Tales of the Knights Templar (24 page)

“In France, my dear Major.” Vandenburgh smiled at Becker. “Northwest of Paris, about two hundred kilometers south of Brussels.”

Becker looked at his watch. It was 12:20. That meant he could be in Gisors by six in the evening. Even if it took all night to convince the Grand Master to come to Berlin, they would still be back in the capital of the Greater German Reich with a day to spare. If the Grand Master was implacable, then Becker still had more than forty-eight hours in which to contact Leuprecht and persuade him to assume the office of Grand Master.

“So when do we leave?” Becker asked.

“We don’t,” Vandenburgh said. “The Grand Master will send an envoy to meet you here at the hotel in one hour. Please be ready, as the car and driver will wait only five minutes.”

“Forgive my sense of the melodramatic, Chevalier, but how do I know this isn’t a trap?” Becker kept his face impassive.

“The driver is a member of our Order, as you would expect,” Vandenburgh said.

“Of course,” Becker replied.

“He is also with the Swiss Embassy here in Brussels.” Vandenburgh crossed his legs and tugged momentarily at the crease in his trousers. “He will be, in an embassy car. That, together with your ‘special pass,’ should prevent any problems. But if you are still concerned, you can give his name to the Gestapo, just in case. Or”—he smiled again—“you can cancel the trip.”

Becker returned Vandenburgh’s smile. “No, I’ll be ready,” he said, taking a small notebook and gold pencil from his pocket. “What did you say is the name of the driver?”

“Leuprecht. Anton Leuprecht.” Vandenburgh’s face remained impassive. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” He rose from his seat and turned to leave, then stopped and turned to face Becker again.

“You must forgive me,” he said. “I nearly forgot to congratulate you on your decoration.” He nodded toward the ribbon wrapped through the buttonhole of Becker’s tunic. “The War Merit Cross, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, congratulations.” Vandenburgh turned and walked across the lobby of the Excelsior, disappearing through the revolving doors that led out onto the broad boulevards of Brussels.

Becker sat at his table for some moments, considering his immediate good fortune. To have Leuprecht drive him to his meeting with the Grand Master was a stroke of luck that ranked right up there with his discovery of Himmler’s memo about the Templars four months ago. To have the Grand Master
and
the potential successor to that office both in his grasp at the same time meant that his plan would succeed without fail.

Looking at his watch, he saw that he had less than thirty minutes before Leuprecht would arrive at the hotel to take him to Gisors. Standing, Becker looked around the lobby for a telephone. Spotting one in a small kiosk partially hidden by a potted palm, he walked over and placed a call to Gestapo headquarters.

Yes,
Becker thought, as he waited for his call to be put through,
in less than twenty-four hours I will have the Grand Master in Berlin.

“Hello, Sergeant Lindt?” Becker said when at last his call was answered. “This is Major Becker. I want you to prepare an arrest warrant for Anton Leuprecht, a Swiss national resident in Belgium.”

“Sorry, Major, can’t do it,” was Lindt’s reply.

“What do you mean, can’t do it?” Becker asked. “I have express orders from Himmler that say you’d better do it.”

“I know all about your orders, but I still can’t arrest Luprecht.” Lindt’s voice sounded strained.

“I’m not asking you to arrest him, Lindt. Just prepare the warrant, that’s all.” Becker was becoming irritated.

“Look, Major,” Lindt said. “Even issuing a warrant for this guy Leuprecht can’t be done. It’s impossible.”

“Why?” Becker asked, wondering for a moment if he should threaten to have Lindt shot.

“Because,” Lindt slowly replied, “Leuprecht works for the SD—the Sicherheitsdienst. And you know how Deputy Reichsführer Heydrich reacts to anyone interfering with
his
Secret Police.”

“I see,” Becker said, a cold knot forming in his stomach. “In that case, I’ll call you back tomorrow.” He replaced the telephone on the cradle and leaned against the glass door of the kiosk, staring out across the lobby and wondering if, after all, Leuprecht could be convinced to work for Himmler, if it came to the crunch.

A loud rapping on the side of the kiosk derailed Becker’s train of thought.

“Do you mind doing your thinking elsewhere?” The voice belonged to a Wehrmacht general. “I need to make a call.”

