The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  “Of course, sir,” the clerk replied in English before bending down to rummage for the paperwork. He was an elderly man with white hair and big, expressive eyebrows. “Ah, here we are,” he said as he rose back up. Squinting his eyes, he saw the name on the form and turned his glance to Cockran. He raised his voice: “Leaving so soon, Herr Cockran?”

  Cockran did not respond. He did not need to turn around to know he‘d been burned by the old man. “We‘re driving to France.” he said. The clerk smiled thinly and nodded his head, letting his eyes drift from Cockran‘s and over his shoulder before returning to the paper work. Cockran kept still, as if nothing had happened, hoping at least to keep the appearance of ignorance, rather than alert his tail that he knew he was being watched.

  “Have there been any messages for me?” This was the real reason he risked going back to the Bayerische. It was hotel policy not to give messages over the telephone.

  “Messages?” The concierge looked up. “Nein. None that I can recall. Let me check.”

  He quietly hoped Mattie had left a message but he wasn‘t optimistic. He feared they wouldn‘t be in touch until she showed up in Venice. Or, he corrected himself, if she showed up in Venice.

  “It was as I said,” the clerk announced, his search completed. “No messages.”

  Cockran picked up Harmony‘s case and turned to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tall man place down his glass and step away from the girl he‘d been talking to. Cockran pressed on to the street, pushing open the glass door and into the rain. The sounds of the lobby died as the doors closed behind him. He put his hat on and turned left, walking briskly away from the Leinfelder, his hip throbbing with every step. The sounds of the lobby briefly came back to life as the glass door opened and closed a second time. He strained his ears to hear footsteps following him but the sound of the rain drowned everything out.

  Cockran reached the end of the block and rounded the corner to his left. After five steps, he stopped and moved back to the edge of the building. He listened again for footsteps, Harmony‘s luggage gripped firmly in his left hand, his right hand pulling the Webley from its holster. Hearing footsteps, he lunged around the corner. The tall man reared back, startled, and stared stupidly at Cockran as he closed ground swiftly. He swung Harmony‘s suit case deep into the man‘s gut, doubling him over. Cockran came down hard on the back of his skull with the butt of his Webley and the man splayed out on the sidewalk.

  Cockran bent over the prone figure and searched his pockets for a billfold and some form of identification. He found the billfold in an inside jacket pocket. In it were a few paper Reichsmarks, photos of a woman and child, several retail store receipts, and a National Socialist Workers Party membership card. Then he checked the other inside pocket and found something else––a business envelope inside of which was a folded piece of paper with a list of Germanic names and addresses, none of which he recognized. Aside from the names, there was almost nothing else marked on it, no headline or title. Just three embossed letters in the upper left hand corner of the envelope: I.C.E. Cockran refolded the paper, stuffed it and the envelope in his pocket, and left the unconscious Nazi to enjoy his cold, late evening shower on the sidewalk.

  COCKRAN was met by the muzzle of a .45 when he returned to his room at the Leinfelder and he saw the blue eyes of Bobby Sullivan peering over the smooth black barrel.

  “Anyone follow you?”

  “Yes,” Cockran said. “For a block. Then I convinced him to stop.” Sullivan pulled his head back to look behind him, allowing Cockran a glimpse inside the room. A blade of light divided the room, but he could make out the covered figure of Harmony asleep in one of the room‘s two beds. Sullivan loosened the chain from the door, but instead of letting Cockran in, he opened the door enough to let himself out into the hallway.

  “Best to talk out here,” he said. “The lass is sleeping.”

  Cockran nodded. “What happened at the factory?”

  “Full frontal assault, as many as twenty Nazi storm troopers,” Sullivan said, matter-of-factly. “They killed three of our boys. Paul‘s Tommy plugged at least two of theirs. Then the rest lost their courage and fled before Paul could take down any more of ‘em.”

  “How did they break through?” Cockran asked.

  Sullivan cut Cockran off with a shake of his head. “I don‘t know any further details. My German‘s not that good. I had a feeling everyone there wanted to tell me something else,” Bobby continued, “but I couldn‘t understand them.”

