They pushed through the doors and out into the parking lot. A light rain had started since they had been inside. Their Audi R 19 rolled up and the driver‘s side door was flung open. Behind the wheel, Sullivan said, “Would you be up for a midnight drive, milady?”
Sullivan slid over to make room, a silent admission that Cockran‘s racing sports cars as a hobby meant he was the better man behind the wheel. Cockran ushered Harmony into the front seat and closed the door behind them, sandwiching her between him and Sullivan. He put the car in gear and pulled out––just as the narrow-faced man rushed out of the club, finally wising up to what was going on.
They were on a two lane road, heading back towards Munich and, aside from their headlights, they drove in darkness through the countryside. A few homes and shops sat close to each other along the way, but there were long stretches of country in-between. Traffic was light, but passing slower cars on a two lane road would be easy to spot. Cockran drove only as fast as traffic allowed, and kept his eyes on the mirror to see if they‘d made a clean getaway.
Harmony was clearly nervous now. “Who was watching us in there?” she asked.
“Doesn‘t matter who,” Cockran said. “My guess would be Nazis.”
“How did they know we would be there?” she asked.
“Muller,” Sullivan said.
“Oskar?” Harmony said. “That‘s impossible. He‘s trying to help us.”
Cockran didn‘t reply, squinting his eyes at the headlights of oncoming traffic passing by in the left lane. After their meetings with Munich officials that morning, he certainly had his doubts about Muller. Most of the sincerity—and fear—from the officials were directed at Muller. But translators weren‘t supposed to instill fear in anyone.
Sullivan‘s voice was hard. “The only help he‘s offering is to place us in a plot of ground six feet under.”
Headlights splayed shadows upon the dashboard as a long black Horch behind them pulled into the left lane to pass. “Stay calm,” Cockran said as he let the car pass them on the left and pull back into the right lane, in front of them. Harmony snaked her arm through Sullivan‘s, taking hold of it.
The road bent to the left on a moderate rise and the lights of Munich were becoming visible in the distance when another pair of headlights cast shadows on the dash of their motorcar. Cockran glanced up, watching a second motorcar, an Opel, begin its passing maneuver in his rearview mirror. The Opel pulled even on the left when something up ahead caught Cockran‘s attention. The Horch was braking and closing the ground between them fast.
“Bourke…” Sullivan started, as the Horch closed to within ten feet.
“Hang on!” Cockran barked and slammed on the breaks just as the Opel swerved into their lane. Harmony lurched forward, but held on tight to Sullivan who had braced himself with his legs. The tires squealed under braking, but the Opel managed to clip the front end of their Audi. Steel shrieked at the impact and sent them fishtailing to the right.
Cockran wrestled the wheel and jerked the car back into a straight path as they reached the crest of the short rising hill. He stepped on the gas and swerved their car back into the left lane, passing the slower Opel on their right. They gathered speed downhill in the left lane where no on-coming traffic was yet visible.
Cockran saw the Horch ahead on their right and knew they weren‘t out of it yet. He down-shifted and accelerated. “Hang on tight!” he shouted. As they began to pass the Horch, it suddenly swerved into the left lane. Cockran pumped the brakes again, falling just behind the Horch as it screeched in front of them. He swerved back into the right lane, shifted gears and hit the gas, the Audi hurtling past the Horch before its driver could react.
Just then, their roadster was jolted from behind as the Opel crunched into their bumper. Damn! Cockran thought, its engine must be modified. A standard Opel shouldn‘t have been able to keep up with an R 19. Suddenly, the noise of the road fell away and the Audi felt as if it were floating, gliding up the moderate slope of the road. The wheels re-gripped violently, jerking Cockran‘s arms as he fought for control of the wheel. The roadster had spun into the left lane, veering dangerously close to the edge of the road and a short hill that fell away from it. The tires cut into the gravel and the little pellets rattled against the wheel well, but Cockran kept the car on the road, nearing the peak of the little hill.
