The Fellowship bc-2

by William Tyree

  What kind of secret mission was this? It was nothing like Wolf had expected. They ate openly in what was easily the most upscale restaurant Wolf had ever seen. A quartet played Vivaldi in a corner of the dining room. Wolf sat transfixed by the table’s centerpiece. A bucking stallion, half a meter tall, constructed entirely of painted Murano glass.

  Wolf ordered sardines. It did not take long before Lang caught his attention. His eyes were full of contempt, exuding hostility as he pretended to laugh at Fleischer’s jokes.

  Suddenly, Fleischer’s eyes caught something across the room. He nodded, then nonchalantly put his napkin on the table and stood. “No drinking tonight,” he instructed the boys. “Report out front at 2:00 a.m. sharp.”

  Wolf watched as Fleischer made his way across the room and shook hands with an Italian man in an elegant white tie and brown suit. A third man joined them. Dark suit, overcoat, holding a fedora. Wolf felt sure that he had seen him before. Paderborn? Paris? The Reich School, perhaps?

  He excused himself to go to the lavatory. Lang followed him to the restroom outside the main dining area, locking the door behind them after entering. They found themselves in a luxurious restroom with marble floors and several toilets with floor-to-ceiling dividers. Lang raced along the stalls, ensuring that they were alone before approaching his old friend.

  “What did Fleischer say to the boatman?” Lang demanded.

  “Very little,” Wolf frowned, taken aback by Lang’s intensity.

  “He must have said something.”

  “Nothing important. He wanted directions to this place. And he wanted to know how close it was to the Basilica of San Marco. “

  “San Marco?” Lang repeated.

  “How should I know?” He turned his back on Lang, stepped inside one of the stalls, unzipped, and began urinating into an open hole in the floor.

  “That has to be it,” Lang remarked. “San Marco is one of the most famous churches in Europe. It may be the only place in Venice that’s worthy of the ossuary.”

  “Heinz,” he ventured. “What are you going to do?”

  The bathroom door swung open. Wolf zipped, then backed up and peered over his right shoulder as an old man with a cane entered. His friend was already gone.

  *

  Wolf slid back his left coat sleeve and peered into the face of the black Doxa watch he had been issued at Wewelsburg Castle. It was 1:55 a.m. A stiff, cold breeze blew in from the canal, swinging the quartet of lanterns hung overhead. Even at this late hour, the hotel behind him was still lively. Guests returned in pairs from various taverns in the vicinity. Before him, several boats rocked like a row of restless horses.

  Wolf was chilled to the core, and yet his face was damp with perspiration. The moisture in his shirt was nearly unbearable. He had worn it without relief for two days of travel, and his tunic only seemed to trap the perspiration inside. Had the fever he had felt after surgery in Paris returned? The old surgeon had said that a little bit was normal. The medic at Wewelsburg castle had changed the dressing and reported no signs of infection.

  Maybe it was just nerves. His thoughts tumbled inside him now, gathering speed with each minute that passed without Lang’s presence. By 2:02 a.m., the other three young soldiers — Adler, Bauer and Kalb — had all reported for duty. Both Lang and Fleischer were notably absent. Tardiness was out of character for either man. It was practically unpatriotic.

  Would Lang resort to violence? What if he had decided to kill Fleischer? Wolf wished he had never given Lang his blessing. If discovered, they would all be questioned. The execution of Matthias Ulrich at Wewelsburg Castle was eminently fresh in his mind. The trembling he had felt at the report of Nagel’s pistol still reverberated through his body. He still questioned whether Ulrich had done anything at all, or whether he had, as the least able of the new recruits, been selected as a sacrificial lamb to encourage obedience.

  Two men emerged from the soupy haze. A third stumbled alongside them. As they drew closer, Wolf recognized the first as Fleischer. His face was locked into a grimace. The second man wore a long overcoat and fedora. He was one of the men who had met Fleischer in the hotel earlier tonight.

  The third man walked with a limp. His nose, forehead and lips were so grotesquely swollen that Wolf did not recognize his friend until he was pulled close.

