At Sword's Point (26 page)

"Thanks. I'll be in touch." Berringer dropped the phone on the hook and rolled over to look at the alarm clock on the table next to his bed: 2:45. Resetting the alarm for 5:30, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

LeBlanc gently replaced the handset on the cradle. Berringer had his orders—but so did he. Looking at his watch, he decided that he had time to make something to eat before heading into the woods to try and find the castle he had been instructed to keep under close surveillance. Switching on the light on his bedside table, LeBlanc heaved a deep sigh and climbed out of bed.

* * * *

Brian Stillman adjusted the bobbypin that held the yarmulke on top of his thatch of wiry red hair. At six foot three inches and nearly three hundred pounds, the football-playing ex-Green Beret looked more like a friendly bear than a Mossad agent.

Tucking his shirttail into his trousers for the umpteenth time that day, he knocked on the door of the small firm of Antwerp diamond merchants, Solomon and Hayes.

"Who is it?" came a voice in Yiddish from the other side of the door.

"It's me, Uncle Chaim," Stillman replied.

"So, come in," the voice answered back.

There was a mechanical buzzing as the electric lock on the door released, and Brian Stillman pushed his way into his uncle's small office.

"Well,
meshuggina
, why are you in Antwerp?" his Uncle Chaim asked.

"Just passing through, that's all," Stillman said. "I promised Mom I'd look you up."

"That's nice," Uncle Chaim said. "I hope the family is fine?"

"All except Aunt Flo," Stillman replied. "She's still married to Uncle Harry."

Chaim Solomon pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and a door opened in the paneling behind him.

"Through there," he said, motioning to Stillman.

Crouching low, Stillman managed to squeeze through the door and into the headquarters of one of the command centers for the Mossad's Western European network. Inside, a bored guard with an Uzi ran a metal detector over his body before passing him on to his control.

"Brian," the owlish young man said with forced sincerity. "How very good to see you."

"Thanks, Captain Berman." Stillman resented the yuppie who acted as his control, as much for his slimy insincerity as for his preppy bow ties, tweed jackets, and saddle shoes.

"Please, pull up a chair and let's talk." Berman pointed to a chair in the corner of the room.

Stillman pulled it up to the desk and sat down, his shirttail sliding out of his trousers as he did so.

"Now," Berman continued, "one of our units is down in Luxembourg, and we want you to go out and see if you can rectify the situation."

Stillman hated the "jargon." "So, do I just clean up the mess, or do you want me to kill someone?"

Berman flushed slightly. "First I want you to find out what happened to our agent." He handed Stillman photos of Drummond and Eberle. "Then, if the opportunity presents itself, I want you to take care of these minor details."

Stillman looked at the photos, then at Berman. "Do I shoot these minor details, or can I use an axe?"

"That's hardly appropriate, Brian." Berman handed him a satellite map of Luxembourg with a fluorescent orange dot on it near the Belgian border. "This is where the Lorcan-C receiver has located the car. See what you can do, and then report back. Okay?"

Stillman examined the satellite photo for several seconds, then pulled a ballpoint pen out of his pocket.

"I'm going to need an enhancement of this area," he said, drawing a rough square around the orange dot that marked the car's location. "Otherwise, it could take a couple of days to find the car in those woods."

Berman smiled indulgently. "Fine, Brian. I'll have the lab send the picture right down." Leaning over his desk, Berman pressed a button on his intercom. "Button, would you ask the lab to send down an enlargement of the satellite photo they brought over this morning?"

He leaned back in his chair, not looking at Stillman, and an awkward silence descended as the two men waited for the photo to be brought down from the lab. The minutes dragged on, and Stillman decided that it would be Berman who would have to break the silence. After about half an hour, Berman's secretary arrived with the photo, setting it on the desk and leaving without saying a word.

"Cute girl," Stillman said as he picked up the photo, instantly annoyed with himself for speaking first.

"Who, Button?" Berman asked. "Yeah, she's not bad. Came to us from the Wiesenthal Center in Vienna." He gave Stillman another one of his patented insincere smiles. "Another American on our team, huh?"

