Eagle of Darkness

by Christopher Wright

  Denby Rawlins, in spite of bad health and halitosis, had been invaluable as a founder member: a man in his middle fifties who had immediately formed a close companionship with the younger Olsen. The two had examined the prophecy and turned it from scribbled notes into a beautifully presented prediction for the future of the Middle East.

  "Check that again for me, and then I'm off to bed." Gresley Wynne pointed at the screen. As First Partner, he was painfully aware that he could never understand the programming techniques. There were times when he felt that Denby did not fully understand the workings of the computer programs either. Olsen had gone off duty early, unwell, leaving the Second Partner to shut down the system for the day.

  The man with the wispy black hair and small red eyes leaned back in the chair. "It's right," he announced in a voice that dared the First Partner to suggest otherwise.

  Gresley Wynne looked at the converging lines on the screen. The whole Mediterranean was shown in blue, with countries as far north as the Baltic Sea identified by name. From each country, north, south, east and west came a series of lines converging on Israel.

  "Destruction of the people of the One God," said the Second Partner. "Olsen is right, it is immediate."

  Gresley Wynne jabbed a finger in the center of the screen where dates and numbers appeared in close columns. "Are you sure about Olsen's code?"

  "There could be a problem, First Partner. I've detected a fault in the system. I don't think it's a virus. Even so, in case there's going to be a systems crash I'm doing a final backup and will put the tapes in the safe."

  Wynne opened a folder of papers. "I have to say that I hadn't expected the predictions to be happening so quickly."

  Denby Rawlins nodded enthusiastically. "The major prophecy will be fulfilled within days." He hesitated. "If this is right."

  Wynne drew in a sharp breath. "We cannot risk a mistake. Think of William Miller. The experience of that man should be as salutary a lesson to us all."

  "The American?"

  "Massachusetts, October twenty-second, eighteen forty-three. Miller got his followers to the top of a hill to wait for the end of the world. Fifty thousand Millerites. That's even bigger than our mailing list. The people had given their property away to family and friends. Unfortunately they were unable to get it back when they came back down."

  "They went up the hill twice, I seem to remember."

  Wynne nodded. "Miller worked everything out from the Old Testament Book of Daniel, but he had worked it out with the Christian and not the Jewish calendar, so they were five months early. Back everyone went in March. Finished Miller, that did. The funny thing was that some of his followers kept up the movement, even though he dropped out and admitted to pride and fanaticism. There's a moral there, Denby."

  Denby Rawlins continued to type on the keyboard. "But you are neither proud nor a fanatic. First Partner."

  Gresley Wynne tried not to show how much the response hurt. "I was thinking of the mistake the man made with the date." He stabbed at the monitor again, making it rock backwards. "We have to be absolutely sure of our facts."

  "Olsen wants to call an immediate press conference. With your approval of course."

  "You know I'm a cautious man."

  "Quite so, First Partner, but the correlations have proved repeatable within the smallest margin of error. There is no elementary mistake like a change in the calendar. I say we go ahead and meet the press."

  "And you are happy with the Third Partner's state of mind?"

  Denby Rawlins peered through his red eyes. "I hadn't noticed anything." But he sounded somewhat defensive.

  "Have you been giving him medication?"

  The Second Partner suddenly seemed full of enthusiasm. "My herbs are endowing him with great energy. He has become a total convert to herbalism."

  "I do not want anyone relying on your brews to keep going." Gresley Wynne examined the screen. "And, no, I am not interested in taking any." He leaned forward to read the words.

  The great light will shine in the heavens to signal the time when Aten will wipe away your enemy. A fire in the heavens, bringing death to your people like a plague. The people of the lands that befriend you will strike your enemy, destroying the ground with weapons that shine like the sun and burn the body. The mighty fire will burn up the heavens. Aten is speaking.

  Gresley Wynne sighed. These words could be false. Mrs. Pulaski's friend might discover devastating news in Berlin. He put a hand on the Second Partner's shoulder. "You look tired, old friend. When we started the Institute we agreed to remain celibate. You had that unfortunate lapse two years ago, but I believe you have been loyal to the service of Aten since then. Perhaps you will soon find time for a break."

