The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  Later, she laughed softly as they lay there, like spoons, Sturm behind her caressing her breasts.

  “What‘s funny?” he asked.

  “How close I came to turning you down last night at the reception.”

  “And you find humor in that?”

  “No. But I know the French girl slightly from talking to her at other functions. I‘ll bet she has no idea how much she missed. She‘s quite indiscreet after several drinks, and I know her husband and her many lovers never did for her what you just did for me.” She laughed again. “Hell, my husband never has either. He‘s never done to me what you did at the beginning. And he‘s had plenty of mistresses to help him practice. Thank you. You win the blue ribbon.”

  “You‘re welcome,” Sturm said. “It was my pleasure.”

  She laughed softly. “Don‘t kid yourself. The pleasure was not yours alone. Can you stay for breakfast as well as dinner? My husband is spending the night at his club downtown.”

  Sturm smiled. A few minutes later, dressed in one of her husband‘s monogrammed robes, Sturm watched her hips sway seductively beneath her own silk robe as she walked into the dining room where they drank more champagne and ate lobster and caviar by candlelight. She had no idea how much more he had in store for her the next morning.

  STURM rose early and perked coffee. The night before, they had made love again throughout the apartment––in front of the fireplace, up against the great room wall, on top of her husband‘s desk. This morning, the dining room table proved irresistible as the coffee grew cold.

  “Oh, my,” she said breathlessly, propping herself up with her arms on the starched damask of the dining room table, her breasts glistening with perspiration as he stood between her long legs which were still wrapped tightly around his waist. “That was some encore. My husband‘s business trip will keep him in Europe the rest of the month. Are you quite certain you cannot extend your stay in America?”

  Sturm smiled and reluctantly turned down her tempting invitation. For Kurt von Sturm, duty always preceded pleasure. Ingrid Waterman was a marvelous woman and an exceptionally passionate one as well, but he had a zeppelin to catch.

  10.

  The Hunt Begins

  Lakehurst, New Jersey

  Tuesday, 26 May 1931

  Morning

  COCKRAN noticed Mattie was still stiff when they arrived at the airfield in Lakehurst. Neither had spoken to the other since their fight in the taxi the night before except to discuss their respective travel details which would reunite them in Venice. Two arguments in two days was not how he wanted to part with the woman he loved. But this was not their first fight nor, he suspected, would it be the last. It was probably how most Celts—Scots or Irish—procreated. Fights followed by fierce lovemaking. But that hadn‘t happened last night. He wished it had but both were too stubborn for their own good and making up typically took at least 24 hours, time they no longer had.

  Cockran escorted Mattie out onto the tarmac to the wooden steps leading up to the passenger cabin of the Graf Zeppelin, its size and beauty still a wonder to him nearly two years after he had first seen the globetrotting airship in Los Angeles. They briefly kissed and told each other, “I love you,” but he knew they both were still upset. “See you in Venice,” Mattie said, with a weak smile. Someone who didn‘t know them would not think they were lovers.

  “It‘s a date,” he said but he was not happy. How had they gone in just two days from his hoping to buy her an engagement ring in Venice to her saying perhaps they were not right for each other? Maybe two weeks apart would give her time to think. Maybe what he said would start to sink in. He hoped so. He loved her dearly but she had covered far too many wars and taken far too many risks in her work for Hearst. She was wrong to claim he was trying to control her life. He was just trying to keep her safe. And alive. Why couldn‘t she see that?

  Cockran walked back through the departure lounge. He glanced over to a coffee and tea stand, where two uniformed members of the Graf Zeppelin‘s crew stood beside the armrests of a couple of chairs. They were talking with a striking figure in a well-tailored three-piece suit. A face from the past. Cockran recognized him though he couldn‘t place where. He was tall, his blond hair neatly combed, and a scar on his right temple. A handsome guy but not the kind of face you‘d mistake for somebody else.

