The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  It only took Uri a second to work out where he was.

  It was a speakeasy—an illegal unlicensed drinking club.

  He knew they were becoming ever more popular in Europe and the States as people were tiring of the usual pubs, clubs, and cafés, and were now seeking the thrill of illicit entertainment.

  But it captured none of the yesteryear glamour and panache of America’s prohibition-era night spots shown in the photographs on the walls.

  The bar Uri was looking at was not decked out with exotic cocktail glasses or curvy bottles of tantalizingly coloured liquids. And there were no dimly lit velvet alcoves, tables draped in crisp linen, voluptuous hostesses, or jazzmen in spangled suits on the stage.

  The owners of this London dive had made a clear choice. The focus here was on hard drinking, not aesthetic decadence.

  The result was a bleak space with a dimly lit bar serving beers direct from the barrel, wine from uncooled bottles, and an array of cheap spirits stacked on a shelf in cardboard boxes.

  Fittingly, the clientele were sitting around scruffy Formica tables on metal chairs. At the far end, Uri could see a small stage with a pair of anaemic lights shining on it—but there were no musicians tonight.

  All in all, it was depressingly seedy.

  “Don’t know what its real name is—don’t think it has one.” Otto explained. “We call it The Bunker. One of the lads works behind the bar.” He looked around proprietarily. “Punters keep themselves to themselves in here. Suits us fine.”

  Otto headed towards the bar. “As it’s a bit of a private event tonight, it’s only us allowed in. Management don’t mind—we drink our share.”

  Otto led Uri to the bar, where he could see the Skipper was already half-way through a pint of beer, deep in conversation with a middle-aged man in steel-rimmed glasses, who was lighting a cigarette from the one he was just finishing.

  The Skipper’s black hair was slicked back for the evening, but he was still wearing the same leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up displaying his monumental forearms.

  Uri could now see the tattoos clearly. They were interlocking runes and Germanic symbols. He made out the distinctive triple-triangle of the Valknut, and the sharp aggressive points of the Wolfsangel. There was nothing as blatant as the SS’s two Sig runes side by side, but there may as well have been.

  As the Skipper struck a match and cupped it around the end of an unlit cigarette in his mouth, Uri recognized the large smudgy dots just below each of the knuckles on his left hand, and a quincunx of five inky points on the web between the thumb and first finger of his right.

  Prison tattoos.

  That figured. The Skipper looked like a man who had earned his reputation.

  Otto drew level with the Skipper, and indicated for Uri to stand beside him.

  Catching sight of Otto and Uri, the Skipper slapped Otto on the back, before turning to look at Uri carefully, taking his time. When he spoke, his voice was flat and expressionless, with a strong south-London accent. “So you’re the lad who makes things go bang?”

  Uri figured it was not a question. He did not answer.

  As he waited for the Skipper to say something else, he became aware of a mild stir over by the door. Someone was entering, surrounded by a small crowd. As Uri tried to see what was happening, the group moved into the room, heading down the centre towards the stage.

  It did not take long before he caught a glimpse of the man striding purposefully in the centre of the group.

  There was no mistaking him.

  He recognised his face instantly from the photographs Moshe had shown him back in Tel Aviv. They had pored over them together after Uri had returned to base following the failed operation with the team from Sayeret Mat’kal against the warehouse in Astana.

  Once Moshe had got wind the Ark was to be auctioned at the Burj al-Arab in Dubai, he had decided against the high-risk strategy of sending Uri into the UAE, opting instead to monitor the next move closely. Once the Ark had been helicoptered out of Dubai, he called in a few favours and spoke to some friendly people on the ground. Pulling the data together, he quickly reached the same conclusion as the Anglo-American team led by General Hunter, Prince, and DeVere.

  Their man was Marius Malchus.

  As soon as Moshe had the name, it did not take him long to fish out the file. They had data on him going back to his Stasi days, and the Collections Department had been keeping a very close eye on his increasing neo-Nazi activities. They did not want any surprises from his kind of group.

  Stealing another glance at Malchus walking confidently down the bar, Uri felt quietly pleased with himself.

  So far so good.

  Now all he had to do was get close enough to kill him, and recover the Ark.

  He told himself to keep it slow, and to stick to the plan.

  It would all come in good time.

  For now, he had to work on Otto and the Skipper. His priority was to establish relationships with people who could vouch for him when he began to get close to Malchus.

  As Malchus drew level with their group, he nodded an acknowledgement to the Skipper, who responded to the greeting with a reciprocal nod.

  Uri tried hard to suppress a small smile.

  He could not believe his luck.

  If the Skipper had a high enough profile to enjoy a personal relationship with Malchus, then his next moves just got a lot easier.

  Uri was pulled back from his thoughts by the sound of the Skipper’s voice. “Otto tells me you’re a ronin.”

  Uri kept a blank expression. He had no idea what the Skipper had just said.

  “In feudal Japan, ronin were samurai with no master. Soldiers of fortune. Is that what you are, Danny?”

  Uri shook his head. “It’s not about money. I like what I do.”