  The red eyes looked up from the screen. "I would like the woman." The breathing became quickened.

  Gresley Wynne laughed. "Which of the secretaries do you fancy this time?"

  "I have been giving the matter much thought. The woman in the Lodge might oblige for me."

  Wynne felt surprised. "You mean Mrs. Pulaski?" He had no idea the Second Partner also found her attractive.

  The Second Partner's hands shook as he tapped on the keyboard. "It would not be the first time a woman has given herself to a priest of the temple. I believe she would be willing."

  The unsteady rhythm on the keys began to sound like the early attempts of a backward member of the typing class.

  Chapter 12

  England

  FRAU LIST sounded friendly enough on the phone when Sam rang her in the morning, and willing to spare the time to sort out the mystery of the clay cylinder. She suggested that he fly out to Berlin immediately and call at her house in the east of the city at eight o'clock that evening.

  He threw his suitcase onto the back seat of his car and climbed into the driving seat.

  "Sam?" The passenger door opened and a man slipped in. "I won't keep you long."

  "Bill Tolley, why the hell do you keep turning up when I don't need you?"

  "Sam, I think I've misjudged you."

  "I've not misjudged you, Tolley. You're a major pain in the butt."

  "Yes, okay, everyone tells me I am. You off somewhere?"

  "Just mind your own business and get out of my car."

  "How did you get on at the Institute?"

  Sam knew he had to be offensive. It was the only way to get people like Tolley off his back. "You're right. Tolley, it's a dangerous place."

  "Yes?"

  "Dr. Wynne fancies me."

  Tolley laughed. "He's more interested in manipulating the prophecy than your beautiful body."

  "So what if he is?"

  "Maybe he can manipulate world events."

  "They're a cartload of nut cases."

  "Okay, Sam, so why have they been one hundred percent right lately?"

  "Right about what?"

  "They say something is going to happen, and it happens. How about we pool our resources?"

  "How about I never see you again?"

  "They're dangerous, Sam. Let's do this for each of us together."

  "Just get out of my car."

  "I'll leave my card on the seat." Tolley opened the door and stepped into the road.

  Sam looked in his mirror as he drove away. The reporter stood there waving. He put his foot to the floor and picked up speed. He could be at Heathrow by noon, and in Berlin well before twenty hundred hours, as Frau List called it. Well, at least he and Frau List had been able to understand each other on the phone, so his German must be reasonably good. Panya should be safe while he was gone. She had those two old men at the Institute to keep an eye on her.

  Chapter 13

  Berlin, Germany

  A PENETRATING drizzle whipped along the dark street in the Prenzlauerberg district, driven by a bitterly cold November wind. Sam paid the taxi driver and looked uneasily at his surroundings. The driver from Tegel Airport had dropped him at Unter Den Linden so he could do some shopping on the way. He'd visited a reco
rd shop and bought something for Panya. He'd even had time to get a haircut, for Panya's sake. For Panya's sake? What was he thinking of? It was funny how he kept thinking about the small, dark skinned woman from the Institute.

  He pulled his collar up as the drizzle turned to stinging sleet. The street seemed to be a mix of cobblestones and tarmac, with houses that looked tall and depressing. In this part of old East Berlin it was difficult to believe the Wall had ever come down. There was still the occasional Trabant amongst the untidy Golfs and elderly BMWs parked by the side of the street, leaning into the gutter as though seeking protection from the buildings.

  One, two, three, four, five, six floors. These massive buildings, with a mix of brick and stones, were six stories high, including the half windows below pavement level. They were probably inhabited basement rooms, all with low wattage bulbs glimmering orange through the dirt on the windows.

  Sam glanced at his instructions again. Number seventeen, apartment eight. Grey trees lined the pavements, their thin bare branches looking decidedly undernourished under the street lights. A lonely figure in a dark coat hurried past him on the street as he reached Frau List's building. Fifteen years ago the people here would probably have been indoors after dark for fear of the Stasi, the East German secret police. Now they were inside sheltering from the penetrating damp.

  "Ja?"

  "This is Herr Bolt, from England." He spoke close to the corroded aluminum speaker box.

  "Ja, you may come."

