here was on hard drinking, not aesthetic decadence.

The result was a bleak space with a dimly lit bar serving beers direct from the barrel, wine from uncooled bottles, and an array of cheap spirits stacked on a shelf in cardboard boxes.

Fittingly, the clientele were sitting around scruffy Formica tables on metal chairs. At the far end, Uri could see a small stage with a pair of anaemic lights shining on it—but there were no musicians tonight.

All in all, it was depressingly seedy.

“Don’t know what its real name is—don’t think it has one.” Otto explained. “We call it
The Bunker
. One of the lads works behind the bar.” He looked around proprietarily. “Punters keep themselves to themselves in here. Suits us fine.”

Otto headed towards the bar. “As it’s a bit of a private event tonight, it’s only us allowed in. Management don’t mind—we drink our share.”

Otto led Uri to the bar, where he could see the Skipper was already half-way through a pint of beer, deep in conversation with a middle-aged man in steel-rimmed glasses, who was lighting a cigarette from the one he was just finishing.

The Skipper’s black hair was slicked back for the evening, but he was still wearing the same leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up displaying his monumental forearms.

Uri could now see the tattoos clearly. They were interlocking runes and Germanic symbols. He made out the distinctive triple-triangle of the
Valknut,
and the sharp aggressive points of the
Wolfsangel
. There was nothing as blatant as the SS’s two
Sig
runes side by side, but there may as well have been.

As the Skipper struck a match and cupped it around the end of an unlit cigarette in his mouth, Uri recognized the large smudgy dots just below each of the knuckles on his left hand, and a quincunx of five inky points on the web between the thumb and first finger of his right.

Prison tattoos.

That figured. The Skipper looked like a man who had earned his reputation.

Otto drew level with the Skipper, and indicated for Uri to stand beside him.

Catching sight of Otto and Uri, the Skipper slapped Otto on the back, before turning to look at Uri carefully, taking his time. When he spoke, his voice was flat and expressionless, with a strong south-London accent. “So you’re the lad who makes things go bang?”

Uri figured it was not a question. He did not answer.

As he waited for the Skipper to say something else, he became aware of a mild stir over by the door. Someone was entering, surrounded by a small crowd. As Uri tried to see what was happening, the group moved into the room, heading down the centre towards the stage.

It did not take long before he caught a glimpse of the man striding purposefully in the centre of the group.

There was no mistaking him.

He recognised his face instantly from the photographs Moshe had shown him back in Tel Aviv. They had pored over them together after Uri had returned to base following the failed operation with the team from
Sayeret Mat
’
kal
against the warehouse in Astana.

Once Moshe had got wind the Ark was to be auctioned at the Burj al-Arab in Dubai, he had decided against the high-risk strategy of sending Uri into the UAE, opting instead to monitor the next move closely. Once the Ark had been helicoptered out of Dubai, he called in a few favours and spoke to some friendly people on the ground. Pulling the data together, he quickly reached the same conclusion as the Anglo-American team led by General Hunter, Prince, and DeVere.

Their man was Marius Malchus.

As soon as Moshe had the name, it did not take him long to fish out the file. They had data on him going back to his Stasi days, and the Collections Department had been keeping a very close eye on his increasing neo-Nazi activities. They did not want any surprises from his kind of group.

Stealing another glance at Malchus walking confidently down the bar, Uri felt quietly pleased with himself.

So far so good.

Now all he had to do was get close enough to kill him, and recover the Ark.

He told himself to keep it slow, and to stick to the plan.

It would all come in good time.

For now, he had to work on Otto and the Skipper. His priority was to establish relationships with people who could vouch for him when he began to get close to Malchus.

As Malchus drew level with their group, he nodded an acknowledgement to the Skipper, who responded to the greeting with a reciprocal nod.

Uri tried hard to suppress a small smile.

He could not believe his luck.

If the Skipper had a high enough profile to enjoy a personal relationship with Malchus, then his next moves just got a lot easier.

Uri was pulled back from his thoughts by the sound of the Skipper’s voice. “Otto tells me you’re a
ronin
.”

Uri kept a blank expression. He had no idea what the Skipper had just said.

“In feudal Japan,
ronin
were
samurai
with no master. Soldiers of fortune. Is that what you are, Danny?”

