She thumbed through the book to the section. And began to read it aloud:
“Crowley’s creed of Thelema had a simple dogma at its core: ‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. Love is the law. Love under will’. It was an adaptation of the more ancient witches’ philosophy: ‘An if it harm none, do what ye will’, while also drawing on one of the ancient world’s most enigmatic and gifted mystics, Saint Augustine, who wrote in the fourth century, ‘Love, and do what you will’.”
“I still don’t see it,” Ferguson sounded uncertain. “There must be thousands of followers of Crowley out there. That doesn’t mean they all think they’re his reincarnation.”
“But Malchus does,” she insisted. She was sure she was right. “This six-pointed star,” she pointed at the picture again, “Apparently it’s called a unicursal hexagram—a continuous line, not like the superimposed triangles of the Star of David. It’s centuries old. It says Crowley adopted it as his personal symbol. And I’ll bet that’s why Malchus carries it—because he thinks he’s the new Crowley.”
Ferguson glanced down at the page. “Isn’t it on tarot cards?”
Ava blinked in astonishment. “I honestly wouldn’t have thought you were the type.”
He smiled back at her. “You’d be amazed what soldiers will smuggle into a barracks to while away the boredom. On the scale of possibilities, tarot is pretty tame.”
Ava figured he was probably right.
She continued. “I think Malchus has more than a simple Crowley fixation. At Stockbridge House, in his room, I found a book by Crowley. It was a copy of the Missa Gnostica, or Gnostic Mass. I looked it up. It was the culmination of his life’s work—his personal contribution to magical ceremony. It’s a whole occult sacrament, his ultimate challenge to the Church’s core practices.”
She looked across at Ferguson. “But the important thing is that in Malchus’s copy of the Gnostic Mass he had written notes all over it, rewriting entire sections. That’s not what a star-struck fan would do. It’s what the author would do.”
“So he’s obsessed with Crowley, and maybe fantasizes that he’s somehow been specially chosen to continue his work.” Ferguson sounded sceptical. “That still doesn’t mean he thinks he’s his reincarnation.”
Ava nodded. The more she explained it, the more certain she was. “I think he’s even trying to look like him. They have the same bald head and staring eyes.”
She had at first assumed Malchus had never had any hair—a singular and startling accident of birth. But now she was not so sure. Given what she now knew, it seemed more likely it was a purposeful statement. She could easily believe he had undergone a freakish cosmetic procedure in order to emulate his guru.
She turned in her seat to face Ferguson. “I’m also willing to bet there’s a Crowley connection with the words ‘FRATER PERDURABO’ in the last line of Malchus’s letter. I don’t think it means ‘Brother, I will endure forever’. I have a feeling it’s a name. And I suspect if we hunt it out, we’ll find it’s linked to Crowley—probably one of his magical names, designed to suggest that his ideas were immortal.”
Ferguson looked thoughtful. “Even if you’re right and Malchus thinks he’s Crowley’s reincarnation, it still doesn’t tell us where he is—or where he’s keeping the Ark and the Menorah.”
Ava slammed the book shut, and put in on the back seat.
She could feel a smile of triumph breaking across her face. “Oh, but it does!” She was having trouble keeping her voice measured. “‘I am a traveller of both time and space, to be where I have been’.”
“I know exactly where he is.”
She pointed at the radio. “It’s not just about him believing he’s Crowley’s reincarnation. That song, Kashmir, is by Led Zeppelin, who once made a film, The Song Remains the Same. I just saw a reissue of it in the shop where I bought the book. I watched it years ago. It’s mainly concert footage, but also some trippy ’70s fantasy sequences of the band members. And here’s the thing.” She paused. “Part of it is filmed in the Scottish Highlands, at Loch Ness.”
Ferguson glanced across at her, bemused. “Acid-dazed rock musicians taking time off to pay homage to the monster?”
“Exactly.” Ava nodded. “But not the monster you’re thinking of.”