  The catch buzzed and Sam pushed the heavy door inwards. In front of him he could see a dimly lit staircase running up to the first landing.

  A woman's voice called down the stairs. "This way, Herr Bolt."

  Sam climbed quickly to the third floor, hoping that he was fit enough to start a conversation without sounding short of breath. On the level above he heard a door being opened slowly, as though by a prying neighbor.

  "It is kind of you to see me this evening."

  "Schnapps?"

  This was a drink Sam had heard of, but never tried.

  "You must try Persiko, Herr Bolt. It is the best Schnapps. Sour cherry and peach. The authentic taste of Berlin."

  Sam felt disoriented. One moment he had been outside in the drizzle, becoming depressed by the tall, gloomy buildings. And now he was in a well-lit, beautifully furnished apartment. The heat from the radiators on the wall felt overpowering. "I'd love to try it," he said in what he hoped was perfect German.

  Frau List was not as elderly as he'd expected. Her gray hair, with a tinge of yellow, had been carefully coiled on top of her head. In spite of the wrinkled skin, he could see a young girl, blue eyed, golden plaits, holding a banner in a pre-war German poster advocating the benefits of a healthy life -- and membership of the Hitler Youth. He decided he'd probably read the wrong sort of books. The majority of Germans weren't like that, and perhaps never had been.

  "I understand you are here to ask me some questions?" Frau List sounded extremely formal as she passed him the miniature glass of chilled Schnapps.

  "Dr. Wynne from the Institute of Egyptologists has asked me to look you up."

  "So you are not connected with the government?"

  He detected anxiety in Fran List's voice and shook his head. "Do you have a problem with the government?"

  "I am going to tell you a family secret, Herr Bolt. Never before have I told anyone, but there is no family left to suffer the ... embarrassment."

  The Persiko caught the back of his throat. Schnapps were supposed to be tossed down in one go. This one tasted lethal. "You can trust me, Frau List." He breathed in and his nose felt on fire. His vision began to blur. Probably the after-effects of the flight.

  "Heidi," she said. "You must call me Heidi."

  "Heidi," he repeated. Just saying the name aloud seemed to whisk him back to a Berlin that existed six or seven decades ago.

  "And I shall call you Sam. Listen while I tell you a true story of my family in the war. And of my fiancé, Josef Horst."

  "Horst? You said your name is List."

  "Ah, we never married. Josef died fighting the Russians for Berlin."

  "I am sorry," he said dutifully. Looking at the woman he realized she wasn't asking for pity. Self pity was always hard to take.

  Heidi List reached forward with the liquor bottle, its outside glistening with condensation. "Let me refill your glass again, Sam. When you have heard what I have to say, we can both decide if it should go further than these walls."

  He gasped for breath. The second glass seemed stronger than the first.

  1940

  Chapter 14

  Berlin, August 31 1940

  THE SOUND of breaking pottery woke Heinrich List the cabinet maker. It was the clay cylinder falling off the hall table. No, it must not be the clay cylinder. In an instant he was on the darkened landing, straining for further sounds of the Einbrecher, the burglar.

  "I have a gun," he called, and wished his voice was louder, and wished his words could be true. The flashlight in his hand was loaded with nothing more lethal than a battery long overdue for replacement. "Stay where you are. There are soldiers in the street."

  Downstairs, and outside, he became painfully aware of a total silence. The Berliners would all be in bed, getting the first proper night's sleep for a week. The marching soldiers who had disturbed him earlier would be back at their barracks by now.

  "I am sorry, Heinrich, I seem to have made a mistake." The soft voice calling up from the hallway had a coolness that added to Heinrich's rising panic.

  "Come out where I can see you," Heinrich called. The dim shaft of orange from his flashlight scarcely reached the foot of the stairs.

  The voice called again from below. "I hope you do not have a gun, Heinrich."

  "Wilhelm? Wilhelm Silber?" Heinrich's voice indicated hope rather than certainty. "Is that you down there, Wilhelm?"

  "Ja, Heinrich. But you must stay upstairs for your own safety." The voice paused. Then, "You do not understand the situation."

  Heinrich began to make his cautious way down the stairs, a raincoat covering his thin body to conceal his embarrassment. "What are you doing in my house, Wilhelm?"

