The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  63.

  Heed My Words

  Castle Lanz

  Friday, 12 June 1931

  YOU bastard!” Mattie said, spitting out the words. “I‘m not going anywhere with you or your Nazi thugs.” Mattie shivered as Hoch slowly stroked his Luger down the side of her face.

  “Why not? You enjoy being fucked by Nazis. I saw Sturm take you twice. I guarantee that the more Nazis who fuck you, the happier you‘ll be.”

  “Kurt‘s not a Nazi!”, Mattie said, repulsed by the thought Hoch had seen her with Kurt.

  “Oh, but I assure you he is. One of our ‘old fighters‘ who joined in 1923 before the Munich putsch. I‘m told he‘s even a Hitler favorite. But he won‘t be after I report the kindly feelings he expressed toward the parasite Jews on this expedition. Not that it will matter much to Hitler when he learns that an old fighter perished in a tragic climbing accident in the Alps.”

  Mattie heard the crackle of automatic weapons in the distance.

  “Don‘t you love the sound of Schmeizers?” Hoch asked. “There are my men now, cleaning up loose ends. They should be here shortly.”

  Hoch motioned with the Luger toward the Spear. “Wrap it well, my dear.”

  Mattie knelt down to do so, wincing at the pain in her knee and ankle. Moments later, four men clad in black darted around the corner of the stable from the southeast corner. All four stopped in front of Hoch, snapped to attention and saluted. Hoch casually returned their salutes.

  “Report.”

  “All three Austrians are dead. So is Herr von Sturm‘s man who was left at the camp. The other two we killed in the castle only moments ago.”

  “Excellent,” Hoch said. “But I heard no gunfire earlier.”

  The leader of the four-man unit grinned. “Nein. It was unnecessary,” he said, as he removed a large-bladed knife from a sheath strapped onto his leg and held it up for inspection, flecks of blood evident on its polished surface. We cut all their throats like cattle.”

  “Fine work,” Hoch said. “Send the signal for air transport. We will be leaving soon.”

  Hoch prodded Mattie in the back with his pistol. “Move, Fraulein McGary. My men will have captured Professor Campbell and Herr von Sturm by now and I want you to watch them die. If you do not wish to share their fate, you should reconsider my invitation to Wewelsburg Castle,” he said. “Based on your tryst the other night, I know you like it rough. So do I.” he said, and loudly smacked her bum with the flat of his big hand.

  Mattie winced at the blow but said nothing, vowing to get even. Reaching the Great Hall, her spirits sank deeper when she saw that Sturm was a captive, his hands bound behind him.

  “I told Himmler,” Hoch said to Sturm, “that you old fighters were no match for our SS.”

  Sturm looked at him through cool appraising eyes. “In some things, perhaps,” he said and paused for two beats before continuing. “Such as killing chickens and dressing them.”

  Mattie saw Hoch‘s face turn red with anger at Sturm‘s reference to Himmler‘s former occupation. “Your Jew-loving whore will soon discover I am your better in bed as well as battle.” Hoch smiled. “After that, a night servicing the SS is something she won‘t soon forget.”

  Sturm‘s eyes narrowed, his voice low. “Touch her at all, SS man, and your life is forfeit.”

  Mattie could see Sturm‘s hands bound behind him as Hoch took two steps forward and slapped Sturm on the side of his face with his open palm, the crack echoing off the stone walls. “You old fighters need to be taught some discipline and manners. You arrogant heirs of Prussian families look down your noses at other Aryans who are not so high-born. You won‘t be feeling that way when you witness your whore writhing beneath me.”

  Sturm‘s expression did not change. Mattie saw in his face the same ruthless killer she witnessed in Egypt. His voice was still low and cold. “You may heed my words and profit from them. Or ignore them and lose your life. The choice is entirely up to you.”

  “You are correct, Herr von Sturm,” Hoch said and then laughed, a loud honking noise. “The choice is entirely mine. But it is not whether to have your woman. It‘s when to have her; where to have her; and how to have her.” Hoch then launched a vicious kick at Mattie‘s left knee and she cried out at the pain, collapsing to the floor. He looked at Sturm. “That ought to make the British bitch easier to mount,” he said with a grin.