Uri shook his head. “It’s not about money. I like what I do.”

The Skipper’s expression did not change. “We’re a tight crew, Danny. You need to understand that.”

“Sure.” Uri returned his look, unwavering.

“What I’m saying,” the Skipper continued, leaning towards him a fraction, “is that you’re not one of us. I’m sure there are ways we can help each other, but I’m telling you now, if you step out of line, I’ll snap your neck myself.” He paused, no hint of any expression on his face. “Is that clear enough for you?”

Uri nodded. “Crystal.”

The Skipper drained his pint. “Now. Enough talk. Things are about to kick off. Stick around tonight as long as you want. Enjoy the bar. I’m sure Otto will be in touch.”

Putting his empty pint glass down onto the counter, the Skipper moved off with Otto following close behind. They headed for the far corner by the stage, and sat at an empty table.

Uri ordered himself a beer and stayed by the bar. He was not going to leave just yet. Now he was inside, he might as well find out what these people got up to in the privacy of their lair.

——————— ◆ ———————

The Bunker

Thamesmead

London SE2

England

The United Kingdom

Uri looked around.

The room was filling up. There were no empty tables any more, and people were starting to stand around in groups.

After a few minutes, a middle-aged man wearing a football shirt took to the stage. Tapping the microphone to check it was working, he launched into an enthusiastic speech of welcome.

To the cheers of the crowd, he announced that later in the evening they would be screening a film one of them had put together of extremist demonstrations from around the world.

To whoops of approval, he assured the audience the footage was uncensored and depicted scenes of explicit violence against opposing demonstrators and the police. He was particularly pleased to announce that it featured several British demonstrations, along with numerous people present in the room.

However, before they got round to that, he wanted to make way for someone who needed no introduction. A man well known to all of them. Someone they were privileged to have address them with a few words. With that, he stepped aside and welcomed onto the stage, “the supreme leader of the Thelema in England.”

Uri allowed himself a small smile.

This was getting better and better. The chance to hear Malchus speak was a truly unexpected bonus. It would give him an opportunity to get an idea of the kind of man he was. How he moved physically. How aware he was of his surroundings. What made him tick. And all of that from an anonymous distance—Uri would be just another member of the crowd.

There was a hushed silence as Malchus rose from his table and walked slowly over to the podium.

Dressed head to toe in black, he stood out starkly amid the checked and coloured designer casual clothes filling the room. But it was not the aesthetic black of an artist. Quite the opposite. There was something effortlessly malevolent about the boots, jeans, high-buttoned shirt, and floor-length soft leather coat. They combined with his pale face and dead green eyes to suck the colour out of anything near him.

Malchus stared at the audience for an uncomfortably long time, gazing left and right, inhaling the atmosphere. As he finished taking in the crowd, he began nodding slowly, as if satisfied with what he saw.

When at last he spoke, his voice was low, but amplified crisply and clearly by the microphone and PA system, adding an additional level of depth and richness to his words, which resonated commandingly around the basement.

“I want to speak to you this evening—to offer a few words, because we must at all times remember, or be reminded, exactly what we stand for.” He looked around expectantly, making full eye contact with individual members of the audience.

“Many of you are already friends. But even if we have yet to meet, I know we have a great deal in common—so it’s important we retain the will and courage to speak the absolute truth.”

Uri felt a tap on his left shoulder. “Which firm are you with, then?” He turned to see a wiry rat-faced man looking at him inquisitively. He was in his early forties, with an accent that sounded like he was not originally from London.

Uri had no intention of taking his eyes off Malchus. He inclined his head towards the stage. “Sorry, mate. Not now.”

“Oh, are you one of his, then?” The man continued, oblivious. “The Thelema?” He blew a cloud of cheap mini-cigar smoke in Uri’s direction.

Uri focused back on what Malchus was saying. “So it’s in this spirit that I tell you—the world is in chaos.” He gazed around, his expression inviting intimacy, shrinking the space around him. “The political classes have betrayed us. Honest people have turned to the left and right but found no answers—just the same old corrupt solutions that only benefit capitalism and its masters: the fat bankers and warmongers.”

He took in the room, confidently. “We propose a different way—National Socialism. National and socialist both mean looking after the interests of everyone. There aren’t any classes or differences under National Socialism—only the will of the people.”