  THE breeze ruffled Kurt von Sturm‘s fair, straw colored hair as he thrilled once more at the sight of the giant silver airship, the largest in the world, floating patiently at its mooring mast, its surface gleaming in the bright morning sunlight. These giant airships had once been his life and the two members of the Graf Zeppelin‘s crew to whom he was talking had flown under his command during the war.

  “It is an honor, Käpitanleutenant, to have you flying with us again.”

  Sturm gave a short bow. “No, Fritz, it is you who honor me. I am merely a passenger.”

  “Your time will come again, Käpitanleutenant. The Graf is only the beginning of a new era in travel. We are building more airships and one of them should be yours.”

  “You are very kind. Have you seen to the passenger arrangements I‘ve requested?”

  A broad smile crossed Fritz Esser‘s face. “Indeed, I have, Käpitanleutenant. The passenger manifest is full but I have arranged a single cabin for her side by side with yours.”

  “And the dining salon?”

  “Yes. A table for two by a window. Only you and the fraulein. She is very beautiful.”

  Now it was Sturm‘s turn to smile. “Yes, she is.”

  “Have a pleasant voyage, sir.”

  “Thank you, Fritz. Because of your good work, I believe I will.”

  Sturm marveled at his good fortune as he walked through the double doors of the passenger reception area out toward the great dirigible. First, a successful mission in America. Then last night and this morning spent seducing yet another man‘s beautiful wife. Now, a glorious airship voyage. And, most extraordinarily, three days and two nights alone in the sky with another beautiful woman as his companion, someone he had coveted from afar more than once. His time with the delightful Ingrid had been but an overture. This woman would be a symphony. He wondered if she would remember him. He didn‘t think so. Other men had been monopolizing her attention on those occasions. Munich in 1923 on the eve of the Beer Hall putsch and then again in California two years ago. Sturm had envied her companion on the latter occasion because of the obvious tender feelings she had for him. But now the field was all his. The hunt was about to begin, his prey unsuspecting. Perfect.

  Sturm had a highly developed sense on matters like this and he had not failed to notice the tension between the woman and her escort. A tension that was not there two years before. A vulnerability to exploit. And more than enough time to do so. Due to the nature of his profession, married women were his preferred prey but he was more than prepared to make an exception if the reward would be bedding a woman so brave and so beautiful. It had been nearly two years since last he saw her but time had only enhanced her beauty. He had never forgotten her. While she was with the same companion then as now, she was not wearing a wedding band or even an engagement ring. He wondered why. Details. A man like Kurt von Sturm always noticed details. He lived for the chase and the reward awaiting him at the end of the hunt. He had never lost once a woman was in his sights. And now, at long last, Mattie McGary was squarely in his sights.

  Part III

  Germany, America, and England

  26 May–1 June 1931

  Never forget we are a knightly Order, from which one cannot withdraw, to which one is recruited by blood and within which one remains with body and soul so long as one lives on this earth.

  Heinrich Himmler

  [Peter Padfield, Himmler, Reichsfuhrer, SS]

  11.

  A Knightly Order

  Munich

  Tuesday, 26 May 19319

  REINHARD Tristan Hoch paused, his violin tucked beneath his chin, the bow hovering above it, and g
lanced to his left. Twelve more minutes and it still wasn‘t right. What would his father have said? If you don’t practice at least four hours a day, you will never be a musician. You cannot expect to get it right if you only spend ninety minutes.

  Hoch drew his lips into a determined, thin line. Yes, I can, he thought, and I will, as he began again. The strains of Bach‘s second Brandenburg concerto soon filled the small room and flowed from two open windows. Between the windows was a full-length mirror, the polished wood of its frame gleaming in the afternoon sun which streamed into the room.

  Precisely twelve minutes later, a perspiring Hoch lifted his chin from the violin and bowed elaborately from the waist, his image reflected in the mirror. At last. Perfect. Like in everything else he set out to do. Student. Naval cadet. Naval communications officer. Husband. Father. Musician. Intelligence Director for the SS. How wrong his father had been.

