Casca 4: Panzer Soldier (15 page)

The escorting officer rapped once sharply on a single door, waited a moment and ushered his charge inside to stand in front of a plain, businesslike desk devoid of ornamentation except for a single telephone. The walls were bare save for the black and silver flag of the SS standing in the right corner.

More impressive was the man behind the desk,
Brigadeführer
Erich Zeitsler wearing the uniform of the Waffen SS, the only uniform in the castle that wasn't black. Around the neck he wore the Knight's Cross with oak leaves and swords. The only other decoration to break the plainness of the uniform was a gold party badge. The man's face had none of the look of the fanatic common to the rest of the staff he had seen. The face was strong, square jawed under close-cropped, graying, ash-blond hair. Pale blue eyes looked him over with obvious curiosity. Intelligent, cold eyes. With a flick of his hand he dismissed the escort, leaving them alone.

The SS general indicated for his guest to sit in the single wooden-back chair in front of his desk. Langer's manacles clanked as he obeyed the unspoken order.

Langer cast a quick look around the stone-walled room, noting a single window set about five feet from the floor. Zeitsler smiled and spoke for the first time, his voice steady, the words measured and precise. He shook his finger schoolmasterishly. "I really wouldn't consider it if I were you. It's a sixty-foot drop to the ground, where you would land in a stone courtyard in which a machine gun and its crew are positioned. And if you somehow managed to free yourself from your chains and take me prisoner it would still serve no purpose. My guards have their orders and they wouldn't hesitate a heartbeat to shoot me down to stop you, Herr Longinus."

Langer froze at the name. '"You have me mistaken, Herr
Brigadeführer
, my name is Langer, Carl Langer."

Zeitsler
smiled and shook his head, opening a desk drawer. He removed the contents. Several photographs were visible from where Langer sat and some older documents looking like parchment, old, very old. His heart skipped a beat. He sat tense, fully alert, awaiting the next move with a definite feeling of foreboding pervading the atmosphere of the sterile office.

"You may relieve yourself of playing at charades. We know exactly who you are." He tapped the folder. "It's all in here, including the report of your stay at the sanctuary of Elder
Dacort. Indeed, we know all about you. How long has it been since you were called by your true name, Casca Rufio Longinus? No matter." He waved a hand dismissing the unimportant thought. "We have been looking for you for some time now. We lost sight of you in the twenties when the world went to pieces following the depression. But when we received your name from the Geheime Staats Polizei they also sent along your paybook, which they found after you killed three of our men. With that a complete investigation was launched as a matter of routine. There is no Carl Langer. You took the name from a tombstone in Bayreuth and acquired your other papers after that. Indeed, we have been awaiting your arrival for some time. You would be flattered to know how many man-hours and how much money have been spent on seeing that you could join us. Indeed, you have arrived at a most opportune time." He checked his watch. "In a few minutes all your questions will be answered. In the meantime you will remain in this room until someone comes for you. You are our guest and food will be brought. But please, no tricks. We know all about – how should we say it? – your condition." He laughed softly. "And as you know, there are worse things than dying." He left closing the door behind him, but Langer knew he was being watched. The general's words echoed in his mind, worse things than dying ... Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Did the SS general know? And if so, to what purpose was he brought here? What could the SS want with him?
Questions, too many of them.

No longer thinking of himself as Carl Langer, Casca Longinus rose from his seat and looked over the papers on the desk. He knew the general had left them out in the open for that purpose. The story, the truth, was there. Not everything, but enough. They did know.

There was nothing to be used in the room as a weapon. Even the flagpole would be of little use against the machine guns and hundreds of men here who would just overpower him. And as the general said, there were worse things than dying. He sat back down to wait.

Langer felt familiar with the stone walls of the medieval castle. He passed stone-faced guards standing rigidly at their posts with faces pale in the glow of the bare light bulbs, spaced every ten or so feet throughout the halls of the castle. Unsmiling, serious faces that stood in pale deathlike contrast to the black of their dress SS uniforms, each armed with a
Schmeisser machine pistol slung from the shoulders by the straps ready for instant use, as was evidenced by the fact that the cocking levers were drawn full back ready to instant firing. They knew they were chosen, the elite. Ready to die for the Fuhrer, God and the Reich.

His escort had the same vacuous expressions, the dead
eyes, that would only come alive when they were witnessing the pain of another. They halted at the end of one corridor before massive, ancient wooden doors carved with the mystic runic symbols of the ancient Nordics, a stylized oak tree wrapped about with the twining tendrils of the great serpent. Standing in front of the Laers he felt a sense of foreboding that there was something evil behind the doors.

The guards escorting stopped, the one on the right raised a massive brass knocker in the shape of a Viking's head and let it drop once. The sharpness of the heavy brass head striking sounded once, heavily. The two guards then placed themselves one on each side of the door facing back down the hallways they had come from. Not a word had been spoken in the time since they had taken him from his rooms, and it appeared there would be none now.

With no sound the well-oiled hinges worked smoothly, holding the massive weight of the single door that swung to the inside. From the darkened interior came but one short command: Enter.

The door swung silently shut behind him, leaving him and the voice in a small anteroom lit only by the flickering glow of two oil braziers giving off a lightly pungent, scented aroma. The voice belonged to a man dressed in monk's habit resembling those the Franciscan monks wore, dark rough cloth. A hood covered the face so the features were indistinguishable in the gloom. A rope for a belt tied the waist loosely. The figure motioned for Langer to follow, leading him to a dark curtain of wine silk embossed with the symbols of the fish and cross.

The curtains parted....