Uri watched the audience sitting round the tables. They were listening attentively.

“But we don’t stand for the will of the people manipulated and distorted through a corrupt democracy. In our National Socialism, the people speak and act directly.”

“I’m more with the hard right, myself,” the rat-faced man next to Uri cut in again. “You know, street stuff. No disrespect to the Nazis.
Blitzkrieg
—
I always liked that. Throw everything at the enemy hard and fast so they don’t know what’s hit them.” He was plainly excited, leaning towards Uri, speaking quickly.

“Mate,” Uri gave him a hard stare. “I’m trying to listen.” He turned back to Malchus.

The man seemed unable to take a hint. “And what they did in the East—wiped thousands of miles off the map. Total War. You’ve got to respect that.”

Uri was not interested in the rat-faced man’s barroom opinions, no doubt absorbed from some satellite TV channel the night before. He had to take the opportunity to listen to Malchus—to get a feel for the man. He turned to the rat-faced man. “Look, you’re probably a great guy. But not now. Okay?”

Malchus had started moving, and was now pacing the stage theatrically, walking in and out of the subtle lighting, which was throwing deep shadows over his heavy-lidded eyes.

He had promised only a few words, but from the way he was developing his rapport with the audience, it was clear he was settling in for something of a speech. “We must be prepared to be brutally ruthless in how we implement the will of the people.” He looked about assertively. “The world is sick, and extremes are needed to combat extremes.”

It was subtle, Uri reflected. Malchus was undoubtedly preaching extremism and violence, but at the same time managing to sound calm and reasonable.

“Power comes from strength,” Malchus continued, “so we shouldn’t hesitate to develop the strength of the people behind us. They’re with us, and for their country. They’re bound by blood to the soil.” He eyed the audience expectantly, seeking approval.

He was met with nods from the various tables.

He paused, heightening the drama. When he spoke next, he had changed tone—now sounding confidential, as if reminiscing by an intimate fireside. “Our struggle isn’t a new one. It was born a long time ago. Many have already given their lives in its cause, but it was never in vain. Their blood is the baptismal water of the new era that’s dawning.”

Uri could feel the levels of emotion in the room rising. He had not been expecting Malchus to have charisma—but he clearly did when he wanted to.

It was chilling.

The man next to Uri blew out another cloud of smoke. “Baptismal water of a new era? Forward men! Thousand-year
Reich
and all that.” He was smirking, clearly finding something highly amusing.

Uri tried to tune him out. But the monologue was incessant, and he was leaning too close. “If they wanted to last longer, they should’ve done more people. Do you know how many they slotted?” He looked at Uri, inviting him to answer. “Not soldiers. I mean civilians—you know, cleansing.”

Uri did not answer. This was not a conversation he had any desire to join.

The man did not wait for a response. “I’ll tell you. Nineteen million—nine million Russians, six million Jews, two million Poles, one-and-a-half million gypos, and then a bunch of masons, gays, and cripples.”

The man was really beginning to annoy him now.

“But they just weren’t big league,” the rat-faced man continued. “You’ve got to be like Stalin or Mao if you want to be taken seriously. They each done seventy million.”

Uri took a deep breath and focused back on Malchus, trying to ignore the man’s pathetic attempt at impressing him.

Malchus was beginning to step up a gear. “We’ve had many successes, which is to be expected—nature is the ongoing triumph of the strong over the weak. But we must never be complacent. We cannot rest until we’ve finally accomplished what we set out to achieve.”

The man next to Uri was nodding now. “He’s good, isn’t he? I’ll give him that. He hasn’t said anything he could be done for. But we all know what he’s saying.” He smirked. “He’s a class act, that one.”

Uri did not answer. But he had to agree with him. Malchus was good at what he did.

Uri recognized the populist style of the speech—eerily reminiscent of the 1930s newsreels he had been made to watch as a teenager back at school in Haifa. He even thought he recognized one or two of the phrases. The only thing missing was a backdrop of billowing swastika flags.

Usually he had no time for politicians and their manipulative speeches. In his experience, they were all the same—stoking up the emotion so they could peddle their own interests wrapped in some unattainable utopian vision. He had never bought it, preferring life on his terms—him, on his own, doing the job he was good at. He did not need any political justification or vision to legitimize what he did. It was enough that he was government-sponsored.