  Reinhard Hoch religiously played the violin for ninety minutes every day save Sunday, his wife and small son banished from their apartment until he finished. He stood, violin in his left hand, bow in his right, and looked at the mirror in the bedroom of his apartment, only a fiveminute walk from the Brown House, the headquarters in Munich of the National Socialist Workers Party. Even clad in black trousers, it was clear his hips were still too wide. They were, he believed, the only flaw marring his otherwise classic Nordic features and physique. Still, Hoch had no trouble luring attractive women to his bed, before or after his marriage. Blond hair, icy blue eyes. A trim six feet tall. A long, narrow face dominated by a prominent beak of a nose which he considered aquiline and his enemies, of which there were no shortage, whispered was proof that Semitic genes once had polluted his family‘s Nordic gene pool. He drew his lips into a thin line and was pleased at the effect it had. When he relaxed them, however, they were still thick and fleshy. It was not exactly another flaw, but one he could control when the occasion demanded it.

  Hoch knew his hips could not be controlled so easily, only camouflaged, which is why, after he had joined the SS earlier that year, he always dressed in black. From head to toe, he enthusiastically embraced the SS trend away from SA khaki. A foreshadowing, perhaps, that the SS one day would be independent of the SA‘s motley crew of thugs, bullies and faggots. He believed that black had a slimming effect, drawing attention away from what his enemies called his “womanly and un-Germanic” hips. He knew that Karl Wolff was the one who had first said that. He had built up quite a dossier on Wolff and one day he would use it. Even Heinrich Himmler wouldn‘t be able to protect his adjutant forever.

  Reinhard Tristan Hoch smiled, making his lips thin as he did so. Being head of intelligence for the SS had its advantages. He hoped he would be the one to wield the sword when Wolff was stretched out on the sacred altar at Wewelsburg Castle, his neck the target.

  Hoch put on his black tunic with silver piping and buttoned it. He turned around and looked back over his shoulder at his reflection and approved of what he saw. Yes, the tunic masked his flawed hips. A good Berlin tailor could work wonders, even one like that Jew Jacoby. He rubbed the toe of his knee-high black calfskin leather boot against the back of his pant leg to remove a small smudge, as he placed his black peaked hat on his head and pulled the bill down well in front, centering the hat as he did so.

  It was time for his weekly meeting with the leader of the SS, the former gentleman farmer who used to raise chickens and now held Hoch‘s future in his hands. Heinrich Himmler.

  HUGE red swastika flags hung from staffs across the entire façade of the Brown House. Hoch walked up the steps and paused as two black-uniformed SS men opened the great bronze doors, nearly fifteen feet high. Inside the lobby, Hoch was surrounded by marble. The far wall contained a tablet on which were recorded the names of the thirteen SA men who lost their lives in the 1923 putsch. As Hoch ascended the grand staircase to Himmler‘s office, the rich wood paneling, marble floors and heavy silk draperies reflected the Party‘s wealth and silently mocked its name as a workers‘ party, let alone a socialist one.

  At Himmler‘s office, Hoch was greeted coldly by Himmler‘s adjutant, Kurt Wolff. He smiled as he looked down at the slim, fair haired man seated at a rich mahogany desk and thought of the cold steel of a sword slicing through the base of his neck.

  “Hoch is here,” Wolff said into the phone in a flat tone. Wolff looked up with a bored expression on his face. “You may go in now.”

  Himmler‘s office was large, with high ceilings. One wall of the room contained a large tapestry while the wall opposite had several gilt-framed paintings, none of which Hoch recognized. On the wall behind the desk of the Reichsfuhrer SS was an assorted collections of swords, shields and a coat of arms. The desk was easily twice as large as the one manned by Wolff. In the middle of the desk sat a faded red velvet cushion on top of which rested a seven foot-long ancient looking leather case which extended over the edge of both sides of the cushion. It was nearly as long as the desk itself. The case contained an ancient battle spear.

