Tales of the Knights Templar (22 page)

“I know you won’t fail me,” Himmler said through an enigmatic smile. “Will you, Becker?”

The taxi that took Becker back to his office at the Ahnenerbe had to detour around a section of the city that had been bombed the night before, and this gave him time to focus his thoughts on the task that lay before him. Himmler had told him what he wanted, and had set a definite deadline: June 21, less than ten days away. He had also given Becker carte blanche to do whatever was necessary to accomplish his mission. That much was clear.

What wasn’t clear—and this was beginning to bother Becker—was what would happen if he failed in this assignment. At the very least, it would mean a transfer to a combat unit, and at the worst … By the time his taxi rolled to a stop in front of the Ahnenerbe headquarters, Becker had resolved on his course of action.

Waiting on Becker’s desk when he returned to his office was the message that Gestapo Sergeant Lindt had telephoned to inform him that Vandenburgh was once again in custody. Becker pressed the “talk” button on his intercom.

“Maria, call the transportation office and get me on the first train to Brussels.” As an afterthought he added, “And have them book me into a suite at the best hotel in town.”

Berlin’s central train station was packed with military personnel in transit to the eastern front. Becker pushed his way through the steel-helmeted mob on the platform and eventually made his way to the westbound train that was to take him to Brussels. Once in his compartment, he tossed his suitcase and leather greatcoat onto the rack above the seats and then settled down to gaze out the window at the soldiers crowding the station.

A light rain began to fall, making the steel helmets of the soldiers glisten like mushrooms covered with dew. The breeze on the platform shifted slightly, blowing a light coating of mist across Becker’s window and turning the scene outside his carriage into an impressionist painting done in muddy greens and grays. Becker was trying to imagine how he would capture the color and movement on the platform in a film when the door slid open and three regular army officers piled into the compartment.

A quick glance told Becker that all three were combat veterans. All had been decorated with the Iron Cross, and the youngest-looking of the three—a cavalry captain—had the first-class Iron Cross pinned to his field-green tunic. Becker could almost feel the eyes of the three combat officers scanning across his own gray uniform, devoid of any decorations save his Nazi party membership pin.

“Heading out west?” the cavalry captain asked.

“Yes,” Becker replied. “Brussels.” The captain’s tone of voice and disregard for Becker’s superior rank in the SS made him feel slightly uneasy.

“Expect to see much action?” The question came from an infantry major whose silver badge on his tunic indicated that he had sustained at least three wounds in combat.

“No,” Becker said. “I’m on the Reichsführer’s personal staff. I’m traveling on SS business.” He hoped that the icy tone of his voice would cause the three soldiers to stop their line of questioning.

The third officer farted raucously.

“Something in here smells as if it is rotting to death,” the major said. “Would you be a good chap and open the window?” His smile and silky voice merely served to underscore the insult that wafted up to assault Becker’s nose.

Becker was on the verge of saying something when the railway police managed to shove their way through the crowded corridor and squeeze into the compartment.

“Travel orders, please,” a thick-necked bull of a policeman demanded.

As the three soldiers dug in their pockets for their travel papers, Becker produced the black leather folder that contained his orders from Himmler and handed it to the policeman.

The policeman read over Becker’s “orders” twice before handing him back the folder with an awkward click of his heels.

The cavalry officer snickered at the policeman’s attempted deference to Becker’s orders. Becker, sensing that the policeman would jump out of the window if asked, fixed him with a level stare.

“I would appreciate it, Corporal, if you could find these gentlemen”—he waved a gray-gloved hand in the direction of the three army officers—”other accommodations.”

“Yes, sir!” The policeman saluted and turned to face the three officers. “You heard the Sturmbannführer. You have to leave.”

A moment of stunned silence was shattered by the major’s curse.

“Just one goddamned minute …” The major’s voice trailed off as the metallic crack of a rifle bolt being shoved home cut across the tension in the train compartment.

“Now, you can either leave the compartment, or I can put you off this train.” The policeman’s neck was red with anger. “What’s it going to be?”