  “I‘ve got it covered,” Cockran said. He told Bobby about Rolf, the Leinfelder concierge who had agreed to be their new translator. “We‘ll take him with us to the factory tomorrow but we‘re going to need more than a translator. We‘re going to need more guns.” Cockran grinned. “Consider your hands to be officially untied.”

  “St. Thomas and I thank you,” Sullivan said with a smile that only those who knew him well would consider a smile. “I‘ll place a call to Donegal today. Isn‘t the Squad always up for a good fight? And don‘t we have several German-speakers among them to boot?”

  Cockran nodded. “Place the call. Bring as many of the Apostles as you think we‘ll need. NBM will pay the fare. Tell them I‘ll wire the funds to charter an airplane.

  33.

  Mattie’s Nightmare

  Alexandria

  Friday, 5 June 1931

  MATTIE sat in the back of the Packard with Sturm while the Professor sat up front in the left-hand passenger seat of the right hand drive motorcar. “Don‘t stop at the gate, Anwar. It should be open.” Sturm then turned to Mattie. “If we see intruders, shoot to kill.”

  Anwar accelerated the big Packard up the driveway through the gate, which was open as Sturm had predicted. Machine gun fire erupted as they sped through the white arch, shattering the rear windscreen. Mattie winced, feeling shards of glass rending her blouse‘s sleeve and cutting flesh while Professor Campbell cowered on the floor up front and Sturm shot back.

  “Anwar!” Sturm shouted. “Don‘t take the same route back. Head for the coast road. Take us to the marine terminal. We‘ll spend the night on the Graf.”

  Mattie surveyed the damage to her arm. Most were minor scratches, but one shard of glass left a bleeding wound behind, which Sturm bound with a white handkerchief.

  Anwar reached the coast road and hung a right, keeping at the 50 kilometers an hour posted speed limit. There was a full moon, and Mattie could see the ocean off to her left. The road ran along a bluff overlooking the beach. In some places, the bluff was only five to ten feet high, but elsewhere it was a 40 foot drop. There was no guardrail between the road and the beach and Mattie was grateful that Anwar was keeping the big motorcar within the speed limit.

  Mattie‘s breath was slowly returning to normal when, without warning, a bullet shattered their left front windscreen, the noise of the engine masking the sound of the weapon. Both Mattie and Sturm turned quickly to look behind them, as Professor Campbell dove for the floor once more with a high-pitched squeal. A large pair of headlights was rapidly covering the distance between them. Before Sturm could issue an order to increase the acceleration, Anwar had already done so and the Packard‘s twelve-cylinder supercharged engine was more than up to the task. The acceleration threw Sturm and Mattie back into the soft leather upholstery.

  The pursuing motorcar had an equally powerful engine and had closed to within 30 yards before Anwar‘s acceleration enabled them to maintain that distance.

  “Keep your head down, Mattie. You load. I‘ll shoot.”

  Kurt handed her a box of shells and braced both elbows on the back of the seat and snapped off five quick shots, blowing out each of the pursuing car‘s headlights. Sturm fired five more shots and handed the Luger to Mattie, who quickly put her Walther in his palm.

  “The two from the villa are the ones shooting,” Sturm muttered under his breath but not too low for Mattie to hear, “I should have killed them when I had the chance.”

>   Mattie could see the lights of Alexandria ahead as the motorcar behind returned fire. Anwar cried out and Mattie saw that he had been hit in the shoulder and was struggling to keep the Packard under control. She shoved the last shell into the clip and gave the Luger to Sturm.

  “Anwar needs help,” she shouted. “I‘m going to take the wheel.” Sturm ignored her and fired a last shot from the Walther, which shattered the driver‘s side windscreen of the pursing vehicle, causing it to swerve momentarily.

  Mattie clambered into the front seat and took the wheel. “I‘ve got it. Move beside me!”