  Mattie writhed in pain but she had been watching closely as Hoch and Sturm exchanged their threats, looking for an opening but not finding one. The two SS idiots beside her were looking at their boss, not her. They had searched her for weapons but not with care, focused more on her chest than the small of her back where she kept her Walther PPK in a holster in her waist band. She knew she could retrieve her Walther and snap off several shots before the others knew what was happening. But she hesitated. Kurt‘s Luger lay several feet away. Would he be able to rearm himself in the diversion caused by Mattie blasting away? Knowing Kurt, the answer was probably yes. He might well free his hands and reach his weapon. He was that resourceful. But they both might well end up dead, as well, fulfilling Kurt‘s prophecy of the other night. It wasn‘t worth it. The odds were not in her favor right now. Cockran and the Apostles were nearby. She would bide her time until Bourke and Bobby came for her.

  Mattie didn’t realize it until later but, at that moment, she had started to turn the switch in her life back on. One step at a time. She had decided to be patient, not impulsive. She still intended to shoot that bloody bastard Hoch herself but only when the odds turned in her favor. She made a mental note to tell Cockran how she was living up to her new “Better safe than sorry” motto. Assuming, of course, she was still alive to do so when next they met.

  64.

  Assault on Castle Lanz

  Castle Lanz

  Friday, 12 June 1931

  BOBBY Sullivan pulled back on the controls and crested the ridge, banking left to begin his approach to Castle Lanz while Cockran and Rankin‘s two autogiros followed directly behind. Murphy and Lanz sat in the passenger seats in front of Sullivan, chaffing against their illfitting, torn and bloodied black SS tunics. Along the southern parapet facing the approach, two black-clad figures could be seen pacing. As they neared, Rankin and Cockran increased speed and drifted in along Sullivan‘s flanks, headed for the eastern and western walls. On the southern parapet, Sullivan saw one of the SS guards lower his rifle and raise a hand to wave his greeting. Sullivan slowed the autogiro down to about twenty miles per hour, drifting close enough to make out the big smile on the Nazi‘s face. Bobby Sullivan raised his hand and waved back.

  Murphy and Lanz lifted their assault rifles out of the passenger cockpit and leveled them at the two SS guards. Sullivan watched the Nazis‘ smiling expressions soften to one of confusion. One Nazi raised his Schmeizer machine pistol, but Murphy planted two quick rounds into the SS man‘s chest, pitching him back off the parapet and into the courtyard below. Beside him, Lanz made quick work of the other guard.

  Sullivan watched the Templars seated in Cockran‘s and Rankin‘s autogiros strafe the parapets with rapid rifle fire. A lone SS guard squeezed off a few shots before the crossfire cut him down. Cockran and Rankin‘s autogiros made the wide turn to approach the courtyard.

  Sullivan lowered his speed to twenty miles per hour and dropped directly into the courtyard. He landed in the center, his momentum carrying him past the stables on his right and towards the Great Hall. He turned the autogiro left as it slowed to a stop just beyond the stables on the eastern wall. Lanz leaped out of the passenger cockpit and raced across the courtyard towards the western wall while Murphy made his way towards the Great Hall. Sullivan arched his neck towards the sky and saw the other two autogiros complete their turn and begin their approach. He needed to keep the courtyard clear of enemy fire so that they could land safely.

  Sullivan pulled back the arming slide on his Thompson and edged around the corner of the stable. A man in black emerged form the Gre
at Hall, his Schmeizer at the ready. Sullivan lowered the Thompson and released three controlled bursts of fire, watching the Nazi twist in the air and collapse in a heap.

  Sullivan turned back and saw the other two autogiros were over the courtyard, no more than ten seconds from landing. Back towards the southern wall, he spotted another man in black peering through an open doorway into the courtyard. In his current position, the autogiros would land and block his line of fire on the SS man. He raised the Thompson and fired off a couple bursts, hoping to get lucky and catch at least a piece of the Nazi but he didn‘t.