  “Heil Hitler,” Fleischer said. “Let me introduce Kriminalinspektor Zimmer. We have been in constant communication since the failure in Paris. Thanks to the inspector, we seem to have caught our mole.”

  The Gestapo inspector thrust Lang forward so that the four unit members could see his face. His hands were cuffed behind him. His left eye was swollen shut. He tilted his head upwards so that he might see out of his good one.

  “Lang here was caught talking to one of the priests at San Marco,” Fleischer said. “He was informing the father of our plans to come for the ossuary.”

  Fleischer found Wolf in the lineup and glared at him witheringly. “Am I correct in assuming that it was you who told Lang about our plans for San Marco?”

  Shock coursed through Wolf’s body. Recently he had become increasingly convinced that he had an important part to play in life. If he was destined to be killed by Fleischer here in Venice, why had God revealed so much to him in the past two months?

  He thought of his mother. It had only been six days since Christmas. He knew in his heart that his brother would not return home. Hans had either been killed or captured in Stalingrad. After tonight, Gertrude would be the family’s sole survivor.

  “Wolf!” Fleischer demanded. “You will answer the question!”

  “I was ignorant of any plans,” Wolf said truthfully. “I told him only that you had asked about the location of San Marco.”

  Fleischer grinned and slapped Wolf on the shoulder. “Just as I had hoped.”

  Wolf winced, stunned by the camaraderie of the gesture. Maybe he wasn’t going to die after all.

  “I apologize for feeding you disinformation,” Fleischer continued. “I wanted to ensure that our suspicions about Lang were correct.”

  “Shall I put him into the canal?” the inspector asked. He kneed Lang in the buttocks, sending him dangerously close to the dark water.

  Fleischer lit a cigarette and considered his options. “No. You can’t kill him. Himmler will want him interrogated.”

  Fleischer smiled, unfolded a map from his pocket and stepped under a lantern to survey it. After several seconds, he turned with a resolute face. “It’s time for us to get what we came for. Inspector, if you would be so kind as to bring the prisoner?”

  And so they began traversing a series of darkened medieval walkways. Fleischer led Wolf, Bauer, Kalb and Adler came next. The inspector and Lang brought up the rear.

  The only sound was their boots against the cobblestones. With Lang in handcuffs, Wolf realized he was all that stood between Fleischer and the Holy Ossuary. Judging by the ease with which Lang had been apprehended, Wolf had to assume that his friend’s attempts to warn the local priesthood had failed. He also assumed, by the deliberateness of Fleischer’s march through the twisting streets, that the anthropologist had a solid idea of the ossuary’s whereabouts.

  He tried to separate himself from the others in his mind. They must not reach it, Wolf decided. Once they had the ossuary in their possession, sabotage would be out of the question. He could not destroy the relic. If it was indeed the body of Christ, then it must not be desecrated.

  The question was, what he was willing to do? If needed, was he willing to kill to stop this? The ease with which he had killed at Notre Dame had surprised him. He had hesitated for only a fraction of a second after lining up the monk warrior in his iron sights. And after taking the shot, he had not lingered unnecessarily on his actions. He had simply rushed to Hoffman’s side, riveted by the Aramaic message Hoffman had written with his own blood.

  He began to rationalize what his mind seemed to propose. Five German lives in exchange for thousands saved. Millions
, perhaps. Put in those terms, it was really not so bad. He had no love for Bauer, Adler or Kalb. Wolf reckoned that their minds had been programmed so completely by their training that they had no sense of identity at all. As for the inspector, it was assumed that anyone in the Gestapo was automatically a murderer. In that case, he also did not deserve Wolf’s mercy.

  Until now, Wolf had regarded Fleischer as just another good academic wasted by national socialism. Like his father, Fleischer’s prime years were being squandered by the misguided fantasies of Heinrich Himmler. He actually liked Fleischer, whose only real sin seemed to be pride. Of all the men in the mission briefing at Wewelsburg Castle, only Fleischer had seemed to have any humanity. But it was his pride that would deliver the ossuary into the arms of Heinrich Himmler. Besides, how well did Wolf really know him? For all Fleischer’s insolence at Wewelsburg, maybe he was just another sadistic Nazi on a quest for glory.