  The car slowed briefly as Anwar took his foot off the pedal and shifted to the left behind her. Mattie hit the accelerator and the Packard leaped forward. More shots rang out and she ducked, tightening her hold on the steering wheel. Anwar‘s hands reached for his throat and he slumped forward, blood gushing from a bullet wound in his neck. His body slid with a curve in the road and bumped against her, knocking her grip free of the wheel and the Packard lurched to the left toward the bluff and its 40 foot drop. Mattie regained the wheel and jerked the car back onto the road as Sturm, with a thump and a curse, lost his balance. The Packard slowed from Anwar‘s 140 kilometer per hour pace and Mattie fought for control. Then, Sturm stopped firing and climbed into the front seat beside Mattie, pushing Anwar‘s body out of the way. Through the rearview mirror, she could see that the pursuer‘s vehicle had gone off the road to the right, the only illumination a spotlight attached to the driver‘s side, but now shining straight up.

  Meanwhile, the Packard‘s left wheels were on the gravel and were less than ten yards from the edge of the bluff when the big motorcar hit a depression, bouncing several feet in the air. The right front door flew open when the car hit the ground, skidded and spun 180 degrees as Mattie brought it to a stop. She craned her neck to look out the open door. All she could see was the beach 40 feet below and the ocean beyond. She gripped the steering wheel even tighter.

  Sturm applied the emergency brake and reached out for Mattie. “Take my hand.” Which she did, grateful to feel the same strong hand which had saved her on top of the Graf Zeppelin.

  “Put Professor Campbell in the back seat,” Sturm said.

  Mattie did so after Campbell had timidly crawled out from his hiding place in the front seat passenger foot space. Once the front seat was clear, Sturm lifted the slight Egyptian‘s body and pushed it out the open driver‘s door. Mattie watched it tumble down the side of the bluff.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Mattie asked as she re-entered the motorcar..

  Sturm reached over Mattie, pulled the passenger door closed, released the parking brake, and engaged the clutch, moving the motor car slowly back onto the coast road. His voice was cold. “Anwar is dead because you stopped me from killing those men. The Graf leaves tomorrow morning. I don‘t propose being in Alexandria for another month as a material witness to the slaughterhouse we left behind at Weber‘s villa. That is what would happen if we didn‘t dispose of Anwar‘s body now. We must leave Egypt quickly if we are to find the Spear.”

  On Board the Graf Zeppelin

  Friday, 5 June 1931

  THE giant airship was bathed in spotlights as Sturm wheeled the big Packard through the gates of the marine station and pulled to a halt just short of the zeppelin‘s nose. Mattie watched, shivering from the cool night air, as Sturm bounded up the steps to the gondola‘s entrance.

  He returned a few moments later with a blanket. “There‘s only one officer and several crew members on board. He has agreed that we may spend the night in our cabins.”

  Mattie nodded and shivered once more, barely taking in what Sturm was telling her.

  “He will place several armed crew members at the marine terminal‘s entrance,” Sturm said as he opened the door and extended his hand to Mattie. “How are you feeling?”

  Mattie shivered again and Sturm placed the blanket around her shoulders. Mattie felt lightheaded as she leaned on Sturm. “Kurt, I think I‘m going…” and then she felt herself falling.

  Mattie regained consciousness moments later, cradled in Sturm‘s strong arms, as he started up the steps to the airship‘s passenger compartments. Mattie‘s adrenaline level was still high but, for the first time since the gunmen had burst in on them at Weber‘s villa, she felt safe and she sat patiently on the divan in her cabin and allowed Sturm to check her body for any broken bones or additional wounds beyond the superficial cuts on her left forearm caused by the flying glass. His hands were warm and comforting, as they gently applied pressure to her arms and ribs before moving lower, starting with her ankles, then her calves and up to her thighs where she felt a tingle at his touch. Sturm then rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and she winced as he applied alcohol to the cuts and wrapped them in a gauze bandage.

  Sturm stood up from a kneeling position. “Would you like the ship‘s medical officer to examine you? I can arrange for one of the crew to find his hotel and wake him.”

  “I‘ll be fine. I just need some sleep.” Her tired smile reflected her emotional exhaustion.

  Sturm leaned over close and placed his large hands on both her shoulders. “You‘re safe now. I‘m in the next cabin. Call out if you need me.”

  As she watched Sturm exit her cabin, she found it difficult to believe that he was only the assistant to the president of a large steel company. Kurt was a skilled killer and she was alive because of it. Who he really was could wait for another day. So could playing it safe. Those men had tried twice and failed. She wasn‘t going to let them keep her from finding the Spear.

