The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (14 page)

‘Just because I am an actor doesn’t preclude me from working as a policeman,’ Davenport retorted.

‘Are you a policeman?’ Sarah asked.

‘Actually, no.’

‘Yet you’re holding us here at gunpoint.’

He seemed outraged. ‘I’m doing no such thing. I invited you to join me at my club, you’re welcome to leave at any time.’

‘But…’ Guy looked again at Davenport’s jacket, his right hand thrust into the pocket.

Davenport pulled his hand out. He was holding a fountain pen. ‘In case of autograph hunters. Although I suspect you’re not after my autograph?’ He raised a hopeful eyebrow.

‘Hardly,’ Sarah said.

‘Pity.’

‘You said you were pointing a gun at us,’ Guy said. The
anger was winning out now, helped by Davenport’s unflappable good humour.

‘I beg your pardon, but I said nothing of the sort. It was
you
that mentioned a gun.’ Davenport opened his hands in apology. ‘I might have said that I could shoot the two of you in less than a second, and I stand by that boast. As a hypothetical statement. Obviously I have no intention of shooting anyone just at present.’

‘Then we’re free to go.’

‘Of course.’

Guy stood up, Sarah mirroring him a moment later.

‘Although,’ Davenport said affably, ‘my offer of dinner was quite genuine and the casserole does sound rather tempting, wouldn’t you say? So here’s the deal…’

Guy hesitated. ‘Go on.’

‘Let’s adjourn for dinner, and I will tell you
my
story. I can promise you, even compared with your own, it’s quite a tale.’

THE CASSEROLE WAS
hot and watery, thin strips of meat eked out with Oxo and carrots. It was better than Davenport had expected, and his guests were positively enthusiastic, despite the circumstances.

Davenport waited until the food had thawed their attitudes a little before he launched into his narrative. He was vague about how he had come to be in France but spared no detail of his courting Streicher and wheedling his way onto the expedition.

‘Streicher’s group seem to be associated with the Ahnenerbe,’ he explained.

‘The what?’ Sarah Diamond asked.

Davenport scooped up the last of the stew before setting down the spoon and dabbing at his lips with his napkin. ‘It’s a group within the SS that is responsible for finding evidence that pureblood Germans are the descendants of Nordic gods.’

‘You’re joking,’ Guy said.

‘Simplifying a little, but no, I’m not joking,’ Davenport told him. ‘It’s all to do with establishing the credentials of the Aryan master race. But actually, Streicher’s group has a rather different remit. They are looking for something else entirely.’

‘Which is?’

‘Ancient knowledge that will help them win the war.’

The other two lapsed into silence as Davenport described
the archaeological dig in France. He was a good storyteller, though he was careful not to embellish the facts. He described the excavations, breaking into the central chamber and dragging Streicher away to safety. He didn’t go into the details of how he got the man clear, and neglected to mention photographing his papers and possessions.

‘The mist – what was it? Some sort of gas?’ Sarah asked.

‘I don’t know. But it was lethal, whatever it was. I was lucky to get Streicher out.’

‘And then you legged it while he was unconscious?’ Pentecross asked.

‘That would probably have been the sensible thing to do,’ Davenport admitted. ‘But no. I thought that since I had saved his life, the Standartenfuhrer might be grateful. Oh, I didn’t imagine it would make him any less likely to have me shot when his mission was completed. But I reckoned it might just make him a little more, what shall we say – loquacious?’

‘Meaning?’ Sarah asked.

‘Meaning I took him down to the village and plied him with local wine and cognac for the evening in the hope he’d open up a bit. I thought that even Streicher might feel a little guilty knowing he was going to have to kill his saviour, and that might loosen his tongue. You’ll tell a dead man things you’d never dream of mentioning to anyone who might live to repeat it.’ He paused to take a sip of water. ‘I assume.’

‘And were you right in your assumption?’ Guy asked. ‘Did he tell you what they were really after?’

‘Yes and no. He wasn’t as explicit as I’d hoped, but he was certainly forthcoming. I told him I could tell he was a veteran of these sorts of excavations, that he was no ordinary soldier. Rather than appeal to a better nature I doubt he possesses, I majored on his vanity instead.’

Sarah nodded. ‘Often the best approach.’