She strained to remember the details. “One of the band members had a house on the shores of the loch. Apparently he bought it because of his interest in the building’s history—it’s a grade one shrine for followers of the occult.”
She pushed the button to lower the window beside her, letting in the cool air. “So go on, guess who the house once belonged to?”
“I wasn’t aware Scotland had any famous occult figures. I thought we left all that to the English—Merlin, Mother Shipton, the Hellfire Club—”
“This one was very English,” Ava cut him short. “And a bit more recent. In fact, the most notorious of them all. He wanted somewhere secluded to concentrate on his dark rituals, so he bought a house and land there, away from prying eyes.”
She could see by Ferguson’s expression that the penny had finally dropped. “Crowley?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “At Loch Ness?”
Ava nodded. “And that’s where we’ll find Malchus—and the Ark, and the Menorah. I’m sure of it.”
She was still kicking herself for not having seen it sooner. “We’ll need to get there fast. I just hope we’re not too late.”
She stared out of the window again, as the miles of run-down takeaway restaurants and minicab offices sped past.
“We could do with some backup.” Ferguson replied after a pause. “If Malchus is keeping the Ark and Menorah there, he’s not going to let us just walk in and take them.”
Arriving at a roundabout, he followed the sign for central London. “Can we get Max and his men?”
“I tried getting hold of Saxby this morning to find out how things were going in Italy,” she replied. “I sent him an e-mail and tried calling. But I got an immediate bounce-back and a dead line. He must’ve been using a temporary e-mail address and phone number.”
“We could try the Royal Society?” Ferguson suggested. “He and De Molay seemed well known there. Maybe they’d help?”
Ava shook her head. “Who knows how long it’d take to get anyone there to talk to us. And we can’t afford to waste even one minute.”
“So what do you recommend?” Ferguson was moving into planning mode. “We’ve no idea what we’ll be walking into up at Loch Ness. It’s his ground, not ours.”
“We’ve got one shot,” Ava replied. “And we should take it.”
“Go on.” Ferguson was weaving expertly in and out of the thickening traffic.
“Cordingly—our friendly Deputy Grand Secretary at Freemasons’ Hall,” she replied. “He knows more than he’s saying. The robe in his briefcase was pure white with a large embroidered blood red cross patty. It was definitely a Templar’s robe.”
Ferguson accelerated, shooting through a light as it was changing. “Then let’s go and shake him up.”
“There’s no time,” Ava replied. “Drop me at Euston station. I need to get to Loch Ness. I’m not losing Malchus again.” She turned to the open window, breathing in deeply, savouring the cool fresh air. “You find Cordingly, and get him to alert Saxby and Max. Then join me there.”
Ferguson shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a very—”
She cut him off abruptly. She was in no mood to debate. She had lost Malchus one time too many, and was not going to let anything jeopardize finding him this time. “He’s got the Ark, the Menorah, and may soon have the real version of The Sword of Moses. We’re out of time.” Her voice left no doubt the topic was closed for discussion. “It may not be long before he makes his move. I’m not letting him out of my sight again.”
As they drew into central London, they were soon hurtling down the west end of the Euston Road.
When the vast station came into sight, Ferguson avoided the signs fo
r its car park, and made straight for the front entrance. Parking up directly outside, they sprinted into the building together.
It was a dreary 1960s concrete bunker. She had once seen a small old creased honeymoon photograph of her father and mother, arm-in-arm under a seventy-foot-high classical archway inscribed with the word ‘Euston’ in vast gold lettering. Beside the photograph had been another, showing them inside the majestic old Victorian station hall, complete with classical columns, elaborate ceiling, a grand and ornate split sweeping staircase, and high decorated windows. It had been more a palace than a public building.
But it had all gone—demolished and replaced by a cavernous grim concrete box she was sure could effortlessly win the award for London’s most bleak and soulless building.
Running across the crowded concourse, she headed towards the ticket office, and soon saw what she was looking for.