Bright lights suddenly blinded their sight as a car cleared the hill moving in the other direction and bore right down upon them. Its horns blared and Cockran wrenched the wheel back to the right, avoiding a head-on collision. But he had overcompensated and swung them off the road on the right side, past the gravel and onto a short grassy slope that fell away from the road‘s edge. The weight of the car kept pulling them to the right, while Cockran fought to pull them back on the road. But he couldn‘t do it and he felt the entire left side of the car lift off the ground. The noise seemed to leave them for a moment––and Cockran could hear Sullivan cursing in Irish––until it all came back in an explosion of sound. Glass shattered in the passenger side door as the car rocked and jolted, skidding to a stop on its side in the short grass.
Everything was still. Cockran opened his eyes and was grateful to have achieved that much. He pushed the door open, pulled his Webley from its holster and stuck his head out, bracing his legs against the seat. He saw four or five shadowy figures approaching with guns drawn and fired two quick shots, taking down the lead shooter. Then he sensed, rather than saw the dark silhouette of Bobby Sullivan beside him, also standing through the open door, legs braced against the steering wheel. A .45 automatic in each hand, he was firing in rapid, controlled bursts. The light flashed around his frame as the withering fire from his two .45s halted their opponents‘ advance and forced a retreat, dragging their wounded comrade with them.
“Make sure they don‘t come back.” Cockran said and turned his attention to Harmony, who lay limp inside the car, slumped against the passenger door. He put a hand to her face. “Harmony,” he said. She didn‘t move. “Harmony,” he repeated, his voice louder.
“Is she hurt?” Bobby‘s voice said from above as Harmony began to groan.
“I don‘t know. Are they gone?” Cockran asked.
Sullivan looked down into the car. “Those bozos knew better than to press their luck.”
Cockran turned back to Harmony, but the only injury he could find in the darkness was a small bump on her forehead. She continued to groan, her eyes still closed. “Harmony,” Cockran said again, stroking her face. Her eyelids flickered, then she opened her eyes, dazed and unfocused. Her eyes wavered between the two of them.
“Am I dead?”
“No, you‘re fine, the danger is past.” Cockran replied
“Lass, you‘re as alive as a clear blue Irish morning in County Donegal.” Harmony gave a quiet laugh. “All you‘ve got is a little bump on your pretty forehead, right about here,” Sullivan said, touching her with the tip of his index finger.
Harmony smiled up at him. “And you don‘t have a scratch.”
“And isn‘t that the worst injustice? This ugly mug o‘ mine wouldn‘t even notice another scratch or two.” Harmony laughed again as he turned to Cockran. “Bourke, can you take her back to the hotel? I need to visit the factory. If they hit us, they may have also hit our boys their first night on the job. After we get this car right side up, you can drop me off.”
Cockran nodded. “We‘ll move to the smaller hotel two blocks down, remember it?” Sullivan did. “I‘ll take a suite there and register as Mr. & Mrs. William Donovan. We don‘t want to call attention to Harmony by checking her in as a single woman.”
“Mr. & Mrs.?” Sullivan said with a raise of his eyebrows as he pulled himself out of the motorcar, stopped and looked down at Harmony. “Enjoy your honeymoon, lass, and cheer up.” he said and jerked a thumb at Cockran. “At least we don‘t look as bad as he does.”
Cockran put a hand to his face and felt the warm sticky texture of blood that he hadn‘t e
ven noticed before. Harmony gasped, as if seeing his appearance for the first time. “Bourke, we‘ve got to get you to hospital quickly!”
31.
Death in Egypt
Alexandria
Friday, 5 June 1931
WEBER proved to be more difficult than Sturm had predicted. During cocktails—surprisingly dry and icy martinis—he insisted upon telling them the modern history of Alexandria and its attraction to expatriates from all over Europe. A far more sophisticated city than Cairo, he explained. Each of the European nationalities––the French, the English, the Italians and the Germans––had its own enclave, its own churches, its own schools.