The three officers stared at the big policeman, and at the other policeman behind him, his Mauser carbine held snug against his shoulder. Jaws clenched, they stood up and silently pulled their kits from the overhead racks. As they shoved their way past the police, the last officer paused long enough to fart again.

“Have a nice war,” he said over his shoulder, before shrugging his way past the police to move off down the crowded corridor after his friends.

“Post a guard outside my compartment, Corporal,” Becker said, then turned to stare out the window at the crowded station platform.

After what seemed to be an endless delay, the train finally jerked to life and steamed its way out of the Bahnhof. As Becker headed west, the weather worsened, the heavy splat of summer rain turning into a thunderstorm that rocked the train with the rumble of distant thunder. As the miles wore on under darkened skies, Becker nodded off to sleep.

The camera slowly tracked down the long corridor of the castle dungeon until it stopped in front of an iron-studded oak door. Slowly the door swung open, and the camera moved into the dark, dank cell. Dimly visible in the background, a hooded figure sat motionless in an ornately carved chair. The camera moved in closer; revealing the figure to be wearing the robes of the Grand Master of the Templars. Slowly, the figure raised his skeletal hands and pulled back the hood covering his face.…

At first Becker thought it was just another crash of thunder that jolted him awake, but the screech of the train’s brakes on the iron tracks brought him fully conscious, aware that something horribly wrong had happened. Before he could drop to the floor of his compartment, he heard the overhead roar of an aircraft engine, followed moments later by a second, deafening blast.

The train had ground to a halt, and the second bomb had found its target—a carriage filled for the most part with new recruits moving west to replace combat soldiers stationed in France. For just a moment Becker was caught up in the absolute silence that followed in the wake of the bomb blast. Then, like a radio suddenly switched on at full volume, the sounds of the aftermath assailed him.

Behind him, in the carriage that had taken the hit from the enemy bomb, the strangled curses of wounded and trapped soldiers provided a bass chorus for the mangled, shrill screams of the dying. As his eyes focused, Becker saw small shafts of light splashing pools on the floor. Following the shafts upward, he could see patches of sky through the bullet holes in the roof of his railway carriage, oblong evidence of the enemy pilot’s skill in strafing the train. It was only when he tried to stand that Becker realized he was wounded, a neat graze along the side of his head.

For a moment he was distracted by the black stain on his gray sleeve. Staring at it, he tried hard to imagine what it was. Then he knew: blood. His blood. Somewhere, deep down inside, Becker was disappointed that the stain wasn’t a bright, glorious, Technicolor red. Somehow, the sight of his own blood, black on the sleeve of his uniform, made him feel cheated. It lacked the cinematic impact that he had always imagined spilled blood would have. It was as if his sacrifice for the Fatherland wasn’t regarded as worthy by the gods of war.

Struggling to his feet, Becker shoved open the door of the compartment and had to step over the body of the railway policeman who had been enforcing his demanded privacy. His first instinct had been to bend down to see if the man needed help, but the large hole in the top of the guard’s steel helmet dissuaded Becker from any closer examination. A single round from a .50-caliber machine gun would finish most men and, judging from the ragged shreds of the dead policeman’s uniform, he had taken half a dozen hits. Stumbling over the corpse, Becker lurched his way to the end of the car and dropped to the ground outside.

In the chaos surrounding the bombed train, Becker managed to make his way forward toward the engine. The front railway carriages, farthest from the actual bomb damage, were virtually deserted, the occupants having gone back to assist in the rescue of those who were wounded or trapped in the wreckage. After a few hundred meters, Becker—his head throbbing from his wound—reached the still puffing locomotive.

The engineer was laid out on the gravel next to the tracks, hands folded neatly across his chest, his cap covering his face. On the step-plate of the engine, the fireman, brakeman, and conductor were shouting and gesturing, plainly engaged in an argument of “Who’s in charge here.” As Becker climbed up onto the locomotive, the conductor rounded on him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing up here?” the man demanded. “Get the hell back to the train.
NOW!”

Becker looked at the other two men. “Which one of you is in charge?”