He had often wondered what he would be doing if he had been born in a different country, a different race—American, Russian, or Chinese. He figured it would probably be the same work. All governments needed his particular talents.

But he knew this assignment was not like other jobs he had done.

Making contact with Otto at
The Lord Nelson
had been a huge rush—one of those evenings when he had known for sure there was no other job in the world he would rather do. It had made him feel alive to be in the midst of his enemies, deceiving them—staying one step ahead.

He had been looking forward to the same again tonight—to be riding the danger and the adrenaline. But as he watched Malchus pump up the hardcore audience in this seedy drinking hole, he realized he was now taking it to another level.

He was in a fevered and extremist environment he could not hope to control. The people surrounding him lived in their own bubble of hatred, with no rules except a code of racist violence. He was getting ever deeper into their dark circles, and what had begun as an adventure at
The Lord Nelson
had now taken him into lethal waters.

He was under no illusions. If any single person in the room found out who he really was, the authorities would be fishing his pulped remains out of a skip on some wasteland tomorrow.

This was a job he was going to remember for a long time.

Malchus’s voice was not only getting louder, it was increasing in pitch, too. “To those who say there are only a few of us, I say it’s not our absolute numbers that matter—it’s our conviction and determination. And to those who accuse us of being agitators, I say that our numbers are growing. We speak for many. But what have our critics got to offer? What faith do they have to give to the people?” Malchus looked accusingly at the audience, as if they were his critics.

He had them hanging off his every word.

“It’s time to act. And what counts above all are deeds not words. Make no mistake, my brothers—we’re in the vanguard of a new Enlightenment, and we must hold aloft our flaming ideals. But we will not allow ourselves to put ‘Victory’ on our banners until we have triumphed. Until then, we will only write the word ‘Fight’.”

“So go on, then.” The man next to Uri seemed bent on irritating him. “Are you with the Thelema?”

Uri knew Danny Motson would have a snapping point. He spun to face the man. “Look, I’ve asked you politely, but you’re not getting it. Do me a favour—get out of my face.”

The man’s genial expression changed in an instant to one of unmistakeable hostility. “Who do you think you are?” he rounded on Uri. “You might be some big shot where you come from. But you’re a nobody here.”

“Look—” Uri began, but was cut off.

“I know everyone, and I’ve never seen you before,” the man snarled. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” He turned to face the bar, grinding his mini-cigar out in a large plastic ashtray.

Uri took a deep breath. This was rapidly getting out of hand. “No disrespect. I just want to listen to the man up there. That’s all. Alright?”

“No it’s not alright.” The man had worked himself up into a quiet rage. “It’s not alright at all. Someone needs to teach you some manners.”

With no warning, the man slugged down the remaining amber spirit in the balloon glass he was drinking from, upended it, and drove it firmly into the top of the wooden bar. A number of shards broke off its lip, leaving a jagged edge where the rim had been a moment earlier.

He had done it quickly and quietly. No one else at the bar seemed to have noticed.

He turned to Uri, leering, brandishing the jagged weapon. “Come on then. Let’s go.” He jabbed the glass towards Uri a few times, as if sparring with an imaginary target. “I’ve got your attention now, haven’t I?”

Uri reluctantly stopped listening to Malchus and focused fully on the man waving the broken glass at him.

He was more agile than he had imagined.

More hostile, too.

Uri quickly guessed this was not the first time the rat-faced man had wielded a broken glass in a bar brawl.

He cursed under his breath. This was all he needed.

As he turned to face the man full on, he caught sight of Otto and the Skipper over at their table. To his surprise, they were looking over in his direction with interest, but quickly turned back to their own discussion once they saw he had spotted them.

It struck Uri as odd that they seemed embarrassed to have been seen watching him.

As he continued to watch them out of the corner of his eye, he saw them look over to him again.

Suddenly the penny dropped.

He had thought there was something odd about the way the rat-faced man had been goading him, and then immediately picked a fight with minimal cause.

It was a set up.

The annoying rat-faced man had been primed to pick a fight so the Skipper could see how Uri handled himself.

Not subtle. But thorough.

Uri smiled to himself. The rat-faced man had done a pretty good job.