“Ava! Good to see you again!” he yelled over the noise of the hammering water, ushering her under the protection of a large blue golf umbrella.
“This is a bit dramatic, isn’t it?” Ava smiled, relieved it was DeVere. “You could’ve just phoned.”
“Well,” he answered, directing her up the stairs and towards security. “I thought we’d get you through customs and into town as quickly as possible. Police car is always faster than taxi, I find.”
“I’m being serious, Peter,” she answered. “Just call me if you want to talk next time. All this effort is really not necessary.”
“Actually, it wasn’t really my decision.” He sounded apologetic as the security guard passed her a visitor’s ID card with a four-digit number on it. “I’m afraid Uncle Sam is running this one. I just do what I’m told.”
Ava glanced around the large designer atrium. Gentle lighting washed over it from overhead, making it feel more like the foyer of a boutique hotel than a government building.
As she approached the row of six Perspex security bubbles, she swiped the card and typed in the number. A small green light went on beside the bubble in front of her, and the clear door slid open. She stepped inside onto its pressure mat, and the door closed behind her with a hiss, allowing the machine to test the air around her for traces of firearms and explosives, and to record her weight on entering and exiting the building. After a few seconds, the Perspex door in front slid open, allowing her into the main body of the building.
DeVere emerged from the bubble next to her, and steered her into one of the two massive elevator columns. He punched a number into the control panel, and the elevator began to ascend quietly.
Once on the fourth floor, DeVere led her down the corridor to the video suites.
“She’s in here,” he said in a confidential tone, swiping his ID pass into an unobtrusive metal security scanner outside one of the doors. “I think she’s a bit upset about Dubai.” He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation as the lock clicked, then pushed open the heavy wooden door to reveal a neat well-ordered room.
It was lit only by the soft green glow of a brass and glass banker’s lamp on a low side table next to a deep chocolate-brown leather sofa and a pair of matching armchairs.
There was a two-yard-wide glass screen suspended from the ceiling by the far wall, and a very tall woman on the sofa was cycling through images on it with a slim silver remote control.
Ava recognized Anna Prince immediately.
“Did you find anything?” DeVere asked Prince, dropping down into one of the armchairs and glancing up at the sequence of photographs.
Prince looked up. She flicked off the screen and stared hard at Ava for a few moments, gauging her, then indicated for Ava to sit down opposite her.
When Ava was seated, Prince exhaled audibly. “Dr Curzon, I thought we had an understanding?” Her tone was not friendly.
Ava raised an eyebrow, indicating she did not follow.
Prince continued, unfazed. “You were meant to tell us if you heard anything further about the Ark.”
Ava shot a glance at DeVere. He shrugged discretely, making it clear this was Prince’s show.
“Yes. About that—” Ava began, before she was cut off by Prince, who was clearly in no mood for polite chat.
“This is a serious matter,” Prince looked none too pleased. “We need to know we can trust you.”
“Why? So you can support me, like you did in Kazakhstan?” Ava had no intention of being patronized by Prince. “I didn’t feel a lot of transatlantic trust when you nearly got me killed in Astana.”
Prince seemed not to have heard. “Well you should be thanking me now.” She slapped a cardboard folder onto the coffee table between them, and opened it to reveal a pile of photos Ava quickly recognized as her entering Yevchenko’s room in the Burj al-Arab hotel.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, Dr Curzon,” Prince continued. “Our friends in the UAE wanted to pull you at Dubai airport. It took a great deal of effort to keep you out of an Emirati police station.”
“What on earth do they want me for?” Ava did her best to sound surprised and outraged.
Prince spread the photos out, revealing one of Yevchenko’s corpse on the table, and another of his executioner sprawled on the kitchen floor.