  The situation was just too ridiculous. Wilhelm lived over two kilometers away, not here in these large properties in the Prenzlauerberg district. It wasn't as though his friend had a key to the front door.

  "I wish I could explain, Heinrich."

  The glow from the flashlight showed the small hall table tipped on its side, the two Dresden ornaments and the precious clay cylinder broken on the brown floor tiles. "I wish so too, my friend. This is most unfortunate. You seem to have broken the present for the Führer."

  Wilhelm stayed mute.

  "Down there on the floor, Wilhelm. The Führer's present from his Reich Minister of Propaganda. You have some quick answering to do before I call in the soldiers."

  "That old cylinder was for our Führer?" Wilhelm had quickly recovered his voice.

  "They chose me, the old cabinet maker, to create a stand for it, Wilhelm. And still you have not told me why you are here in my house."

  Wilhelm dropped to his knees. He rose with six large pieces of curved clay in his hands. "We knocked against the table in the darkness. We thought you were away, Heinrich."

  The use of the plural went unnoticed. "And that mistaken belief allows you to enter the house of a comrade at night."

  Wilhelm Silber glanced at the floor as though searching for more pieces of the broken object. "I think perhaps you and I are no longer comrades, Heinrich."

  "I think perhaps you are right, Wilhelm."

  "The Gestapo have means of persuading us to investigate those who ... even those who are friends. I am sorry, Heinrich. We came for your papers."

  "My papers?" He shone the flashlight in the intruder's face, and for a moment the failing battery flickered brightly. "You broke in here for my papers?"

  The eyes staved down, fixed on the floor. "He made me, Heinrich."
<
br />   Heinrich walked forward slowly and took hold of Wilhelm's shaking hands lest further disaster should befall the remains of the precious gift which had not broken into as many pieces as he had feared. "I was pledged to guard this with my life, Wilhelm. I think perhaps it is my life that will be forfeit."

  A harsh blaze abruptly filled the high-ceilinged hallway as the electric light came on. A man with blond curly hair, wearing a black leather coat, waved a small handgun in Heinrich's face.

  "I agree with you, Herr List. And now you will both have to die." The stranger's voice seemed deliberately offensive.

  Heinrich turned to Wilhelm Silber, his voice betraying fear and misunderstanding. "Who is this man with you?" But he knew. This was how the Gestapo dressed, in clothing intended to strike terror into the citizens, whatever their loyalty.

  A truck passed in the street, the whine from the engine and gears almost masked by the cheerful shouting of its passengers. Workmen returning from a night of drinking. Drinking and forgetting. Drink sometimes helped men forget the war and their dead sons.

  Wilhelm Silber took advantage of the momentary distraction to pick up the small table and smash it down on the head of the man of terror.

  "Wilhelm!" Not even madmen challenged the rule of the Gestapo.

  "Pick up his gun, Heinrich. He is not dead yet."

  Like a man in a trance Heinrich picked the Walther from the floor. "We cannot shoot him."

  "We have no choice, Heinrich. This man was going to kill you. Pass me that cushion. It will stifle the sound."

  The Gestapo man moaned as he tried to sit up. Wilhelm kicked him backwards and placed the cushion against the side of his head. The Gestapo thug kicked out violently as the bullet ripped through his skull, the muffled explosion fading away like a nightmare on waking. Gently the feathers from the cushion settled on the floor. The hallway felt stifling. Berlin was a city in hysteria, the inhabitants constantly straining for sounds of enemy bombers soaring over the massive houses that had once promised security. So much for the vain boasting of Field Marshal Göring, and his invitation to the German people to call him by the Jewish name of Meier if the British managed an air raid on Berlin.

  British Air Pirates over Berlin. The headlines in yesterday's paper had said it all. The ordinary citizens had never asked for this war. The Führer would be addressing the people in the Berlin Sportpalast in five days' time, to raise funds for the Winter Relief Campaign. Heinrich knew the event would be well attended. Now that the war had started, he'd observed a certain eagerness among Berliners for victory. As he looked at the dead figure of authority lying on his hall floor, the stupidity of Wilhelm's actions became clearer by the minute.