“Certainly, General,” Becker replied. And then, with a nod toward the senior officer, he went up to his room to change into his civilian clothes.

Becker carefully hung his gray uniform in the wardrobe and placed his military shirt over the back of a chair. From his bag he removed a tattersall shirt made of thick cotton, and a dark green knit tie. Slipping on the shirt, he pulled on his corduroy trousers and then stepped into his dark brown brogues. He quickly knotted his tie and then shrugged on his tweed jacket. His SS identity card went in the left pocket, and the leather folder containing Himmler’s special orders was tucked into one of the inner pockets of the jacket. Becker then picked up his pistol and, checking that the magazine was full and that there was a round in the chamber, dropped it into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. A soft brown hat with a coffee-colored silk band completed the transformation from SS officer to civilian. Becker gave himself an approving glance in the mirror, then went down to the lobby to meet Leuprecht.

The Swiss was dressed much like Becker, but despite his civilian clothes, seemed to almost blend into the background of German uniforms swirling their way through the lobby. He was smoking a cigarette, gazing out a window at the passersby. As Becker approached, he had time to study his quarry.

He decided that Leuprecht had a mean, almost cruel mouth, and eyes that could only be described as reptilian. He was about average height, and without any remarkable features other than his mouth and eyes. He looked exactly like a Gestapo informant. In an instant, Becker knew that the man would sell out the Grand Master at the first opportunity. He also knew that Leuprecht wouldn’t hesitate to sell him out, if it came to that. The weight of the loaded Walther in his pocket gave Becker added self-assurance about dealing with him.

“Herr Leuprecht?” Becker said as he approached the man.

“No,” said a voice from behind a pillar. “I’m over here.”

Becker was surprised, and turned to face the speaker. Unlike the man Becker had mistaken for Leuprecht, the man who was now staring at him had the bland, passive look of a schoolteacher.

Becker tried to recover his poise. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Certainly, Major.” Leuprecht’s voice was cultured, but he spoke with the slow deliberation of the Swiss. “My car is outside.”

In front of the hotel Becker climbed into the front seat of Leuprecht’s car, a big American Buick. Before starting the engine, Leuprecht turned to Becker.

“Do you have an overcoat?” he asked.

“No,” Becker said. “Will I need one?”

“Only if it gets cold.” Leuprecht gave a slight chuckle. “This car doesn’t have a heater.”

“I’ll do all right as I am,” Becker replied. “How long to Gisors?”

“About five hours under the present conditions,” Leuprecht answered. “They expect you to arrive at eight o’clock.”

It took a little over an hour to reach the French border. The first two army checkpoints that Becker and Leuprecht encountered showed no real interest in the dark green Buick, and they were perfunctorily waved through without the need to produce any sort of identity papers.

The French frontier was another matter altogether, the traffic queue reaching back into Belgium for more than a kilometer. After fifteen minutes without moving, Becker left the car and walked forward to the German roadblock. Leuprecht watched from the running board of the Buick as Becker handed his identity card to one of the soldiers directing traffic. The soldier saluted, then led Becker to a small hut beside the road.

Becker entered the hut, emerging a few minutes later with an officer, who gave several quick commands to the men guarding the checkpoint. Instantly they began directing traffic to pull over to the side of the road, and Leuprecht found himself being waved forward. At the checkpoint Becker climbed back into the Buick.

“There’s another checkpoint up ahead about two kilometers,” Becker said. “I’ve asked that they call ahead and alert them that we’re coming.”

Leuprecht slipped the gear lever down into first and eased the Buick quietly past the tangle of barbed wire and machine gun nests and headed on toward Gisors. The second checkpoint was open when Leuprecht and Becker arrived, and they only paused long enough for Becker to show his identity card before they were on their way again.

“You must have some very powerful connections,” Leuprecht said as they pulled away from the checkpoint.

“I’m on the Reichsführer’s personal staff,” Becker replied.

“So I was told,” Leuprecht said. “Vandenburgh said you were. He also said that you were wounded a few days ago, and that you had the War Merit Cross.”

“What else did Vandenburgh tell you?” Becker asked.

“Just that I was supposed to do whatever you asked, and see to it that you were returned safely to your hotel in the morning.” Leuprecht shifted the car into top gear and settled down to a steady seventy-five kilometers per hour.