  The Skipper’s expression did not change. “We’re a tight crew, Danny. You need to understand that.”

  “Sure.” Uri returned his look, unwavering.

  “What I’m saying,” the Skipper continued, leaning towards him a fraction, “is that you’re not one of us. I’m sure there are ways we can help each other, but I’m telling you now, if you step out of line, I’ll snap your neck myself.” He paused, no hint of any expression on his face. “Is that clear enough for you?”

  Uri nodded. “Crystal.”

  The Skipper drained his pint. “Now. Enough talk. Things are about to kick off. Stick around tonight as long as you want. Enjoy the bar. I’m sure Otto will be in touch.”

  Putting his empty pint glass down onto the counter, the Skipper moved off with Otto following close behind. They headed for the far corner by the stage, and sat at an empty table.

  Uri ordered himself a beer and stayed by the bar. He was not going to leave just yet. Now he was inside, he might as well find out what these people got up to in the privacy of their lair.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  67

  The Bunker

  Thamesmead

  London SE2

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Uri looked around.

  The room was filling up. There were no empty tables any more, and people were starting to stand around in groups.

  After a few minutes, a middle-aged man wearing a football shirt took to the stage. Tapping the microphone to check it was working, he launched into an enthusiastic speech of welcome.

  To the cheers of the crowd, he announced that later in the evening they would be screening a film one of them had put together of extremist demonstrations from around the world.

  To whoops of approval, he assured the audience the footage was uncensored and depicted scenes of explicit violence against opposing demonstrators and the police. He was particularly pleased to announce that it featured several British demonstrations, along with numerous people present in the room.

  However, before they got round to that, he wanted to make way for someone who needed no introduction. A man well kno
wn to all of them. Someone they were privileged to have address them with a few words. With that, he stepped aside and welcomed onto the stage, “the supreme leader of the Thelema in England.”

  Uri allowed himself a small smile.

  This was getting better and better. The chance to hear Malchus speak was a truly unexpected bonus. It would give him an opportunity to get an idea of the kind of man he was. How he moved physically. How aware he was of his surroundings. What made him tick. And all of that from an anonymous distance—Uri would be just another member of the crowd.

  There was a hushed silence as Malchus rose from his table and walked slowly over to the podium.

  Dressed head to toe in black, he stood out starkly amid the checked and coloured designer casual clothes filling the room. But it was not the aesthetic black of an artist. Quite the opposite. There was something effortlessly malevolent about the boots, jeans, high-buttoned shirt, and floor-length soft leather coat. They combined with his pale face and dead green eyes to suck the colour out of anything near him.

  Malchus stared at the audience for an uncomfortably long time, gazing left and right, inhaling the atmosphere. As he finished taking in the crowd, he began nodding slowly, as if satisfied with what he saw.

  When at last he spoke, his voice was low, but amplified crisply and clearly by the microphone and PA system, adding an additional level of depth and richness to his words, which resonated commandingly around the basement.

  “I want to speak to you this evening—to offer a few words, because we must at all times remember, or be reminded, exactly what we stand for.” He looked around expectantly, making full eye contact with individual members of the audience.

  “Many of you are already friends. But even if we have yet to meet, I know we have a great deal in common—so it’s important we retain the will and courage to speak the absolute truth.”

  Uri felt a tap on his left shoulder. “Which firm are you with, then?” He turned to see a wiry rat-faced man looking at him inquisitively. He was in his early forties, with an accent that sounded like he was not originally from London.

  Uri had no intention of taking his eyes off Malchus. He inclined his head towards the stage. “Sorry, mate. Not now.”

  “Oh, are you one of his, then?” The man continued, oblivious. “The Thelema?” He blew a cloud of cheap mini-cigar smoke in Uri’s direction.

  Uri focused back on what Malchus was saying. “So it’s in this spirit that I tell you—the world is in chaos.” He gazed around, his expression inviting intimacy, shrinking the space around him. “The political classes have betrayed us. Honest people have turned to the left and right but found no answers—just the same old corrupt solutions that only benefit capitalism and its masters: the fat bankers and warmongers.”

  He took in the room, confidently. “We propose a different way—National Socialism. National and socialist both mean looking after the interests of everyone. There aren’t any classes or differences under National Socialism—only the will of the people.”

  Uri watched the audience sitting round the tables. They were listening attentively.

  “But we don’t stand for the will of the people manipulated and distorted through a corrupt democracy. In our National Socialism, the people speak and act directly.”

  “I’m more with the hard right, myself,” the rat-faced man next to Uri cut in again. “You know, street stuff. No disrespect to the Nazis. Blitzkrieg—I always liked that. Throw everything at the enemy hard and fast so they don’t know what’s hit them.” He was plainly excited, leaning towards Uri, speaking quickly.

  “Mate,” Uri gave him a hard stare. “I’m trying to listen.” He turned back to Malchus.

  The man seemed unable to take a hint. “And what they did in the East—wiped thousands of miles off the map. Total War. You’ve got to respect that.”