  The bullets cracked loudly off the stone wall surrounding the doorway, forcing the Nazi to lean back out of the doorway. Good enough. Sullivan left the cover of the stables and raced for a wooden wheelbarrow a little further south along the eastern wall. He was about halfway to the wheelbarrow, when the Nazi stepped out of the doorway and lowered his machine pistol. Sullivan dove headfirst over the last few steps to the wheelbarrow and felt a heavy punch in his right arm along with the roar of automatic weapons, twisting him back in the air. He landed on his left side, the Thompson still firmly gripped in his left, his right arm feeling warm and wet. He raised himself to his knees, staying low and remembering exactly where the Nazi had been when he fired. He could hear the Nazi take quick footsteps trying to close the ground and finish him off. Sullivan opened and closed his right hand fiercely, testing what strength remained—it would be enough. Using his left arm to steady the gun, he took the trigger handle back in his right hand again and popped from his crouch, firing immediately. The Thompson barked in his ears as six rounds punched through the Nazi‘s chest in rapid fashion, lifting him off his feet and landing him flat on his back.

  Sullivan dropped to a knee, his right arm growing weaker as the two autogiros landed.

  COCKRAN’S autogiro touched down in the courtyard and he steered it towards the Chapel on the western wall, keeping it apart from the other two aircraft. Murphy emerged from behind the cover of a stone well to help Harmony out of the passenger compartment before turning to help the wounded McNamara exit as well. They were dead weight in the assault but they needed to be near if a quick escape was called for. He looked at Cockran. “If the Templars are right, we should have taken care of most of the SS. Lanz says the rest are in the Great Hall. They‘ll hunt down any stragglers while we take the Great Hall.”

  “Where‘s Bobby?” Cockran asked, removing his Webley from its holster. Murphy pointed across the courtyard and Cockran spotted Sullivan sitting with his back against a wheelbarrow, tearing off his shirtsleeve with a long knife. “You and Rankin get in position to move at the Templar‘s signal. We‘ll converge on the Great Hall from both sides.”

  Cockran turned to Harmony, her face still pale with fear. “Stay here with McNamara by the aircraft. Don‘t leave him.”

  McNamara smiled, chambered a round in his weapon, and gripped it firmly in his good hand. He nodded to Cockran and ushered the unresisting Harmony into cover beside the courtyard wall. Cockran sprinted across the courtyard towards Sullivan, who was balling up the cuff of his shirt to stop up the bleeding from a flesh wound in his right arm. Cockran picked up the long fabric of Sullivan‘s sleeve and wrapped it tightly around the wound. “Is it bad?”

  “I‘ve had worse,” Sullivan said calmly.

  “They got your right arm,” Cockran observed.

  “The left is just as good.” Sullivan said. “Except I can‘t use the Thompson. Want a try?”

  I wouldn‘t know what to do with it,” Cockran said truthfully, and pulled on the shirt threads, tying the knot. “The Big Fella never taught me how to use one.”

  “We never had enough of them. Mick himself only fired a Thompson one time in training,” Sullivan said. Using his patched-up arm, he removed a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster and reached for its twin in the other. “And it‘s a damned shame, too.”

  Cockran glanced at Sullivan‘s right hand, gripping its familiar .45. “Your right hand can‘t fire a Thompson, but it can handle a .45?”

  “It‘s for back-up. It‘ll look the part but the left will be doing most of the work.”

  Sullivan smiled. It meant more Nazis were going to die. Cockran rose to his feet with Sullivan, holding the Thompson. “I‘ll give Murphy an early birthday present. See you inside.”

  Cockran rushed off to join Murphy at the northeastern corner of the courtyard, giving him Sullivan‘s submachine gun. He crouched outside the doorway leading into the castle‘s interior. Across the courtyard, Sullivan was beside Rankin, ready with his twin .45s. A panicked shout escaping the castle walls preceded the unmistakable sounds of automatic gunfire as the Templars began their grisly work. Cockran ran through the open doorway, Murphy following.

  Inside, Cockran saw Sullivan and Rankin poised at the westernmost entrance to the Great Hall. He and Murphy peeled off and ran towards the easternmost. Trailing his left hand along the stone walls of the castle‘s interior, Cockran led with his revolver through an archway and into the Great Hall, followed by Murphy, who opened up with the Thompson. The noise was incredible, the air clouded with flying debris, but Cockran saw one SS man quite clearly. He stood firing behind an overturned wooden table at Lanz and another Templar who had improbably poured out of a concealed opening on the northern wall. The SS man suddenly swung his head towards Cockran, his Bergmann SMG slow to follow. Cockran fired once, twice—each bullet punching through his chest and knocking him back into the table legs.