Unbidden, one of the servant girls brought in another icy pitcher of martinis. Mattie, following Kurt‘s lead, accepted a second drink, recalling that he had barely taken a sip of a first before surreptitiously depositing the contents of the glass inside a potted fern. Weber wanted to keep talking about the history of Alexandria but Sturm changed the subject. Soon, Weber was talking just as volubly about the artifacts prominently displayed on marble pedestals and walnut bookcases throughout the villa. Swords, shields, lances, pottery, busts and jewelry all dated back to the First, Second and Third Crusades. Weber was familiar with the provenance of each, telling his guests where in the Holy Land each object was discovered and to whom it had belonged.
Notwithstanding the four martinis Weber had consumed, talking about his artifacts finally reminded him that his visitors had more artifacts to sell. “I understood from Professor Campbell‘s cable and our conversation during lunch that you have brought photographs of the artifacts he has recently discovered in Mesoptamia. May I see them now, please?”
Sturm pulled from his briefcase a folder containing the artifact photos and opened it on the long, low carved wooden table in front of them. But before Weber could reach out to pick them up for inspection, Sturm unrolled three maps of Alpine terrain which covered the photos. Weber pouted at being momentarily deprived of seeing the prized photos but said nothing.
“As you agreed at lunch,” Sturm said, “we‘d like you to help the professor on his next expedition to locate ancient Roman objects hidden in a stronghold in the Austrian Alps. Somewhere on these three maps. You were an officer in Austria‘s Alpine troops in the war, no?”
Weber appeared surprised at this. “Yes, I did serve in that capacity but, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to his considerable bulk, “that was a long time ago. I would like to help but I very much doubt I can. My memory is not what it once was.” Weber replied, glancing nervously at the maps, sweat appearing on his forehead even though the early evening air was cool, aided by swirling fans above while floor-length cotton curtains fluttered in open doorways.
“Perhaps so, but at least look at the maps,” Sturm continued. “If you can help, I‘m sure Professor Campbell will offer you even more artifacts to purchase than previously agreed.”
Weber reluctantly acquiesced and looked at the three maps as Sturm spoke again. “We believe the Roman artifacts were found by the Templars during one of the crusades and then moved to a castle of theirs in the Austrian Alps. We believe the three castles on these maps may be Templar castles. Are you familiar with any of them from your time in the military?”
Weber gave each map a cursory inspection. “Only the first one, the northernmost castle at the head of this valley” he said, pointing to the first map, “is a Templar castle. The other two are not. The third, in fact, is not even a true castle, more of a monastery. If your Roman artifacts were taken by the Templars and hidden in our Alps, as you say, then this would be the place. Personally, I doubt if you will find any artifacts, if indeed any were taken there to begin with.”
“Why do you say that?” Sturm asked. “Have you been to any of these castles?”
“No, no, of course not.” Weber replied. “But I‘ve seen aerial photos of all three taken by Austrian army aviators.”
“Well, take a last look at all three,”Sturm said and then you and the professor can review the photographs and bargain over a price while Mattie and I finish our martinis before dinner.”
Weber did and both Sturm and Mattie watched the man‘s eyes closely. She wasn‘t certain but Weber seemed to spend less time on the third map, the so-called monastery, than he had on the others. When Weber shook his head and said he was sorry, it was the castle on the first map or nothing and he feared it was the latter, she began to speak. “Herr Weber…” but Sturm placed a restraining hand on hers.
“We are most grateful for your assistance Herr Weber and we appreciate your hospitality. Mattie and I will leave you two alone now to haggle over the Mesopotamian artifacts. I wish you luck. Professor Campbell drives a hard bargain.” Sturm said, as he picked up his martini and joined Mattie on the other side of the room.
Once across the room, Mattie whispered “Why didn‘t you let me question him? He knows something about that third map he‘s not telling us.”
Sturm took a sip of his martini and smiled. “Ah, the gin is much diluted. Perhaps we can finish these since we watered his plants with the others” he said as he clinked his stemmed glass against hers in a toast. “I saw the same thing you did. We have the answer we came for. The third map is the one. No more questions are needed. Go find Anwar. Have him transfer our bags to the motorcar. We will leave for the Hotel Cecil as soon as we finish dinner.”