An internet kiosk.
She handed Ferguson a bundle of twenty pound notes. “We can’t use credit cards. They’ll be monitoring our withdrawals. Get me a ticket for the next train to Inverness.”
He made for a bank of nearby ticket machines, and began to punch in the travel selection.
Arriving at the internet kiosk, she loaded it up with pound coins, and typed in a search for Aleister Crowley’s house in the Highlands.
She had no time to read the resulting screens in any detail, but printed off a handful of the top results.
Clicking through from one of the sites, she pulled up a map of Loch Ness.
It was a long narrow lake near the top of Scotland. Rarely more than a mile wide, it ran twenty-three miles like a thin blue snake, connecting the towns of Inverness to its north and Fort Augustus at its southern tip.
As Ferguson approached and passed her the ticket, she stabbed at the screen. “Look. There it is—Boleskine House, former home of Aleister Crowley and more recently the guitarist from Led Zeppelin.” She looked at him in triumph. “The guitarist sold it in 1992 to an anonymous buyer, and it’s been in unknown hands ever since.”
She could feel her voice rising with excitement. “And there, only a mile away,” she moved her finger directly south. “Foyers, the village where Malchus’s letter was posted.”
“Boleskine House.” She ran for the platform, clutching the ticket and the sheaf of pages she had printed off. “That’s where the Ark is.”
——————— ◆ ———————
99
Maze Hill Railway Station
Maze Hill
London SE10
England
The United Kingdom
At 5:00 p.m. exactly, a shabby white transit van pulled up outside the small grey-panelled railway station at Maze Hill.
The Skipper leant out of the driver’s window, scanning the station area.
Uri stood up off the low beige wall where he had been waiting for him and walked towards the van.
The Skipper motioned for him to put his holdall in the back, and then to get in the front.
Uri had no trouble seeing why the large man usually got his way.
His size dwarfed the van’s hot black plastic cabin, his hulking presence filling the space, dominating it.
Uri climbed in, ignoring the pungent smell of stale cigarette smoke. “So what’s the job?” he asked, as they headed off down the tree-lined road.
“Import export,” the Skipper replied, clearly not wanting to be drawn on the topic. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
They lapsed into silence until they reached a large Victorian gateway signalling the entrance to the Blackwall Tunnel under the Thames.
As they entered the tunnel, the underground road bent sharply in several places. Uri had read in a free newspaper a few days earlier that this was an attempt not to disturb some of London’s remaining plague burial pits.
When they emerged from the tunnel, the Skipper turned to him.
“I hope you understand, Danny, that Otto’s problem is not just jealousy. You see, he also has a limited imagination. On the other hand, you could never say that about me. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than he has, so trust me when I tell you that if you cross me, I’ll mess you up in ways that’ll have you begging to let Otto finish you off with his gas axe. Are we clear?”
Uri did not answer. He got the point.
As they began to leave London behind, they passed through a succession of small market towns. They had plainly once been a world away from the smoke of London, but now provided accommodation for the hordes of commuters who shuttled in and out each day on the bulging trains Uri had seen speeding through East London morning and evening.
“Let me tell you the rules, Danny,” the Skipper continued. “I run my lads the old-fashioned way, and I’m accountable for our successes and failures. I’ve got no problem with people showing initiative—you’re clearly resourceful and experienced. But if you cross the line, I’ll carve you into small pieces and ship you back to Rhodesia or Liverpool or wherever the hell it is you came from, and I won’t think twice about it.”
Not if I get you first, Uri thought to himself.
Assuming the welcome speech was over, Uri changed the subject. “At the lock-up, you said Malchus was Reichskommissar for England?”
“It’s a historic post.” The Skipper took his hands off the wheel, pushing up his leather jacket sleeves once more, revealing the Nordic and smudgy prison tattoos.
Uri was not sure he had heard right. “Historic?”
“We didn’t just start operating in England yesterday, Danny. We’ve been around a long time.”
