The Excalibur Codex

by James Douglas

  The others were standing by the car, Gault and Charlotte looking lost and defeated, Hermann’s face a cracked mirror of confusion. As Jamie approached them, Gault turned on Hermann. ‘Why didn’t you tell us there was no castle?’

  ‘You didn’t ask about castle,’ the young German spat back. He shot Gault a sulky glance and wandered off towards a clump of trees on the far side of the disturbed ground.

  ‘Leave him alone, Gault,’ Jamie said. ‘It’s not his bloody fault there’s no castle. We need to spread out and knock on a few doors. Find out if anyone knows what happened here during the war. Throw some of Steele’s money around. It looks like the only way we’re going to get anything out of this place.’

  The first two houses he tried were empty, but at the third door a young woman stared at him blankly as he tried German and English. When he asked the question in Russian she turned and called to someone inside and an elderly man appeared in the doorway behind her.

  ‘Dzien dobry, dziadek.’ Jamie greeted the old man politely in his rudimentary Polish, before returning to Russian. He explained that he was a representative of an English television company planning to film a documentary of East Prussia during the war years. Was it possible there was someone in the village who could tell him about Nortstein and the castle? The company was happy to pay.

  The old man sniffed and something in his eyes hardened, showing the much more formidable person he had once been. ‘You can keep your money, sir. They are all gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘The Russians,’ he said with a dismissive shrug, meaning the Russians had sent them away. ‘All gone, and if they were here they would not want to talk about what happened then, may the Lord forgive us.’

  He began to shut the door, but Jamie smiled and stood his ground. ‘Surely …’

  The hardness in the eyes was replaced by real threat that made Jamie take a step back. ‘Keep your money and leave us alone.’

  When Jamie returned to the car, Charlotte and Gault were already there. They met his look and shook their heads. ‘Nobody,’ Gault said. ‘Not one of them was here during the war. It’s as if the place only existed since the Germans were kicked out.’

  ‘The old man I spoke to said they were all gone. Something about the Russians.’

  ‘Of course they are all gone.’ Hermann’s sudden cry, in German and jagged-edged with bitterness and rage, made them jump. ‘This was our Holocaust, don’t you understand? Everyone talks about the Jews, but no one about the Prussians.’ He waved a frantic hand towards the fields they’d driven through. ‘This was my family’s land before they stole it. This is where the bones of my ancestors were buried until they ploughed up the cemetery. We had done nothing wrong, but Stalin took it away from us.’

  ‘Your family owned the castle?’ Jamie demanded.

  Hermann shook his head. ‘They had a farm and supplied the estate of Graf von Reinhardt, who lived in castle. They were not rich, not Nazis, but they were German and that was enough. You have heard of ethnic cleansing, yes? Of what happened in Bosnia and Kosovo? What happened to my people was a thousand times worse. I came here in hope that one day I will be able to reclaim my family’s heritage.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Sorry?’ He turned on her. ‘Sorry will not bring back the old and the sick who were driven from their homes in the freezing winter and herded hundreds of miles like animals to Germany with only what they could carry on their backs. It will not unrape the women the Russians raped. And they were the fortunate ones. They speak of Auschwitz and Treblinka, but do they ever speak of Nemmersdorf and the women who were raped, then crucified, before they were shot or had their throats cut? Or the babies bayoneted to death? Does anyone ever denounce the tens of thousands of civilian refugees crushed under the tracks as they fled Russian tanks? Or the sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff, which was the greatest individual naval tragedy of all time? Almost ten thousand men, women and children. When my grandfather came back from Konigsberg—’

  ‘Your grandfather was here during the war?’ Jamie felt a resurgence of hope. Perhaps the story didn’t end here after all. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Hermann’s eyes flared. ‘He died five years ago, but the war killed him. He was a flak helper on an 88mm gun, but near the end of the war they sent him to the front. He was wounded in the fighting around Konigsberg and returned to his home, the ruined farm you see there.’ He pointed to a single blackened chimney that stood at the centre of a scattered pile of rubble in the middle of the field. ‘The Russians would have shot him, but he was very young and the family destroyed all the pictures of him in uniform and dressed him up in a child’s clothes. When the fighting passed, they were relieved. They could get on with their lives, they were farmers, they grew food. Why would the Soviets want to harm such people?’ Hermann shook his head and tears stained the dust at his feet. ‘But very soon they were pulled out of their houses and marched in a column that grew and grew until they were thousands strong when they reached the new German border.’