  If Wolf did manage to kill them all, he had no idea how he would escape. He felt hopelessly lost by the labyrinth that was Venice. The further they went from the canal, the more desolate the streets became. A marine layer blocked out the stars. Navigation was hopeless.

  Fleischer stopped and reexamined the map by the glow of his cigarette cherry. He pulled a flask from his pocket and sipped it, as if steeling himself for the darkened maze that lay ahead. “Are we lost?” Wolf asked, realizing only after he said it that he had sounded hopeful.

  Fleischer frowned at him. He pointed down a dark passage with the cigarette. “That way. You first.”

  And with Wolf leading, the group pressed on with only the occasional glow of a lit window to guide them over the narrow footbridges. The MP-40 was slung over his right shoulder. The submachine had been designed for close combat. He needed only the right opportunity.

  He began to walk faster now, testing his ability to distance himself from Fleischer and occupy the shadows. He began to imagine the rhythm of the ambush. Five paces ahead of Fleischer, ten paces ahead of Bauer, with Lang and the inspector in the middle and the others farther back. He would step into the darkness. Swing the rifle off his shoulder. Send the first burst into Fleischer’s chest. Swing 30 degrees to his left, where Bauer would eat a burst of 9mm rounds. Perhaps Lang would protect himself by falling down? By that time the others would be falling to either side of the passageway. Spray a wide pattern on both sides, hoping to hit them before their own MP-40s were raised in firing position.

  A nice fantasy, but too risky. He would chew through all 32 rounds in his magazine in only a few seconds. If he missed any of the men, there would be no time to reload before they returned fire. And then there was the inspector to consider. The Gestapo agent would surely use Lang as a human shield. Lang might or might not be ready to martyr himself to save the Holy Relic. Wolf wasn’t prepared to make that choice for him. He would be patient for a bit longer.

  When at last they came to the Rialto Bridge, which spanned the Grand Canal, Wolf finally knew where he was. Their boat had passed under this very bridge several hours earlier. Fleischer got in front and slowed the pace as they crossed. Then on the other side, he paused halfway down the steps and motioned for the unit to gather around him.

  “Down these steps and through that passageway,” he said pointing to a shadowy area beyond the bridge. “There should be a plaza. The market closed hours ago, so it is sure to be deserted now. On the southeastern corner is San Giacommo. Our contact tells us that the ossuary is there. It is said to be guarded by only a few priests.”

  Lang’s smirk did not go unnoticed by Zimmer. He gripped Lang’s cuffs and pulled back until the smile was gone. “What’s so amusing, slave?” Lang said nothing, but Wolf knew what he was thinking. Notre Dame had also been guarded by but a few Black Order agents, but they had still managed to steal the ossuary and kill Hoffman and three others in the process.

  “If I may,” the Gestapo agent interjected, drawing closer to Fleischer. He eyed the man’s coat. Seeing no bulges, he said, “Professor, I understand that on your Tibetan expedition, you singlehandedly rendered an entire species of yak extinct. And yet you are armed with nothing but a puny Luger.”

  Fleischer shrugged and gestured toward the unit. “Fighting is their job.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “It would be foolish to assume that the ossuary is not well-protected.”

  The inspector disarmed Wolf and handed the rifle to Fleischer. Then he pushed Lang toward Wolf. “Secure the prisoner. One word out of your friend, and I’ll cut out both your tongues.”

  The inspector tightened his lips and refocused his attention on the others. “You three,” he pointed at Adler, Bauer and Kalb. “Make your way along the edge of the plaza until you have secured the far wall. We will cover the southeastern portion of the plaza. Only when we are confident that we are not walking into an ambush will we enter the church.”

  The five would-be combatants, plus Lang and Wolf, made their way down the bridge and walked the narrow access path through the darkness. As Fleischer had predicted, a shadowy plaza opened up before them. A series of archways on the far side that had only hours earlier been populated with vendors was completely dark, revealing nothing about their present contents.