“I am,” shouted the chubby conductor. “Now get the fu—”

Becker jerked his pistol from its holster and tapped its muzzle on the conductor’s sweaty forehead. “Since you are in charge, you are the first one I’ll shoot if you don’t all do exactly as I order.”

The conductor’s eyes bulged, and the brakeman and fireman moved to the far side of the locomotive’s cab.

“First, I want one of you to go back and uncouple the front of this train from the wreck. Then I want us to steam as fast as possible to the next town. Understand?” Becker pointed his pistol at the two men in the cab. “I said: Do—you—under—stand?”

The two men nodded vigorously and started to climb down.

“Hold on,” said the conductor. “Just what, besides that pistol, gives you the authority to take over this train?”

“This,” Becker said, producing the black folder with the silver lightning flashes on its cover. “Direct orders from the Reichsführer.”

The conductor didn’t bother to look at Becker’s orders. Instead he let out a long, exhausted sigh and turned to his two colleagues hanging on the step-plate of the locomotive.

“You heard the man.” There was total surrender in his voice. “Uncouple the train.”

It took Becker three days to reach Brussels, as much the result of having his head wound attended to as the enemy bombing of the German rail centers. When he finally did alight at the main train station in Brussels, he was tired and anxious to get to Gestapo headquarters. An hour and a half later a staff car delivered him to the squat red brick building that housed the machinery of the dreaded Nazi Secret Police. After passing through the usual security checkpoint, Becker was shown to Sergeant Lindt’s office.

“Heil Hitler.”
Lindt stood up as Becker entered his office, bringing his right arm up in the obligatory Nazi party salute.

“Heil.”
Becker returned the salute and let his eyes sweep around Lindt’s cramped office. Three battered oak filing cabinets lined one of the nicotine-stained ivory walls. Lindt’s desk was in the center of the room, and behind it, under a grimy window, was a table with four neatly stacked piles of file folders. There was a swivel chair behind the desk, and against the opposite wall was another chair next to a hat stand. There was also a photograph of Lindt, showing him standing slightly behind the Führer, glaring out from under a coal scuttle helmet.

“So where’s Vandenburgh?” Becker asked without any preamble.

“Downstairs. Cell thirty-seven.” Lindt’s voice matched his broken nose and pockmarked face. “You want him brought up to the office?”

“Is that where interviews are usually held?” Becker asked.

“Not if you want to keep the carpet clean.” Lindt snorted. “We usually deal with them in the basement or in their cells.”

Becker paused for a moment, then asked, “Where did you last interrogate him?”

“The basement,” was Lindt’s curt reply.

“Then in that instance, have him brought to your office.”

Lindt picked up the phone on his desk and spoke briefly to someone on the other end of the line.

“The prisoner will be here in a few minutes,” he said, replacing the handset on the cradle. “You want a coffee?”

The coffee was stale, with the scorched taste that comes from one too many attempts to reheat it. After his first swallow, Becker ran his tongue over his teeth, hoping he could somehow get the scummy taste out of his mouth.

Maybe,
he thought,
I can give this to Vandenburgh to make him talk.

That was going to be a problem. Getting Vandenburgh to lead him to the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple probably wouldn’t be easy. Against his better judgment, Becker was about to try another swallow of coffee when there was a knock at the office door.

“Come in.” Lindt’s voice was matter-of-fact.

Two uniformed security policemen entered the office with Vandenburgh, his hands manacled behind him. Becker was surprised at the prisoner’s condition. Even though it was obvious that he hadn’t shaved or bathed since his arrest five days earlier, Vandenburgh still had an air of dignity about him. Six feet tall, silver-haired, with an aristocratic, hawk-nosed face and piercing grey eyes, it was obvious at a glance that he was an absolute gentleman. Like all prisoners, his shoes, belt, and jacket had been taken away when he was incarcerated.

“Uncuff him,” Lindt said, shoving a chair into the center of the room.

The guards did as they were told, and Vandenburgh used his freedom to hitch up his trousers.

“Sit!” Lindt barked at the prisoner. Vandenburgh paused for a moment, just long enough to make it clear that it was
his
decision to sit down, before lowering himself into the chair.