“Hotel CCTV shows you were the second last person to enter the room of a Mr Arkady Sergeyevitch Yevchenko, room 2004. He’s the dead one on the table. The last person to enter the room—he’s the one on the floor—obviously never left it either.” Prince glared at Ava. “Although he would’ve found it hard, as you can see—the back of his skull has been pulped.” Prince paused. “The curious thing is that the hotel’s CCTV record shows you were in the room with the pair of them. Yet you’re the only one who left it alive.”
Ava could feel Prince eyeing her carefully for any reaction. “So understandably,” she continued. “The Dubai authorities are keen to speak with you.”
Ava was unimpressed. “And presumably the CCTV also shows a group of men in black jumpsuits going into Yevchenko’s hotel room some time earlier? Did it occur to anyone they may have something to do with it?”
Prince made no comment.
“Why are they so concerned about the death of one of Yevchenko’s murderers?” Ava countered. “I would’ve thought they ought to be much more worried how a fee-paying guest was tortured and executed under their noses in one of the hotel’s suites, before the hit-team made a getaway from the hotel’s helipad? I’m no travel agent, but that has to be bad publicity for a seven-star hotel welcoming a string of wealthy people, many of whom have made a few enemies on their road to riches.”
Prince nodded. “But they still want to talk to you.”
“Of course they do!” Ava exploded, exasperated. “An armed hit-squad doesn’t just land on the Burj al-Arab’s helipad, torture a guest to death in broad daylight, then lift off into the blue.” She stared at Prince. “Do you know how much organization and collaboration that stunt will have taken? They’ll have had to file flight plans in and out of Dubai airspace, a range of permissions and approvals to use the hotel’s helipad, and a host of other bureaucratic forms. They are, without doubt, being helped by people on the ground, including officials. So it’s a lot easier for everyone concerned to avoid the awkward questions by moving the focus onto me—even though some would say I did them a favour.”
Prince drummed her fingers on the table. When she spoke her voice was quieter, although barely concealing her anger. “You don’t get it, do you? We all understand you have many talents, but you told us you would let us know if you heard any more about the Ark. Yet now we find you’ve been busy in Dubai on the trail of the Ark behind our backs.”
“Who said anything about the Ark?” Ava ventured.
Prince looked incandescent. “This all works on give and take. We’ve just pulled you out of pretty hot water. And it took a lot of doing. I don’t mind saying there were a number of senior people on our side who wanted to know why we should make the effort to help you, given your disregard for our agreement.” She stared at Ava. “I’ve gone out on a limb for you here. There are people on my team a lot angrier than I am. I hope you can appreciate that.”
Ava did not respond.
“Good. So we understand each other?” Prince looked expectantly at Ava.
“Well, I understand you want something more from me,” Ava returned her gaze. “Or you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”
Prince pursed her lips. For a moment she looked as if she was going to lose control, but then she held back.
Smiling briefly, she got up and walked over to the sideboard. She poured a cup of hot coffee from a heavy black thermos, and put it down beside Ava.
Flicking the large glass screen back on, she began to scroll through a number of images. “Look at these.”
Ava watched as pictures flashed across the glass panel. They were all of men, dressed in what looked like pale grey Nazi uniforms.
Looking more closely, she could see their dark green collar flashes had the three lions passant of England, and a small ribbon wrapped around the tunic’s second button was the red, white, and blue of the British flag.
As her eye moved down the pictures, she noted the cuffs of the left sleeves were encircled with a white-bordered black tape embroidered in bold white Gothic lettering with the words: ‘BRITISCHES FREIKORPS’.
She did a double take. But she was not mistaken.
More extraordinary still, above the cuff-tape was a black-bordered shield of the British Union Jack—or Union Flag, as some of the more pedantic people in the Firm used to remind unwary newcomers.
She frowned.
Just as oddly, on the right sleeve she could see a band with an upside down silver-edged black pentagram. Underneath it, she read the single embroidered word: ‘THELEMA’.
Ava was momentarily lost. These were Second World War German military uniforms, but it was quite obvious the photos were not sixty-eight years old. In one, a man pressed a slim black mobile phone to his ear. In another, a group of them were huddled around a sleek flat-screen computer monitor.