  On the near side, they found themselves under the wooden portico of a church. Consecrated in 421, San Giacometto was the oldest in Venice. Compared to every other church they had passed during their walk, its exterior was decidedly understated. There were no grand gargoyles, sculptures or ironworks to behold. The church’s brickwork was heavily weathered, with no consistent color in any one piece of the facade. A tower with three modest bells opened over a clock that was only correct twice a day.

  Several windows that had been added during the Victorian era were illuminated with a glint of candlelight. A shadow passed before the nearest window.

  Zimmer drew his own Luger and guided Fleischer, Wolf and Lang deeper under the edge of the portico. The other three fanned out across the plaza. The black-uniformed soldiers virtually disappeared in the long shadows.

  Wolf sensed that this was his moment. Yet without his rifle, how could he stop them? Should he cry out, alerting whatever rough priests may be inside the church? If he did so, Zimmer would make sure it was his last act on earth.

  Sweat poured down his face. The palms of his hands itched. His eyes burned. Then something flickered underneath one of the black archways on the far side of the plaza. Zimmer tensed, having seen it as well. They all stopped breathing.

  A sheet of white erupted from the far side of the plaza. The sound of rushing air was all around them. Someone screamed. A barrage of automatic gunfire broke out and sustained for several seconds. Zimmer retreated deeper into the shadows, dropping to a knee. Wolf steered his handcuffed friend behind a wooden beam as bullets ricocheted all over the plaza.

  And suddenly there was laughter, every bit as alarming as the outbreak of white had been. Wolf recognized Fleischer’s deep bellow. He looked up and saw what the anthropologist had found so hilarious. A pair of wounded birds fluttered on the bricks before them. Then there were three. And then a half-dozen. White feathers fell around them like snow.

  “Pigeons!” the inspector spat.

  Fleischer stood, holding the MP-40 at his side, and ventured out into the blizzard of white. “Adler?” he called out in a jovial, elevated whisper. “You got 10 of them at least. Too bad they don’t give medals for pigeon hunting.”

  He stood for several moments, listening intently as wounded birds fluttered crazily around the square, as if drunk. Pieces of those that escaped continued to float around him until he was barely visible.

  Wolf was the first to hear the approaching footsteps on the brickwork. Far too light for someone in jackboots.

  A sickening crunch cut through the white noise. Wolf did not see what heavy object struck Fleischer, but he heard the man’s blood spatter on the ground near him. Zimmer aimed his Luger and fired several shots where Fleischer had last stood. A swarm of shadows emerged from the archw
ays on the far side of the plaza.

  “Into the church,” the Gestapo agent commanded with genuine fear in his voice. Wolf obeyed before he could think, pulling Lang with him toward the center of the portico, groping blindly for the oversized arched doorway. His right hand found the latch on the right-most door, and to his relief, it opened.

  The three survivors found themselves inside a modest house of worship. Rows of lit prayer candles provided the only source of light. Several marble Greek-style columns flanked a handful of wooden pews. Rambling assortments of crucifixes were mounted on the walls. Bronze, silver, copper, wood. Wolf had never seen so many in one place.

  Zimmer sealed the doors behind them, quickly locating the barricade plank and heaving it across a pair of enormous steel brackets. He turned, walking past the boys, reloading his Luger with a fresh clip. His eyes searched the far end of the sanctuary. “It’s here,” he said. “Hidden beneath the altar, probably. Tear the place apart.”

  Zimmer would not be content, it seemed, to escape with his life. He would deliver Himmler’s prize at all costs.

  The door groaned behind them as some outside force pushed against the barricade. Zimmer spun, firing two shots through the double doors. Lang, having narrowly missed being shot, lost his balance, falling backwards against the wall.

  Wolf’s chance was now. He unsheathed the dagger from his belt. The one that Nagel had awarded him upon his sudden graduation from the Reich School. The blade shimmered in the candlelight, as did the inscription.

  The glint of steel flickered in the Gestapo agent’s peripheral vision. Zimmer swayed left as Wolf lunged forward — fast, but not quite fast enough. A rush of warmth on his hand and wrists confirmed that the blade had found its mark. The inspector stumbled backwards.