Davenport stifled a smile. ‘Thank you. It certainly worked for Streicher. He was rather in his cups by the time we were finished, so how much of what he said was due to the drink, how much was him trying to impress me, I don’t know. But
he told me he’d been all over the world for Himmler in the past ten years. He mentioned Finland and Sweden, a few other places – even Antarctica, though he clammed up about that straight away. But there were two expeditions he did describe in a little more detail. To say that I was intrigued is an understatement…’

‘And are you about to intrigue us too?’ Guy asked.

Davenport leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let me tell you about his expedition to Tibet, back in 1934…’

… The only paths were worn by goats, and the clouds hung low over the snow-covered peaks like smoke.

‘Can we trust him?’ Hauptsturmfuhrer Klaas asked, nodding at the Tibetan guide as they paused for a short break.

Streicher shrugged. ‘There’s no one else.’ None of the other villagers had even spoken to them. They had all seen the looks of contempt the villagers gave the old man when he led them away. But with the promise of the Nazis’ gold he need never return.

Perhaps sensing they were talking about him, the guide smiled across at Streicher. His face was rough and lined like old stone. What teeth he had left were blackened stumps. He said something in his incomprehensible language, and Tormann translated:

‘He says it is not far now. The entrance is just a small hole, barely wide enough for a man to enter. We’ll be there soon.’

‘He’s told us that before,’ Klaas muttered.

This time he was right. Another hour and they were trudging through shallow snow. The air was thin and it was getting harder to breathe. The hole was a narrow opening in the side of the mountain, partly hidden behind a rock fall. Snow had blown into it, and the guide knelt down to scoop it out with his gnarled hands, gesturing for Streicher and his men to help.

‘He might fit through there, but we won’t. Not with all our kit,’ Klaas pointed out.

‘We don’t need to,’ Streicher told him, shielding his eyes
from the sun with his hand. He was looking up at the rock formation above the opening.

‘You think we can dig in from above?’

‘Not dig, no.’

The guide was chattering away rapidly to Tormann, who held up his hands to stop him. The man seemed agitated, pointing to the opening in the rock, and then to the men in the expedition.

‘He says this is as far as he goes,’ Tormann said. ‘He wants his gold now. He’ll stay and lead us back if we want, but he’s not going in there.’

‘Why not? Is he scared of the dark?’ Klaas laughed, and some of the others joined in.

‘No, he says it’s… I guess “bad magic” is the closest I can get.’

‘Magic?’ Streicher said. ‘It’s supposed to be a burial chamber, not a conjuring show. Does he mean ghosts?’

‘I don’t know what he means. But he says the reason it’s still here, still intact, is because no one goes inside. No one at all.’

Tormann turned back to the guide, who was talking excitedly again, fast as a machine gun.

‘Anyone who does go inside,’ Tormann said, ‘never comes out again. To enter the tomb is to die, or so he says.’

Streicher nodded. ‘Well you can reassure him that we aren’t going in there.’

The guide listened, forehead creasing in puzzlement before he gabbled his reply.

‘He wants to know why we came here. How will we get the treasure if we don’t go inside?’

‘Tell him he’ll find out in a few minutes.’ Streicher turned to Klaas. ‘Get Schmidt and Huber to dig shallow holes along that ridge.’ He pointed up to the area above the opening to the tomb. ‘Work out how much explosive we need to put in them. We’re not going through the front door of this place. We’re going to blow our way in.’

Once he realised what Streicher’s men were doing, the
guide became even more agitated. He grabbed Tormann’s arm, jabbering away rapidly, hardly letting Tormann reply.

‘What’s he saying?’ Streicher demanded.

Tormann tried to shake the little man off, but the Tibetan clung to him, still talking. What had started as anger now seemed like pleading. The man was scared.

‘He says we’ll bring down the wrath of the gods,’ Tormann said. He had to speak loudly over the guide’s guttural barrage. ‘We’ll wake the… I don’t know – it’s like the great man. Some tribal king. We’ll desecrate his tomb.’

‘Fine, we’ll desecrate his tomb,’ Streicher snapped. ‘If the guy wants his cut of the treasure, tell him he can shut up and let us get at it. If not, then shoot him and be done with it.’

The guide finally lapsed into silence, encouraged by the fact Tormann had drawn his Luger and jabbed it into the man’s ribs. He sat on a rocky outcrop, watching as Streicher’s men finished laying the explosives. He’d shown no sign that he was even aware it was cold on the journey up from the village. Now he was shivering and pale. The Tibetan continued to mutter under his breath, shaking his head. Perhaps he was praying.