  Hoch approached the desk, but the SS chief ignored him, continuing to write on the pad in front of him. Three minutes passed before Himmler looked up and blinked at his visitor through thick pince-nez glasses. His hair was shaved at the sides and back of his head, leaving a dark round island of hair on top. But no amount of barbering could disguise the fact that Himmler‘s face was a wide oval, more Slavic than Nordic.

  “Proceed,” Himmler said and, for the next fifteen minutes, Hoch delivered a report on the success of his two-man business extortion squads during the past week; the number of visits; the revenues received; and new sources targeted.

  “Excellent,” Himmler said when Hoch had finished. “You have done your usual thorough job, Reinhard, for which I congratulate you. Any problems to report?”

  “Only one. Sir Archibald Hampton has missed the first two monthly payments which he promised to make after his down payment secured his daughter‘s release.”

  Himmler frowned. “Two? That is unfortunate. Never forget, Reinhard. The SS is a knightly order. Sir Archibald‘s knighthood makes him our brother. But he leaves us no choice. A man who does not keep his word has lost all honor, the most precious thing a man may possess, and so his life is forfeit. Make the necessary arrangements. The privilege of wielding the sword shall be yours.”

  Hoch put his feet together and made a short formal bow. “Thank you. I am honored.”

  Himmler gestured dismissively with his hand as if it were not that important and then pointed his finger at the wall behind his desk. “Do you know whose coat of arms that is?”

  Hoch didn‘t.

  “Henry I. The Bird Catcher. The first of the great Saxon kings. He was the warrior king who turned back the Magyars from the east. These are the actual swords and shields which he used in battle. They have tasted the blood of his enemies.”

  Hoch nodded, wondering where all this was leading.

  “The tapestry, the paintings. All the artifacts in this room are genuine, with one exception,” Himmler said, as he glanced at the spear in the cracked leather case on his desk.

  Hoch nodded again, still wondering.

  “Some information has recently come to my attention which will permit me, with your help, to complete my collection.” Himmler smiled again. “The legal owner of the heilege lance will be our Fuhrer, but I shall be the one to hold it in trust.”

  Himmler rose and walked around from behind his desk. Hoch rose also and waited expectantly. He still didn‘t know what was going on. “Walk with me,” Himmler said, as he left the room and started down the hallway. “I want you to select twenty of your best men, arm and equip them well. Be prepared to depart in less than a fortnight. Tell them their names will live forever when the future history of Germania is written. Not many are afforded during their lifetimes the opportunity for a Grail quest. Fewer still receive the high honor of being chosen to lead the quest. Parsifal was one. Now you. Think of it. The Spear of Destiny. Finding it will make you a legend als
o, Reinhard. I wish it were me.”

  “Thank you. I am honored once more,” Hoch said but he still had no idea what made Himmler so excited. He resolved to find out. Parsifal? Wasn‘t that one of Wagner‘s operas?

  “I DON’T give a damn about the extortion payments,” Wesley Waterman shouted over the telephone at Reinhard Hoch.

  Hoch was seated at his small desk in his small office in the Brown House, one tenth the size of Himmler‘s. The big man‘s voice on the telephone softened. “I appreciate your gesture, Reinhard, in offering me a share of the ransom Hampton paid for his daughter. I don‘t want money. I want Hampton‘s company. I‘m paying you well to accomplish that.”

  “For which I am most grateful, Herr Waterman.”

  Waterman ignored him. “If everything you tell me is correct, his daughter ought to be easier to do business with.”

  “Actually, she is his stepdaughter. She is a true Aryan and, despite the unpleasant circumstances, I enjoyed our time together. I think you will find you can do business with her.”

  “Perhaps. I had forgotten that Hampton is not her father. No matter. Her mother was not of good stock. One of Miss Hampton‘s maternal grandparents was a Jew.”

  Hoch was surprised. “Are you certain? The Hampton woman has blonde hair, blue eyes and no discernable Jewish features.” He made a mental note to have it checked out by the genealogy branch of the SS.