“Who are they?” Ava asked DeVere, baffled.
“I hate Nazis,” DeVere muttered. “Especially ones like these.”
“Nazis?” Ava repeated. “Does anyone still take all that seriously?”
“Very much so,” Prince cut in.
“So who are they?” Ava asked.
“In the Second World War, the SS didn’t just take the cream of German society, those with ancestry going back to 1750 on both sides of the family. They also had the clever idea of recruiting abroad, from among non-German populations.” Prince pointed to the lettering on their left sleeves. “They called these foreign units the Freikorps, or Free Corps. What you are looking at is the uniform of the SS British Free Corps.”
Ava was having trouble taking this in. “Excuse me?”
“You heard,” Prince answered. “British units of the Nazi Waffen-SS.”
Ava was stunned. “Did British men actually fight, for the enemy?”
Prince nodded. “But not against the British. That was part of the deal. Most of them belonged to the British Union of Fascists, and joined the SS Freikorps to fight the common enemy—the communists on the eastern front.”
DeVere shook his head in bewilderment. “But wasn’t the SS supposed to be the cream of Germany’s Aryan supermen? Blut und Boden—Blood and Soil, and all that? Why did they let foreigners in?”
“For propaganda,” Prince replied. “For instance, the British Freikorps soldiers were regularly sent around the prisoner-of-war camps, telling British prisoners how wonderful life was in the SS. Some of them even tried to convert the hardened British escapees of Oflag IV-C Colditz—but they didn’t get far with that particular audience.”
“These photos are recent.” Ava observed, still reeling from the idea there had been British soldiers in the SS. “Are you telling me the Freikorps still exist?”
Prince stood and poured herself a coffee. “Yes and no. Many of the British Freikorps men were hanged for treason at the end of the war, and the SS was officially disbanded, although there have always been strong indications of continued activity in South America and elsewhere via the ODESSA. As far as we know, any stragglers of the original Freikorps were never organized enough to be dangerous. But these men today,” she paused, staring at the screen, “these men are quite different.”
“Look at the right sleeve, Dr Curzon,” Prince zoomed in on the photo as she spoke. “The pentagram, and word THELEMA are new. It indicates their creative spin on the SS ideal—their own special brand of nastiness.”
Prince stopped cycling through the photographs, and left the screen displaying a close-up image of a bald fleshy-faced stocky man wearing the same British Freikorps uniform as the others.
Ava recognized the cold sea-green eyes and hairless face immediately.
Malchus.
“I hadn’t noticed that before.” It was DeVere. He sounded intrigued. “He’s wearing the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves, swords, and diamonds.”
“What’s does that signify?” Ava asked. “And how on earth do you know about it?” She grinned at him.
“Oh—you pick these things up at school in England,” he answered lazily, “while gluing together models of tanks and aeroplanes. It’s a grand version of the Iron Cross—for very distinguished soldiers.”
“Can you zoom in on it?” Ava asked.
As Prince homed in on the medal and blew up the resolution, they could all see what Ava had spotted. In place of the usual silver embossed swastika at the centre of the medal, there was an upside down pentagram.
“His name is Malchus,” DeVere said. “He’s a former officer of the East German Stasi.”
DeVere clearly did not know that Hunter had told her about Malchus. She let him continue.
“He runs the Thelema order of British neo-Nazis. He’s not British, but he claims some Scottish blood, and that’s good enough for them. They value him mainly because he’s a nasty piece of work, is intensely into the occult, and has well-honed organizational skills from his long years with the Stasi. He’s the perfect leader for this organization.”
“So what are the pentagrams all about?” Ava asked, aware the five-pointed star was a universal symbol of the occult, but not quite seeing its relevance for a modern-day group of neo-Nazis.