Schmidt and Huber finished their work, hurrying back down the mountain, unrolling a thin cable behind them. They all took shelter behind the outcrop where the Tibetan was sitting. Huber took a small detonator from his pack and connected the cable. He had to take his gloves off to tighten the screws holding the stripped wire, blowing on his hands to stop them freezing.

‘Better get your friend down from there,’ Klaas said.

‘He’s not my friend.’ But Tormann patted the Tibetan’s shoulder and spoke to him. The man didn’t move, gave no sign he had even heard. So Tormann dragged him back over the rock and down to join them behind it.

‘When you’re ready, Sturmann Huber,’ Streicher said.

Huber nodded. He counted down from three, then twisted the switch on the detonator.

The sound of the blast echoed round the mountain. Debris
ricocheted off the rocks above the soldiers. Streicher barely waited for the sound to die away before he stood up to see what had happened. A deep hole had been scooped out of the side of the mountain, cratering the snow, and leaving a dark opening. He caught a glimpse of stone walls leading back into the darkness.

At first he thought it was snow, thrown up by the detonation. A mist drifting across the opening torn in the landscape. But then he realised the mist was coming from inside the mountain. Like smoke, wafting out – thinning in the air, slowly dissipating.

‘What was that?’ Klaas asked. ‘Did you see it? It looked like fog.’

The Tibetan was standing staring up at the ruptured ground. He was no longer shivering, but his pale eyes were wide. He said something, then slumped down to sit despondently at the base of the rocks.

‘What was it?’ Streicher asked.

‘He says you have disturbed the spirit of the mountain,’ Tormann said. ‘Its soul is awake and angry.’

‘Nonsense,’ Streicher said. He saw that the guide was looking up at him. ‘It was just… snow,’ Streicher told him. ‘Or low cloud.’

Tormann translated the Tibetan’s mumbled reply.

‘Once you let the genii out of his prison, you can never get him back inside.’

Streicher shivered. He looked again at the hole in the side of the mountain. There was no sign now of the smoke or mist or whatever it had been. It was just superstition he told himself. But if they had just released a genii, they’d done it by breaking the bottle.

‘That was in the winter of 1934,’ Davenport said.

They’d all finished eating. Sarah and Guy were enthralled by Davenport’s retelling of Streicher’s story.

‘They had uncovered a chamber, rather like the one we found in France. That’s why Streicher was happy to talk
about it, I suppose. He didn’t tell me what they found inside, but whatever it was they shipped it back to Germany for analysis.’

‘Forgive me,’ Guy said. ‘This is fascinating, but how is it relevant?’

‘Yes,’ Sarah agreed. ‘What’s it got to do with Colonel Brinkman and whatever he’s up to? You’re not suggesting he’s working for the Nazis?’

‘Heavens no. Perish the thought.’ Davenport smiled. ‘But the connection will become clear, I promise you.’

‘You mentioned two expeditions that Streicher described,’ Guy reminded Davenport.

‘I did. Though he was a bit vague about the second.’

‘Sounds like he was a bit vague about the first,’ Sarah said.

‘Indeed. I confess, I’m not sure about the relevance of the other expedition. Or rather, excavation because it was in Germany. Near Freiburg, wherever that is.’

‘It’s in the Black Forest, I think,’ Guy told him.

‘Ah, then perhaps I do see the relevance. Or begin to.’

‘Yes?’ Sarah prompted.

‘The fruits of the 1934 expedition were shipped to a castle at Beetlesborg,’ Davenport said. ‘And that is also in the Black Forest. It could be a coincidence, but…’

‘So tell us about this expedition or excavation,’ Guy said.

‘Don’t know much. As I said, Streicher was rather vague, and by that stage rather drunk. But he did tell me that some time in 1936 he and his team were sent to a part of the forest near Freiburg, to assist with an aircraft crash.’

‘You mean to find out what caused it?’ Guy asked.

‘No, Streicher has no expertise in that sort of thing. From what he said, they were told to treat the area round the crash like an archaeological site, and excavate the remains of the plane. They didn’t want to know what caused the crash – perhaps they knew that already. But they were keen to discover everything they could about the aircraft itself, and what was inside it.’

Sarah leaned forward. ‘And what
was
inside it?’