  ‘What about nineteen forty-one, before the invasion of Russia?’ Gault demanded, his tone saying that he wasn’t interested in what happened to a few German refugees. ‘Did he say anything about a gathering of high-ranking SS officers?’

  For a moment Hermann looked as if he wanted to strangle the Englishman, but gradually his anger subsided. ‘He was twelve years old, a Hitler Jugend, such an event would have excited him, but I don’t remember him saying anything. All he told me about that time is the village was often evacuated if Von Ribbentrop came to stay with the Graf when he visited the Wolfsschanze.’

  Jamie remembered that Joachim Von Ribbentrop had been the Third Reich Foreign Minister hanged for war crimes after the Nuremberg trials. He would have been a regular visitor to Hitler’s headquarters but he was a politician and it was doubtful whether he had anything to do with the events chronicled in the Excalibur codex. ‘You said he was here at the end,’ he persisted. ‘Did he say what happened when the Red Army came?’

  ‘He was here,’ Hermann admitted. He marched out into the centre of what must have been the square in front of the castle, now surrounded on three sides by a scatter of modern houses. ‘He told me he hid in the woods over there. There was a den, his favourite place as a boy, where he had a view of the comings and goings from the castle. But it was not the Red Army, not at first. He called them brigands, but I think he meant partisans. It would have been about the time the Nazis evacuated the Wolf’s Lair, and were withdrawing to a new defence line, I think, and Nortstein would have been in the no man’s land between the Red Army and the Wehrmacht. They rode in on small horses, a dozen of them, their feet almost touching the ground and weighed down with weapons.’

  Jamie matched the description to old newsreels he’d seen of Russian and Yugoslav partisans operating behind the Nazi lines. He knew they’d made entire regions no-go zones for the Wehrmacht and the SS, but the reprisals taken against them had been terrible. Captured fighters would be shown no mercy and any village suspected of supplying or supporting them faced being wiped off the map and its people slaughtered. It meant they would be equally pitiless towards their enemies or those who didn’t offer help.

  Hermann saw his look and nodded. ‘They must have been watching the town, because they found the hiding places of the few people who had stayed in their homes and did terrible things to them. When they’d searched the houses they stood looking at the castle, before the leader, a big man in a bearskin coat, ordered them forward.’ He hesitated for a second and when he resumed Jamie knew the young German was describing the scene exactly as the old man had told him. ‘My grandfather thought the castle had been evacuated with the Wolf’s Lair, but soon there came shooting from inside and he saw a man in SS uniform stagger from the door and try to escape before he was cut down by bullets. A little later the partisans forced more men from the castle at gunpoint and lined them up by the gate. There seemed to be a conversation between the leader a
nd one of the men, and, almost in a friendly way, the partisan commander led him back into the castle. As soon as they were out of sight the remaining partisans turned their guns on the prisoners, killing them all, before standing among the dead men smoking cigarettes. They seemed to be waiting for something. Then it came.’ The young German’s eyes turned bleak. ‘The screaming. Screaming such as my grandfather never forgot for the rest of his life. He tried to shut his ears, but the screaming would not stop. How long it lasted he didn’t know, but eventually the leader, who my grandfather now called The Bear, emerged from the castle with his arms red to the elbows and called his men together. He lined them up with their weapons slung and made a speech. It must have been a good speech because my father could hear their cheers.’ He paused, suddenly frowning at the memory of the old man’s astonishing revelation. ‘When he was finished he saluted them, turned away and then swivelled to cut down his own comrades with bursts from a sub-machine gun. They were so surprised they didn’t even try to run. As they lay dead or dying, just about where we are standing now, he pulled out a pistol and put a bullet through each of their heads.’