  Uri was not interested in the rat-faced man’s barroom opinions, no doubt absorbed from some satellite TV channel the night before. He had to take the opportunity to listen to Malchus—to get a feel for the man. He turned to the rat-faced man. “Look, you’re probably a great guy. But not now. Okay?”

  Malchus had started moving, and was now pacing the stage theatrically, walking in and out of the subtle lighting, which was throwing deep shadows over his heavy-lidded eyes.

  He had promised only a few words, but from the way he was developing his rapport with the audience, it was clear he was settling in for something of a speech. “We must be prepared to be brutally ruthless in how we implement the will of the people.” He looked about assertively. “The world is sick, and extremes are needed to combat extremes.”

  It was subtle, Uri reflected. Malchus was undoubtedly preaching extremism and violence, but at the same time managing to sound calm and reasonable.

  “Power comes from strength,” Malchus continued, “so we shouldn’t hesitate to develop the strength of the people behind us. They’re with us, and for their country. They’re bound by blood to the soil.” He eyed the audience expectantly, seeking approval.

  He was met with nods from the various tables.

  He paused, heightening the drama. When he spoke next, he had changed tone—now sounding confidential, as if reminiscing by an intimate fireside. “Our struggle isn’t a new one. It was born a long time ago. Many have already given their lives in its cause, but it was never in vain. Their blood is the baptismal water of the new era that’s dawning.”

  Uri could feel the levels of emotion in the room rising. He had not been expecting Malchus to have charisma—but he clearly did when he wanted to.

  It was chilling.

  The man next to Uri blew out another cloud of smoke. “Baptismal water of a new era? Forward men! Thousand-year Reich and all that.” He was smirking, clearly finding something highly amusing.

  Uri tried to tune him out. But the monologue was incessant, and he was leaning too close. “If they wanted to last longer, they should’ve done more people. Do you know how many they slotted?” He looked at Uri, inviting him to answer. “Not soldiers. I mean civilians—you know, cleansing.”

  Uri did not answer. This was not a conversation he had any desire to join.

  The man did not wait for a response. “I’ll tell you. Nineteen million—nine million Russians, six million Jews, two million Poles, one-and-a-half million gypos, and then a bunch of masons, gays, and cripples.”

  The man was really beginning to annoy him now.

  “But they just weren’t big league,” the rat-faced man continued. “You’ve got to be like Stalin or Mao if you want to be taken seriously. They each done seventy million.”

  Uri took a deep breath and focused back on Malchus, trying to ignore the man’s pathetic attempt at impressing him.

  Malchus was beginning to step up a gear. “We’ve had many successes, which is to be expected—nature is the ongoing triumph of the strong over the weak. But we must never be complacent. We cannot rest until we’ve finally accomplished what we set out to achieve.”

  The man next to Uri was nodding now. “He’s good, isn’t he? I’ll give him that. He hasn’t said anything he could be done for. But we all know what he’s saying.” He smirked. “He’s a class act, that one.”

  Uri did not answer. But he had to agree with him. Malchus was good at what he did.

  Uri recognized the populist style of the speech—eerily reminiscent of the 1930s newsreels he had been made to watch as a teenager back at school in Haifa. He even thought he recognized one or two of the phrases. The only thing missing was a backdrop of billowing swastika flags.

  Usually he had no time for politicians and their manipulative speeches. In his experience, they were all the same—stoking up the emotion so they could peddle their own interests wrapped in some unattainable utopian vision. He had never bought it, preferring life on his terms—him, on his own, doing the job he was good at. He did not need any political justification or vision to legitimize what he did. It was enough that he was government-sponsored.

/>   He had often wondered what he would be doing if he had been born in a different country, a different race—American, Russian, or Chinese. He figured it would probably be the same work. All governments needed his particular talents.

  But he knew this assignment was not like other jobs he had done.

  Making contact with Otto at The Lord Nelson had been a huge rush—one of those evenings when he had known for sure there was no other job in the world he would rather do. It had made him feel alive to be in the midst of his enemies, deceiving them—staying one step ahead.

  He had been looking forward to the same again tonight—to be riding the danger and the adrenaline. But as he watched Malchus pump up the hardcore audience in this seedy drinking hole, he realized he was now taking it to another level.

  He was in a fevered and extremist environment he could not hope to control. The people surrounding him lived in their own bubble of hatred, with no rules except a code of racist violence. He was getting ever deeper into their dark circles, and what had begun as an adventure at The Lord Nelson had now taken him into lethal waters.

  He was under no illusions. If any single person in the room found out who he really was, the authorities would be fishing his pulped remains out of a skip on some wasteland tomorrow.

  This was a job he was going to remember for a long time.

  Malchus’s voice was not only getting louder, it was increasing in pitch, too. “To those who say there are only a few of us, I say it’s not our absolute numbers that matter—it’s our conviction and determination. And to those who accuse us of being agitators, I say that our numbers are growing. We speak for many. But what have our critics got to offer? What faith do they have to give to the people?” Malchus looked accusingly at the audience, as if they were his critics.

  He had them hanging off his every word.