Declining to answer, Stillman scooped up the photos and the map. It was back to business as usual—just a simple hit. No big deal.

"Yes, sir," he said, then headed out the door, his shirttail hanging over his belt.

Out on the street, Stillman climbed behind the wheel of his 1965 Buick Riviera and started its massive 360-horsepower V-8 engine. As the rumble of the twin exhausts bounced off the cobblestone street, he looked briefly at a road map of Europe before setting off on the motorway to Luxembourg.

In the sun from a window of the great hall the next morning, von Liebenfalz unfolded a road map on the table and used a yellow highlighter to trace the fastest route to Ulm.

"I make it about three hundred and fifty kilometers," he said, when he had finished drawing his bright yellow line. "In my Bugatti, I could drive it in a little over two hours. With a convoy, it may take closer to three hours."

"And to Marienkampf Castle?" Drummond asked.

"It doesn't show on this map, but I would guess that it should be within half an hour of Ulm," von Liebenfalz replied.

Eberle checked his watch. "If we leave now, we should be there by one o'clock."

"Well, I think its going to take us a couple of hours to get organized before we leave," Drummond said. "I'm
not
exactly thrilled with the prospect of driving a carload of knights in armor across Germany."

"I suppose we could get them some clothes in Clervaux," Father Freise suggested.

"We can't spare the time," Drummond replied, shaking his head, "not to mention the explanations."

"Frankly, I'd rather we got some serious firepower," Eberle said. "After watching the baron shoot that vampire last night, I'm not certain that I can put much faith in less than a dozen ancient men wielding swords."

"Actually, swords and axes are probably the best weapons to use," Drummond said. "You've seen how little effect bullets have on vampires."

"Well, if you really want some firepower, I think I can help," Father Freise said to Eberle. "Come on up to my room, all of you. I've got something to show you."

Ignoring their puzzled looks, he led them out of the great hall. As they passed through the chapel, the priest and von Liebenfalz both genuflected toward the altar before heading up the stair behind that led to the priest's snug quarters.

Friese pushed open the door and crossed to a small table, where he lit a small gas lantern. It flooded the room with a pale yellow light, revealing a veritable arsenal of WW II German military hardware.

"How simply delightful," von Liebenfalz said, as he picked up a Walther P-38. "Where did all of this come from?"

"The dungeons," Freise replied. "After the Battle of the Bulge, the knights wandered all through the forest burying the dead and rounding up their weapons. Most of what they brought back has become just so much rusted junk, but I was able to salvage a few pieces."

"Well, an extra pistol or two won't hurt," Eberle said, picking up a somewhat rusted-looking Schmeisser, "and a few of these rifles look like they might still fire, but I really wish we had something more substantial."

Friese gave Eberle a smile that reminded him of a naughty choir boy.

"You want something more substantial?" he said. "How about this?"

Reaching under the table, he brought up a long wooden case and laid it on the table. Flipping open the metal catches, he pulled back the hinged lid to reveal a brand new MP44 assault rifle. For a moment, Eberle was speechless.

"Good God, Father. Where did this come from?" he finally asked.

"Downstairs with the rest of the stuff," Father Freise said, running an appreciative hand along the weapon's stock. "John, this is one of the beauties I found after you'd gone back to California. My guess is that it fell off a truck during the German retreat, and de Beq's men found it and brought it here."

"Speaking of de Beq and his men, where are they?" Drummond asked.

"Out disposing of the bodies from last night," Friese replied. "As soon as they get back, we can load up and head out."

"I don't think it's going to be 'we,' Frank," Drummond said, a little uneasily. "Somebody's got to stay behind and hold the fort, and you're the only likely candidate."

"Like hell I am!" Freise grumped. "There are one or two others who could stay behind." He shot a glance in the direction of von Liebenfalz, and Drummond took the priest by the elbow and began steering him toward the door.

"Frank, let's talk this over in my room," he said under his breath. "You aren't making this any easier."

"All right," Freise said, shaking loose of Drummond's grip. "But I ain't staying."

Muttering unintelligibly under his breath, the priest stomped off in the direction of Drummond's room in the tower, with Drummond following right behind.