  Hermann looked from face to face, studying the reaction to his tale, but only Charlotte’s showed any emotion.

  ‘My God, Jamie, what does it mean?’

  Jamie was still trying to work out the implications of what he’d heard. The swords, it had to be about the swords. Why else would the Russian commander kill his own men? Unless von Orseln’s castle contained some other secret they weren’t aware of. ‘I don’t know, I—’

  ‘Trouble.’ Gault’s warning held an edge that said big trouble.

  Four men emerged from between the houses and walked towards them in the kind of open, gunfighter formation that told Jamie they were probably armed and that at least two of them were former soldiers. In fact, walk was the wrong word, they had the kind of wary, swivel-headed swagger of a pack of hunting lions.

  ‘I don’t suppose you happen to have that Panzerfaust with you, Hermann?’ Jamie glanced at the German and saw something he didn’t like his eyes. ‘Jesus, you set this up. Who the hell are they?’

  Hermann looked as if he were about to run. ‘You didn’t say was secret. They ask. I tell.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Saintclair,’ a voice speaking Russian cut across the square. The owner was the slight young man in the centre pairing of the four. He wore an expensive leather bomber jacket over a white shirt, tan cowboy boots and, despite his lack of physical stature, had a natural authority that made the others defer to him. If he was the velvet glove, his companions were the iron fist; narrow-eyed, unsmiling and with hard muscles bulging beneath jackets professionally cut to disguise shoulder holsters. Professionals. But what kind of professionals?

  ‘Charlotte, get behind the car. Gault, if this gets rough do what you’re being paid to do. Hermann? You and I will have words.’

  Charlotte edged towards the BMW, and Gault took a step right, which coincidentally put him at a favourable angle to the two men opposite him and closer to the driver’s door of the car. He gave Jamie an imperceptible nod. The young Russian raised his hand. ‘Please stay where you are,’ he said in perfect English. ‘I am here to deliver a social invitation to Mr Saintclair to visit our lovely city of Kaliningrad, and if his companions should wish to accompany him, they will experience the best of our famous Russian hospitality.’

  Jamie kept his confusion to himself. He’d thought this was about the swords. But why would anyone want him to go to Kaliningrad? The four men in front of him reeked of the Russian mafia. Had they somehow got wind of the Excalibur codex? It was possible. Maybe Rolf Ziegler, or more likely Otto, had had more than one copy and had tried to sell the contents. Whatever the explanation, Jamie wasn’t planning to go anywhere near Kaliningrad. He stood, ready to fight or flee as the circumstances dictated. The car lay eight feet to his left and if Charlotte had been two steps closer he would have been tempted to opt for the latter. In their present situation, he saw no chance of the four of them getting into the car before the Russians made their move. Still, nobody had pulled a gun. It wasn’t time to fight yet.

  ‘Perhaps if you explained the specific attractions of your lovely city?’ he suggested. ‘I might consider your offer.’

  ‘We,’ the Russian smiled and waved a hand at his marble-visaged comrades, ‘represent a gentleman who is travelling all the way from Moscow to our fair city. He “heard you were in the neighbourhood”, as I believe our American friends put it, and because he is very keen to make your acquaintance, jumped on the first available plane. That plane, I might say, is one of several he owns, so the hardship is not so great as you might imagine.’

  Jamie tried to think of a Russian he might have annoyed, but could only come up with one, and Oleg Samsonov, the former owner of the fabled Eye of Isis, was dead, a psychopath’s bullet in his throat. Still, the Russian billionaire might have friends and some of them could well blame Jamie Saintclair for his demise, along with his wife and several bodyguards. The young man’s smile broadened as he saw understanding dawn. ‘I see we are already “on the same wavelength”, as they say. Yes, my … client is interested in the circumstances of the late and dearly lamented Oleg Samsonov’s death, particularly from one of the last people to see him alive.’