Dinner was even more luxurious than lunch and Weber continued his prodigious consumption of wine while Mattie and Sturm continued to sip. Weber was once more in an expansive mood as the hardbargaining Professor Campbell had agreed upon a price for all ten artifacts in the photos as well as the financial protocols to effectuate their delivery. Mattie smiled inwardly at Campbell‘s wicked sense of humor. She wished she could see Weber‘s face when he found out the Swiss bank account number Campbell gave him turned out to be bogus.
Weber soon returned to his history of modern Alexandria which eventually degenerated into gossip about sexual affairs and scandals of the last ten years. Mattie was bored to tears but Campbell would interject a question each time Weber seemed to be slowing down. Suitably revived, he would resume his monologue. Weber‘s great body eventually gave way after his third cognac and he collapsed, falling face forward into a plate of dates and sweet cakes.
Mattie looked at Sturm and rolled her eyes as Weber began to snore loudly. She threw her napkin down and stood up. “It‘s about time. I thought the evening would never end. Can we go now?”
Before Sturm could respond, four men burst into the room through the billowing drapes, each dressed in black and holding a submachine pistol with a sound suppressor.
“No one move!” a tall man with a dueling scar shouted in French, then in English. Mattie immediately recognized him. The man in her compartment on the Orient Express!
Two of the servant girls screamed and turned to flee, but they had not taken more than three steps when two of the silenced weapons opened fire, striking each girl solidly in the back, their slender bodies jerking at the impact and falling to the floor. Red blood spread from their ruined backs, providing a vivid contrast to the thick white cotton of their long garments.
All four weapons now turned toward Mattie, Sturm and Campbell, the only one who had remained seated during the slaughter of the servants. The man with the scar spoke in German to the other three armed men. “Guard the Europeans. I will interrogate them later. First we must deal with the traitor in our midst. The man who has betrayed the Brotherhood.”
The man shook his head slowly from side to side as he stared down at the unconscious Weber. He motioned to the other two men. “Round up all the servants. The two at the front gate will already be dead. Find and kill the other women who have been living in debauchery with this excuse for a man who was once our brother.”
Mattie watched as the man with the scar slung his machine pistol over his shoulder, held there by a sturdy leather strap. The man walked over to the table, picked up Weber‘s head from the plate of dates and
pulled him up by his hair, a date briefly sticking to his cheek before it fell to the table. He picked up a carafe of water and threw it directly into Weber‘s face. Weber sputtered and slowly regained consciousness. He was pulled to his feet and his hands were tied behind his back. Sounds of shrill screams and cries could be heard from deep inside the villa, followed by an ominous stillness.
“Come, old friend,” the man with the scar said, as he pushed the stumbling Weber away from the table back into the salon where cocktails had been served. The man guarding Sturm, Campbell and Mattie motioned with his weapon for them to follow Weber. They walked behind him and the man with the scar to the far end of the salon where four marble steps led to a small landing and from there to bedrooms. The man with the scar pushed Weber up to the landing while their guard brought Mattie and the others to a halt just below.
Another man returned, smoke still curling from the ugly snout of the machine pistol.
“You have disposed of the servants?” the man with the scar asked.
He nodded as a fourth man emerged with a sword and scabbard nearly four feet long.
“The two guards were dispatched?” the man with the scar asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes. We cut their throats and hid their bodies in the guard shack.”
“What of the driver for the Europeans‘ motorcar?”
“I saw no one,” the fourth man replied.
The man with the scar frowned. “Did you find their driver?”
The third man shook his head. “No, only women.”
The man with the scar frowned again. “When the ritual is complete, search the house thoroughly again while I interrogate the Europeans.”
The man then withdrew the sword from its scabbard, the threefoot-long blade polished and reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Both edges looked razor sharp to Mattie.
“Down,” the man with the scar said, as he forced Weber to his knees.
The Parsifal Pursuit Page 22