"Okay," Friese said, the moment Drummond's door was closed. "What's going on?"

"Just this. We can't risk leaving any of the Order of the Sword behind. If we don't come back—and there's every reason to believe that none of us might make it—what do you suppose would happen to the one surviving vampire? How long do you suppose it would be before he went rogue like Cuneo?" Drummond let the priest think about it for a few seconds before he continued.

"I need Eberle with me for obvious reasons, Frank. And I can't leave von Liebenfalz behind," he said softly. "I don't trust him."

"What's to trust?" Freise asked. "There's nothing here worth stealing."

"What I can only trust you to do, Frank," Drummond said, "is to stay here and kill any of the knights who return without me. I know it sounds hard, but one way or another, the Order of the Sword has to end with this battle."

For a long moment Freise was silent; then he slowly nodded his agreement.

"You're right," he murmured. "But what about Kluge? What if you don't kill him and his men?"

"If that happens, then you are going to have to recruit a new crop of knights to hunt him down and kill him." Drummond walked over to the wall and took down the sword de Beq had given him a few days earlier. "If I don't make it back, Frank, it means that Kluge is still on the loose."

Freise gave an explosive sigh, shaking his head.

"Well, dammit, what you say makes sense, even if I don't like it." The priest stuffed his hands in his pockets like some little boy who had just given in to the authority of an adult. "Just promise me this: you will come back."

"Frank, I promise."

The priest reached over and gave Drummond a hug.

"All right, then, John. Go with God."

* * * *

Thomas Berringer smiled to himself. He had stumbled across the castle of the Order of the Sword in barely more than two hours of hiking through the woods. In the three hours that he had kept the castle under surveillance, he had seen a party of men in white cloaks and what looked like chain mail beneath red surcoats take out two bodies, returning empty-handed half an hour later. Well concealed by the trees, he scanned the moat-ringed fortress with a heavy pair of field glasses for the hundredth time that morning.

From the information that he had been given on the flight from Rome to Luxembourg, he knew that the black Range Rover parked next to the drawbridge belonged to Drummond. He also had come across two cars in the forest—a dark blue Saab and a gray Audi—and it was his guess that the owners either were somewhere in the castle or had been dropped down a convenient hole by the knights he saw on burial detail earlier that morning.

Berringer had just about decided that the owners of the cars were dead when he saw Drummond, Eberle, and von Liebenfalz cross the drawbridge and climb into the Range Rover. With Drummond at the wheel, the big four-wheel drive vehicle roared into life and headed back across the meadow, into the woods, and returned a few minutes later followed by the Saab and the Audi. The Range Rover parked in its previous place by the drawbridge, and the other two pulled in beside it.

The three drivers got out. As Berringer watched through his binoculars, the knights came out of the castle and loaded a number of bundles into the vehicles, including a long wooden box that two of them hoisted up into the back of the Range Rover. They had put aside their white mantles now, and he could get a clear look at the red surcoats they were wearing over what definitely was chain mail showing at wrist and neck and knee. The device on the front of the surcoats seemed to be a blue cross, like the swastika of Nazi infamy but with curved arms, somehow protective and even reassuring where the swastika seemed defiant. He had been told to watch for the device, but studying an illustration from a text on ancient history and seeing the device worn as the symbol of a living order of chivalry were two different things. He wondered, not for the first time, why the cardinal was interested in these men.

No time for speculation now, though. Once all of the bundles were stowed in the various cars, the drivers divided the knights among the three cars and got them all in, then backed the cars out and formed up in a convoy, which slowly began making its way back toward the forest.

Without hesitation, Berringer raced back to his own car, which he had left parked on the main road. He reached the silver Ford Granada just as the Saab rounded a bend in the road and vanished from sight, headed north. Starting the engine of his Ford, Berringer pulled out onto the main highway and followed after the three-car convoy that was carrying the Order of the Sword on its last crusade.

* * * *

Brian Stillman loved his Buick Riviera. The car was five years older than he was, and in places the chrome on the jukebox-styled interior had worn thin, but Stillman wouldn't have traded it for any new car in Europe or America. To begin with, there were few cars made anymore that would accommodate anyone with Stillman's sheer bulk. Japanese computers didn't design cars for people built like an underfed Sumo wrestler.