  Mattie closed her eyes and tried to erase the image of the beheading and harrowing chase in the motorcar. The danger she sometimes faced in her assignments was real but incidental. It didn‘t happen nearly so often as Cockran imagined. But tonight was different. She hadn‘t had so much gunfire directed toward her since that sixty seconds of blazing hell in Munich in 1923 where, like tonight, her only injuries were from a motorcar‘s shattered windscreen.

  Munich

  Friday, 9 November 1923

  MATTIE and Helmut had walked back to their hotel through a Munich that seemed alive to the possibility of revolution as the news of President Kahr‘s concession to Hitler spread like wildfire. Fortified by a stiff scotch and water, Mattie had hastily written out her notes, obtained a long-distance line to the copy desk in London, and dictated a detailed account of the evening‘s events at the Burgerbraukeller. History was being made and she was writing it. It felt great.

  She awoke from a sound sleep by the jangling of the telephone. She threw off the eiderdown comforter. Feeling the cold morning air on her naked body as she picked up the phone, she heard the voice of Putzi Hanfstaengl. “It‘s all gone terribly wrong. Our troops were meeting resistance at one of the armories and Hitler left to take personal charge of the attack. Ludendorff stayed behind and let Kahr and the others leave. Then Kahr repudiated his support.”

  “So the putsch is over?” Mattie asked.

  “Maybe. I don‘t know. I think so.” Hanfstaengl replied. “But it‘s all very confusing. I‘ve never seen Hitler so unsure of himself. Everyone has a different opinion. There‘s talk of a mass march on the state capital at noon. Göring is pushing the idea. He has Ludendorff convinced that if he and Hitler lead the march, the police will not obey any orders to fire on them. It‘s lunacy, I tell you, but I‘m afraid Hitler might believe it. Who knows? It might even work.”

  Mattie hung up the phone and walked to the black and white tiled bathroom and turned on the shower. Waiting for the water to warm, she then walked over to the tall french windows and threw open the drapes. She stood there, hands on hips, looking out at the cold, gray dawn and the glistening streets below. They were deserted. It didn‘t look like a day for revolution. After her shower, she called Helmut. “Come quickly. We need the motorcar at once.”

  The day was still gray and cold as Mattie and Helmut sat in their open Mercedes motorcar on the inner city side of the I
sar River bridge. The Isar River separates the section of Munich in which the Burgerbraukeller was situated from the city center where the government buildings were located. In the inner city, somewhat to the north of the Feld Herrn Halle was the headquarters of the Reichswehr which Ernst Rohm and the Nazis had seized and fortified with machine guns. Mattie was at the wheel and Helmut was in the back seat, three cameras at the ready. Mattie turned up the collar of her long wool navy blue coat and shivered at the gust of wind coming off the water. She could see the column of Storm Troopers approaching the bridge.

  “Start now, Helmut,” she ordered. “Take as many photos as you can.”

  The fools, Mattie thought, as she looked at the small squad of police on the far side of the bridge. “They should be on this side,” she said. “They have only twenty men, but if they put a machine gun or two on this side, the Storm Troopers could cross the bridge with no more than ten men abreast. The police might eventually be overrun, but I can‘t believe the Storm Troopers are prepared to put up with the kind of casualties that would entail.”

  Helmut, busy taking photos, didn‘t reply and Mattie watched as the long column of armed Storm Troopers stopped when they met their first obstacle at the Isar River bridge. A group of armed police confronted them with weapons drawn. Hermann Göring stepped forward and ordered the police to stand down, threatening to kill hostages if the police fired on them.

  Mattie watched incredulously as the police surrendered their carbines and stood there abjectly as the Storm Troopers passed by them, shouting obscenities and spitting on them.

  Mattie mentally kicked herself for her stupidity at what happened next. She heard Göring bellow an order and suddenly five armed men sprinted across the bridge, their rifles at port arms, bayonets affixed to each. Before Mattie could start the ignition of the big Mercedes, the five Storm Troopers had surrounded the car, their bayonets pointed menacingly at Mattie and Helmut. Moments later, Hermann Göring was by her side, his steel helmet tucked under his arm.