Langer's heart stopped for a moment with his throat constricting.... A line of oil braziers identical to those in the anteroom lined the aisle and the walls of the long narrow room, illuminating the fifty or
so kneeling figures all dressed identically to the monk next to him, their backs turned, facing the end of the room.

All attention from the kneeling monks was focused at the end of the hall, where superimposed over a life-size wooden cross was ... THE SPEAR

Mine, it's back again, am I forever to be haunted by not only the Jew but that damned thing, too?

One kneeling figure at the front detached itself from the line of worship
pers, rose and walked down the aisle to face him. The face was hidden in the shadows, but there was a familiarity to the walk, the body language of the approaching monk.

A hand raised itself, and moved the hood back to show the face. Round plain features with steel-rimmed glasses. Heinrich Himmler,
Reichführer
SS, spoke to his guest. "Welcome, Longinus, welcome to the Brotherhood of the Lamb. It has been a long time since you were our guest. But as you see, we survived as you do, and whither thou goest so go we."

Taking Casca by the arm, he led him from the chamber through a side door and down a narrow hall to his personal chambers. Once inside he removed the cassock; underneath was the more familiar black uniform of the SS.... Motioning for Casca to sit, Himmler sat himself opposite him behind a plain wooden desk. The room was bereft of any ornamentation other than a single picture of Adolf Hitler sitting on Himmler's desk in a plain silver frame. Speaking softly, the head of the SS adjusted his glasses with a fingertip. "Well, now, Casca Rufio Longinus, I regret that we here at the Haven must be deprived of your company without first having a proper opportunity to show some old-fashioned hospitality."

Casca spoke for the first time. "What do you mean, in the weeks remaining?"

"The war is lost, and we have many things yet to do. Those brothers you saw in the chapel are the last of our order in Germany to be sent to other countries. This experiment is at an end and it has been for our purposes reasonably successful."

Noting the consternation on his guest's face, he continued. "Perhaps I should enlighten you a little on the matter. It won't make any difference if you know. It was the Brotherhood who brought Hitler to power, to serve our purposes, which were and are the destruction of the Jews, who next to you we detest above all things on this earth." A pious tone came into his voice. "You killed our Lord Jesus, but it was the Jews who made it possible; you were merely a tool. For that crime the Jews must be erased. That was the purpose of the final-solution program and it worked quite well for the short time we were in operation. Somewhere between five and six million of them have been eliminated; that accounts for about twenty-five percent of the total world Jewish population." He touched his fingertips together under his chin. "Not a bad start, would you say?"

Casca said nothing, merely stared in shock. For a soldier to kill was one thing, but the way this mild looking man spoke of the deaths of millions who never had a chance to even defend themselves or fight back, was a horror his mind couldn't grasp.

Pleased at the effect he was having the
Reichführer
continued. "Adolf Hitler was merely a member of the second circle of the Brotherhood and until forty-three we had him well under control.

"But then he began to think he was the real force and genius behind all that had taken place, and as you know, once he began to exercise his own judgment on military and political matters, the scene rapidly deteriorated. I must confess we were a little careless in letting him get so much personal control of things, but that's history or soon will be. And even now we must occasionally give in to his whims, at least, as I said, for the next few weeks. By then the war will be over and Hitler will be dead. So it is necessary to send you to Berlin. He wishes to see you.

"But have no fear, we will meet again. It may even be possible that I may be able to salvage something out of the defeat and take control of Germany again. I shall remain in the country to the end to see if that's possible. If it is not, then I too shall die. But the Brotherhood will not. We are in every country in the world preparing for the next round. Like you we have time on our side. What matters a few centuries so long as the desire is achieved?"

Casca cleared his throat, face grim. "And what is that?"

Himmler rose from behind his desk and touched one of a series of buttons on the corner...

"Why, to establish a state church of the world which we will control.
That's why it is necessary to break down all existing structures. Britain is finished as a world power. Her foreign empire will not long survive the death of Germany. The Catholic Church is in a state of complete ineffectiveness and that will continue until it will be something people will pay no more than lip service to. And the Jews ..." For the first time venom accented his words. "We are not finished with them either. Anywhere you find anti-Semitism you find us close by, whether it is the Ku Klux Klan in America or the Spanish Inquisition, we will destroy them. Even now plans are being made for the use of other groups and races to aid us in the great work, and they like you will be only tools, never knowing they are merely puppets and dancing to the tugging of their strings by the Brotherhood."

His dialogue was interrupted by a short rap on the door. Himmler gave permission to enter, and the door opened.
Zeitsler stood in the entrance with two guards behind him. "It's time to go, Elder, your plane's waiting."

Himmler sighed, and remarked, "No rest for the weary. You will remain here until I send for you. General
Zeitsler, he will be your direct responsibility. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Longinus."

The two guards stepped forward, tough, cold-looking men. One on each side, they left the
Reichführer's
office. Turning he took one quick look at the man who had thrown the world into turmoil. He had returned to his desk sitting there. Mild mannered, unobtrusive, someone you would never look twice at, on the street. Wiping the lenses of his glasses gently with a clean white handkerchief, murmuring softly to himself.

The closing of the door shut him out.

The guards escorted him back through the maze of corridors and halls downstairs, deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Guards were everywhere. There was none of the normal slack discipline that usually occurs when one has been out of action at a safe job for too long. These men were not bored, they were deadly in their intensity and devotion to duty.

He was shown into a room without windows, large enough that he wouldn't bump into himself, but that was about all there was except for a comfortable-looking single bed, a night stand, and a small table with a marble top that he presumed was what he would eat on.