Uri wanted to get the Skipper talking. Maybe he would let slip something useful.
“The Führer had detailed plans for England,” the Skipper continued. “England’s cultural heritage is basically German and Viking, so the Führer always saw us as a key part of the Reich. He had all the details worked out.”
Uri nodded.
“The Reichskommissar for Great Britain was going to have his HQ at Blenheim, where Churchill was born. The puppet government would be led by Mosley’s Black Shirts. And the royal family would stay on, as they’re Germans anyway.”
“Many friends of the Führer this side of the Channel were preparing the way, Danny. If it wasn’t for Comrade Stalin, the Führer would’ve taken England in a Blitzkrieg. We wouldn’t have known what hit us. It’s now a standard military strategy. The Americans do it routinely. But the modern world learnt it from the Führer, who was its master. Think about the trenches of the first war. Years and years bogged down in the same slippery fields while millions were cut down in the machine gun fire. For nothing. The Führer wasn’t going to make that mistake. He did Poland in just five days. Then France, Belgium, and Holland all fell like ninepins. England would’ve been next, if dealing with Ivan in the east hadn’t become more urgent.”
Uri was more than familiar with Hitler’s Blitzkrieg tactic of overwhelming crushing military force. Israel had used it successfully against its neighbours in the Six Day War of ’67 and the Yom Kippur War of ’73.
They were on smaller country roads now, and the dormitory market towns had given way to picturesque villages miles from the railways, where the residents visibly still enjoyed quieter lives.
“What about resistance?” Uri asked. “I can’t see people here giving Hitler a very warm welcome.”
The Skipper nodded. “After the Blitzkrieg into England, there was to be a clean-up. An SS general, Dr Franz Six, was appointed to head up the specially formed Einsatzgruppen—SS liquidation squads which followed the armies into conquered territory. The UK-based Einsatzgruppen were to be centred in London, Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, and Edinburgh. Any non-cooperators were to be rounded up and eliminated. There was a black book of nearly three thousand high-profile names for immediate disposal—liberals, authors, intellectuals. And, to make sure any resistance was stamped out before it started, able-bodied men between seventeen and forty-five were to be transported to Europe as slave labour. Kno
w your history, Danny—it’s all there.”
The Skipper paused, then pointed out of the window at a signboard roped onto a piece of scaffolding outside a garage undergoing repairs. The name of the contractor was eastern European—Polish, Uri guessed.
“You say you’re not political, Danny, but just look around you. Look at the mess. Are you telling me England made the right choice to fight Hitler? So we could drop off the world map within ten years, our Empire in ruins, a second-rate country whose only story is its lost glory days of war?”
As they left another village behind, the Skipper turned off the main road onto a bumpy unmetalled track whose gravel and dirt crunched under the tyres as the car bounced along. Uri could not see what lay beyond the screen of evergreen trees lining the road, but guessed they were on a back way into a farm.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable driving, the Skipper turned onto a tarmacked apron in front of a dilapidated open barn. It had plainly been disused for years and was missing large sections of its grey corrugated iron roof. The tarmac in front of it was faded and patchy, with weeds growing out of the many cracks and gaps. The whole area felt abandoned. Uri could not see any other farm buildings for miles. There was nothing but fields in all directions.
But the reason the Skipper had driven them there was right in front of him.
Uri had no difficulty recognizing the unique profile of the white Sikorsky S-70 helicopter on the tarmac. It was the civilian version of the U.S. military’s Black Hawk, but without the heavy payload of weaponry.
As Uri and the Skipper stepped out of the van, the helicopter’s top and tail rotors started up with a deafening whine.
On the Skipper’s nod, Uri collected his holdall from the back of the van and climbed through the Sikorsky’s wide rear door into the main cabin.
The layout of the interior had been modified for the flight. The usually comfortable VIP seats had been unbolted and replaced with ten moulded bucket seats, leaving a space in the centre for a number of industrial-looking riveted and wheeled flight cases.
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