  Sullivan fired rapidly across the hall with the .45 in his left hand, the pistol in his right hand held low at his hip. The automatic gunfire faded suddenly, normal sound returning as Sullivan swung to one side, leading with the pistol to his left. His gun was trained on the crouched figure of Reinhard Hoch, hiding behind another upturned table at the southern wall. The gunfire had been silenced and even Sullivan was not firing, though he had Hoch easily within his sights.

  Then Cockran saw why. Across the room, against the northern wall, a man held a gun to Mattie‘s head, shouting in German. The hooded Lanz was the only man whose weapon was trained on the Nazi. Sturm and Campbell, their hands bound, were on the floor beside them.

  Sturm‘s voice cut sharply through the SS man‘s shouts. “He‘s ordering you to drop your weapons or Mattie dies.”

  The Nazi‘s eyes swung wildly, his voice raising in volume, exhorting each man in the room to drop their weapons. Mattie did not look panicked. In fact, she looked angry. The Nazi shoved the pistol against her temple, shouting louder, as Mattie winced.

  Cockran quickly glanced at Sullivan who gave him a barely perceptible nod. The Irishman was assuring him that the situation was under control. “Do it,” Cockran said. “Do as he says.” Cockran knelt to the ground, lowered his weapon and saw Murphy and Rankin doing the same. The other Templar looked confused and turned to Lanz for instruction, but Lanz‘s weapon remained trained on Mattie and her captor.

  “Lanz!” Cockran shouted. “You gave me your word!” That damn zealot was going to get Mattie killed. “Lower your weapon or he‘ll kill the woman!”

  Lanz did not take his eyes off the Nazi holding Mattie and the other Templar did not lower his weapon. “The Spear is paramount, Herr Cockran. It must not fall into their hands!”

  “Lanz!!” he shouted again, as the stand-off smoldered. In the corner of his eye, Cockran saw Sullivan kneeling to the ground and lowering one gun with his wounded right arm but keeping the gun in his left hand level. Cockran saw in his eyes what the earlier nod had conveyed. Sullivan was not going to be disarmed. Someone was going to die and it better not be Mattie or Lanz would be a dead man too.

  Cockran shouted again to keep the Nazi‘s attention off Sullivan and stall the two Templars. “Lanz! You gave your word! Your word as a man of God!” Lanz took a sharp intake of breath, the automatic rifle easing into his shoulder. The Nazi‘s eyes were riveted on Lanz. Then a single shot rang out and blood from the Nazi‘s head splattered the castle wall behind him. A thick re
d hole rested just above his eyes. A wisp of smoke escaped from the barrel of the .45 in the still-kneeling Sullivan‘s left-hand, which he slowly turned until it was pointing directly at Reinhard Hoch.

  Hoch had already dropped his weapon, his hands held high in the air. He spoke German and English interchangeably, but the English was crystal clear. “Please! Please! Don‘t shoot me! Allow me to explain, please!”

  Cockran watched Lanz and the other Templars quietly leave the Great Hall while Sullivan rose his feet and closed the short distance from Hoch, his trusted .45s held firmly in both hands.

  “Please! I beg of you! Allow me to explain!” Hoch shouted again.

  “Explain it to the river man,” Sullivan said. “On your way to hell.”

  65.

  The Great Hall

  Castle Lanz

  Friday, 12 June 1931

  MATTIE caught her breath. It had happened so quickly. One minute she was a captive and barely able to put any weight on her knee thanks to Hoch; the next, her captor was laying at her feet, eyes wide, staring straight up, with a bullet hole in his forehead. Sullivan was every bit as deadly as Sturm. While Sullivan freed Sturm and Campbell‘s bonds, Cockran cut the ropes which bound Mattie‘s wrists.

  Mattie embraced him and held tight. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.” Just then, she heard automatic weapons fire outside. “Who is that? I thought all of you were here.”

  “Our new and temporary allies, sworn to safeguard the Spear,” Cockran replied, as the gunfire abruptly ceased. “They were outnumbered by the SS and needed our autogiros as a distraction. They‘re the same ones who attacked you two days ago and earlier in Egypt.”

  Cockran paused and spoke to Sullivan. “Keep Hoch over there in the corner by the fireplace, his face to the wall. Lanz‘s men had the same success against the SS as we did.”