“Did he tell you the purpose of our trip to Gisors?” Becker asked.

“No, only that you were going to meet with one of the higher-ups in the Order.” Leuprecht slowed for a sharp curve in the road, shifting down into second gear.

“What sort of place are we going to in Gisors?” Becker asked.

“The castle, that’s where,” Leuprecht replied.

“Yes, Vandenburgh mentioned that,” Becker said. He stared out over the hood of the Buick, watching the countryside roll past. “What sort of a castle? Ruined?”

“Pretty much,” Leuprecht said. “It was built between 1097 and 1184. Off and on—mostly on—it belonged to the English, finally becoming French in 1449. Its connection with the Order of the Temple dates from 1158, when command of the castle was handed over to three high ranking Templars.”

Becker yawned. “So it was in Templar hands until the suppression of the Order in 1307?”

“A bit longer than that,” Leuprecht replied. “The Castle of Gisors has remained an important part of the Order down to this very day.”

“Then you claim an unbroken succession from the original Knights Templar?” Becker asked.

“We must,” Leuprecht said. “Or else you wouldn’t be here tonight. Would you?”

Before Becker could answer, Leuprecht pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out, walking to the woods a few meters from the road to relieve himself. As Becker waited in the car, he made up his mind about how to proceed with Leuprecht. When the Swiss returned to the car, Becker was ready for him.

“Tell me,” Becker said as they pulled back onto the road, “have you ever considered the possibility of becoming the Grand Master of the Order?”

Leuprecht’s answer betrayed nothing. “If asked, of course I would serve.”

“And who would ask you?” Becker asked.

“The Regent and the Supreme Council have the combined power to select a new Grand Master,” Leuprecht said. “They would be the ones doing the asking.”

“That sounds like a very powerful group of gentlemen,” Becker said.

“That, Major Becker, is an understatement if ever there was one. I don’t think you realize the absolute power the Grand Master of the Templars possesses,” Leuprecht said. “It is a power that reaches back for centuries and extends forward into the next millennium.”

“And the Regent?” Becker asked.

“Second in power only to the Grand Master, and in some ways more to be feared,” was Leuprecht’s answer.

Well,
Becker thought,
there’s my answer. Leuprecht will take the job if I have to kill the present Grand Master. And there’s no doubt but that he’d cooperate to stay in power. Yes, he’d be willing to be Grand Master for a few days in exchange for being Regent for life.

It was nearly eight o’clock at night, and Leuprecht had switched on the headlights of the Buick. Slowing to a walking pace, he carefully turned the car off the main road and proceeded for some minutes along a narrow path that wound its way through the woods and up a gently rising hill until, at last, he came to a stop in the darkening shadow of the Castle of Gisors.

Becker started to leave the car, but stopped halfway out the door. The velvet-blue sky, the first stars beginning to shine through like small diamonds in a jeweler’s tray, provided the perfect backdrop for the massive tower and slighted walls of the castle, their black silhouette still crisp in the softly fading twilight. Becker drank it in, impressing it on his mind, knowing that it would be a key shot when he made his film about the Templars.

The slamming of Leuprecht’s door brought him back to the present reality.

“Come on,” Leuprecht said. “It’s just eight, and you don’t want to keep anyone waiting.” Having spoken, he headed into the dark ruins of the castle.

Becker quickly followed, scrambling over the rubble of one of the walls and crossing to the donjon tower in the corner.

“Give me a hand,” Leuprecht said, crouching down and shoving against a large stone slab.

Becker did as asked and put his shoulder to the stone, shoving with all of his strength. With a dry grating sound the stone moved, revealing a small opening and a flight of stairs leading down.

Leuprecht reached into his pocket and produced a thick white candle and a match case. Striking one of the matches on the stone slab, he lit the candle and passed it over to Becker.

“Take this,” he said, handing Becker the candle. “Follow the steps down to the bottom. There you will find a lamp. Light it and follow the passage to the end.”

“Are you coming?” asked Becker, not sure that he could trust Leuprecht to remain behind.

“No,” Leuprecht replied. “My orders are to stay up here until you have concluded your meeting, then drive you back to Brussels.”