“It’s hard to believe,” DeVere answered, “but Himmler and his senior SS officers were fascinated by the occult. Their interest is extremely well documented. Himmler even had a medieval castle in Germany remodelled so his ‘knights’ of the SS could re-enact twisted tales mixing Arthurian legends with blood-and-iron Nazi völkisch racism. Himmler was apparently obsessed by it all—the darker the better.”
“Which just leaves the reference to ‘Thelema’ on their sleeves,” Ava replied. “I know the Greek word means ‘the will’, but what’s the significance here?”
There was a long pause.
“To be honest, we don’t know.” Prince answered quietly. “This organization stays firmly off the radar. There are still a lot of blanks.” She put down the remote control. “Frankly, we’re lucky to have these images.”
There was an even longer pause. Ava could feel the tension in the room mounting.
She decided to break it. “Let me guess,” she ventured. “It’s something you want me to help with?”
The tall American nodded slowly. “We believe Malchus is after the Ark. In fact, we suspect he was the one who arranged for the RMF militia to steal it in the first place, before they double-crossed him and tried to use it for themselves.”
“And you figure I’ll help you because … .” Ava left the sentence hanging.
“We know you’re also after the Ark, Dr Curzon,” Prince replied curtly. “And we frankly have no reason to believe you’re about to stop any time soon. So why don’t we just help each other?”
“The Ark is not my main concern,” Ava replied truthfully.
I want Malchus, she nearly added, but bit her tongue.
“Dr Curzon.” Prince was losing her patience, and making no attempt to hide it now. “We know you went to Dubai to bid on the Ark. And we know you walked into a messy scene out there. You’re fortunate to be alive. And frankly you’re damned lucky not to be cooking in a tin-roofed prison in the Dubai desert right now. It seems to me you could do with some help.”
Ava exhaled, thinking quickly. “Okay. Just tell me this. Was it … ,” she pointed to the image of the man on the screen “Malchus, who stole the Ark from Dubai? Was it his men who killed Yevchenko?”
Prince’s eyes narrowed, examining Ava minutely. After a pause, she answered slowly. “Again we don’t know. We were hoping you could help us with—”
DeVere cut in. “It would be a big help, Ava. We need to stop this man. But we stand no chance of doing that unless we understand what he wants. You know more about the Ark than anyone, and it seem
s you’re one of the few people to have taken on one of the Thelema and won.” He spread his hands in a gesture of openness. “There’s no one we can turn to with a better curriculum vitae for this job than you.”
Ava finished the coffee and put the cup down, lost in thought.
“Don’t decide now,” DeVere concluded. “Sleep on it. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
Prince got up. Ava was struck again by how tall she was, although there was nothing clumsy about her. Prince nodded to DeVere. “We’re done here for tonight.”
Needing no further prompting, DeVere headed for the door. “I’ll show you out, Ava—follow me.”
“Goodnight Dr Curzon,” Prince called over her shoulder, turning back to the folder of photographs on the coffee table. “Think about it. I hope you’ll see it as a good opportunity for us all to get what we want.”
What I want is personal, Ava thought. And I don’t need your or anyone else’s help.
Ava nodded goodnight to Prince, and slipped out of the door with DeVere.
“Get security to call you a cab,” he advised her as they headed down in the elevator. “See you tomorrow. Oh, and Ava—do try and keep out of trouble.”
As he walked out of the elevator, she waved goodbye, and he was gone.
She picked up her luggage from security, and ordered a cab.
When it arrived, she climbed in, pulled the heavy black door shut, and looked out of the window at the rainy London evening.
I really don’t miss all this, she thought, watching the drenched figures scurrying under their umbrellas.
As the driver turned on the meter, she began to run back over the meeting in her head. She was pleased by the way it had gone—she had learnt a great deal.
Startled by a sudden knocking at the window on the far side of the car, she spun round to see a wet face peering in at her.
It took a second before she recognized it.
Prince.
“Mind if I get in?” the American asked, opening the door and climbing into the taxi without waiting for Ava’s reply.
The Sword of Moses Page 19