  ‘He was already dead,’ Jamie pointed out. Sometimes a situation required brutal honesty.

  The Russian pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Yes, that may be the case, but nevertheless you have a certain knowledge of his apartments at the time of his demise, yes?’ Jamie blinked. He remembered a sunburst of colour as the only version of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in private hands slipped into view as he checked Samsonov’s safe room. The man shrugged. ‘There is a question of certain assets unaccounted for … unpaid debts, business liabilities … and my client would be willing to pay handsomely for information about their possible whereabouts.’

  ‘I don’t think I can help your client,’ Jamie said evenly. ‘As you see, we have some … birdwatching to do, and the migrants don’t stay still for long.’ He noticed the three heavies stiffen and their fingers moved a little closer to their chests. The young man waved a calming hand.

  ‘Perhaps—’

  The Russian was interrupted as two large black Mercedes SUVs drew into the square and drove slowly between the two groups to stand idling near the houses on the far side, their mirrored windows glittering menacingly in the low sun that had fought its way through the drizzle. They were stationary for only a moment, before the engine note picked up and equally slowly, they made their way back out of the square.

  Both sides of the little confrontation stood not quite certain how to react to the intrusion. From the look on the Russian faces, Jamie was certain the cars didn’t belong to their reinforcements, not that they needed them. That seemed to indicate only one thing and Jamie was still pondering the perfect timing of Sarah Grant and her team when he noticed the Russian approaching cautiously across the Tarmac. ‘It seems you are not the only birdwatchers, Mr Saintclair, but please don’t think this is over. My card.’ The young man handed over a cardboard rectangle. ‘Be certain to get in touch when the … birds are less elusive.’ He put out his hand and Jamie took it to find his fingers in the grip of an iron vice. ‘My client can be an impatient man and any future invitations may be more forceful.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Mr …’ he glanced at the name on the card, ‘… Vatutin?’

  ‘Oh, I believe it is, Mr Saintclair. Good day.’ He turned and walked back the way he’d come with his comrades in his wake. Jamie waited until he heard the sound of a car’s engine before he moved.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. And Gault? Find a different route back to the hotel. I don’t want to drive a mile up the road and find those bastards waiting for us.’ Gault started to unfold the map. ‘We haven’t got time for that. Hermann, get in the front.’

  Jamie slipped into the back seat beside Charlotte. ‘What was all that about?’

  �
�Some business that wasn’t as unfinished as I thought.’ He saw Gault’s eyes on him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Just drive.’

  XXIII

  ‘They came to the bar last—’

  ‘It’s done. Hermann; there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

  ‘Who the fuck were our guardian angels in the upmarket hearses?’ Gault demanded.

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I’m a thousand miles from anybody I trust, I want to know all the angles.’

  ‘Friends, I think.’

  He felt the ex SBS man staring at him in the car mirror. ‘That’s fucking helpful.’

  They drove for an hour, following Hermann’s directions along a circuitous route using single roads and farm tracks, past lakes and through forests. Eventually they reached a junction with a sign directing them to Ketrzyn. The road it pointed to had the familiar railway line that ran past the Wolfsschanze to their right side.

  ‘Thank Christ,’ Gault muttered.

  ‘What do we do, Jamie?’ Charlotte asked. ‘We can’t give up now.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Nortstein isn’t quite a dead end. Somebody will know the identity of the partisan leader. There’ll be records. But the chances are he’s long dead, and even if he’s not he’s unlikely to want to chat about the day he butchered his men. It would tarnish the memory of his glorious war record. Still, it might be worth a try. Otherwise, it’s back to the archives. Deep down in some box file in Moscow or Berlin or Washington there may be a piece of paper that lists Five swords of unknown origin. It’s a long shot.’

  ‘It’s a fucking waste of time, and you know it.’

  ‘I’m not psychic, Gault. When the Red Army destroyed Nortstein castle and forced the local residents out to Christ knows where, all the evidence went with it. We could have been standing within twenty feet of the bloody thing, but we’d never know.’