There was a sentimental reason for his attachment to the car, as well. It had belonged to the first man he killed.

Stillman swung the gold Riviera into the exit lane of the motorway and headed up the off ramp to a Fina service plaza. Pulling up to the pumps, he stood by idly while the car consumed 90 liters of petrol, nearly the entire capacity of its 25-gallon tank. After paying for the gasoline, Stillman moved his car to the parking lot of the roadside cafe and went inside to study the satellite photo that Berman had given him.

The coffee was mediocre but the intelligence was good. Spreading open a road map of the area, Stillman had no difficulty in correlating it with the photo. From where he was on the outskirts of Liege, he decided that it was only fifty or sixty miles to the orange dot that the Lorcan-C tracking device had pinpointed as the location of the Mossad agent's car.

Looking more closely at the photo, Stillman was impressed with the details of the area it revealed. The car could just be seen in a patch of woods, bounded on one side by the highway and on the other by a clearing. There appeared to be the corner of a building of some sort jutting into the clearing, but unfortunately it had been cropped out of the enlargement that Stillman was looking at. Returning his attention to the highway, he easily located a turnout next to the woods that was only a few hundred meters from where the car was parked. Now somewhat better focused, Stillman finished his coffee and went back out to his Buick, to roar off in the direction of the Luxembourg border.

An hour later, Stillman was standing by his car parked at the side of the road in the densely forested area near Clervaux. Looking at the satellite photo, he quickly found his bearings and headed into the woods. Within minutes he had located the tracks left by the Saab as it headed along a forest track the satellite had not shown. Following the track into the forest, he soon came to the clearing where the car had been photographed by the satellite.

The car was gone.

Stillman checked the photo. It was obvious that he was in the right place, but the car was gone. That meant that either the agent had returned to the car and moved it, or that someone else had driven it away.

Cautiously Stillman moved around the edge of the clearing, deciding what to do next. Then he heard the flies. And saw the blood.

The trees and bushes on the far side of the clearing were drenched in blood. Black, congealing blood that had become the consistency and color of warm tar covered the bushes and tree trunks. Iridescent blue flies, some as large as wasps, crawled over the leaves and bark in a seething, humming mass. On the ground, thousands more flies swarmed where someone, presumably the missing agent, had died rather messily, though no trace of the body remained to be seen.

Sobered, Stillman drew back from the fly-infested gore. For a moment he was undecided what to do. Then he remembered the corner of the building just visible in the satellite photograph Berman had given him. Reaching into his waistband, he pulled out a .45 automatic and headed toward the castle.

* * * *

LeBlanc had watched the knights load the cars and drive off into the wood, and was about to return to his own car when he saw the big man with the yarmulke emerge from the forest and lumber across the clearing toward the castle. The man slowed as he approached the drawbridge, his right hand drawing up beside his shoulder. It was then that LeBlanc clearly saw the pistol.

For a moment LeBlanc hesitated, not sure of his next move. Unarmed, he was no match for a man with a pistol—especially not one built like a human bear. Still, he had his instructions. As he watched, the man crossed the drawbridge and vanished through the gates. Resigned, LeBlanc gave a characteristic gallic shrug, then trotted across the clearing and followed the armed man into the castle.

* * * *

Father Freise was sitting at the long table in the great hall thumbing through a copy of
Guns
&
Ammo
, muttering to himself.

"Hold the fort," he said out loud. "Well, I suppose somebody had to stay behind, and it sure as shootin' couldn't have been that Baron von what's-his-name."

An ad for Winchester rifles caught his attention. Two campers in plaid shirts found themselves confronted by an angry bear, snarling and standing on its hind legs. One of the campers looked surprised, while the other confidently shouldered his trusty lever-action rifle.

Father Freise looked up from the magazine and saw Stillman's bearlike silhouette blocking the door. A look of surprise crossed the priest's face for just an instant, just before Stillman shot him.

Father Friese was confused. The jeep had hit a mine, and he'd been thrown clear, but he couldn't move. His driver, Tommy Costanza, was leaning over him, saying something.