At Sword's Point (13 page)

The giant Ferris wheel in the Volksprater belongs as much to the Vienna skyline as the Eiffel Tower does to that of Paris. Looking up at it as the taxi crawled along in the snarl of city traffic, Drummond remembered the first time he had seen the famous Viennese landmark.

It was in the movie,
The Third Man
, and Harry Lame was involved with black-market morphine—something in short supply in postwar Vienna. There was a grittiness to the film, and to Orson Welles' performance as the amoral Mr. Lime. It was amazing, Drummond mused, how much and yet how little Vienna had changed in the forty-odd years since the picture was made.

The grime of postwar Vienna was gone, and in its place was a bright, vibrant city. But somehow, just as the Ferris wheel remained, Drummond knew that there was a part of Vienna that was still the city of Harry Lime. The grittiness was still there, despite a fresh coat of paint.

Drummond's taxi driver delivered him to the very entrance of the Volksprater, ignoring a forest of traffic signs. Amazed at the aplomb of his driver, Drummond decided that if it hadn't been for the thick concrete posts that prevented the car from entering the amusement park, Hans would have driven to the very base of the Ferris wheel. A glance at his watch told him that he was ten minutes early for his meeting with Eberle.

Drummond climbed out of the taxi. "
Danke
," he said to the driver.

"You're welcome, sir," Hans said. "Would you care for me to wait?"

"Ah, no, thank you," Drummond said, somewhat taken aback by the driver's command of English. "I'll find my own way back to the hotel."

"Very good, sir. If you would be so kind as to sign this," he handed Drummond a receipt book, "I'll see to it that the charges are put on your hotel bill."

Drummond signed the receipt and handed the book back to the driver. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Have a nice day, sir." He rolled up the window and pulled out into traffic, leaving Drummond standing in front of the entrance to the Volksprater with a slightly bemused look.

Turning around, Drummond headed into the amusement park and worked his way over toward the giant Ferris wheel. To his surprise, Eberle was already there and waved as Drummond approached.

"John, you're early."

"And you're earlier," Drummond replied. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Not really. Maybe ten minutes. Else rang my office in the nick of time. Another few minutes and I would have been roped into a meeting with some visiting VIP's from Japan." Eberle grinned. "I'll take
lingos
over sushi any day."

"What are
lingos
?" Drummond asked, although he gathered from Eberle's smirk that it was food of some kind.

"It's a Hungarian snack—a piece of pastry with garlic and paprika. Sort of like a pizza, but without the cheese and anchovies." Eberle laughed. "C'mon, we'll split one on our way to lunch."

Although the deep-fried
lingos
looked like a chunk of pizza, all resemblance ended the moment Drummond bit into the puffy, garlic-flavored pastry.

"Hey, this is really good," he said between mouthfuls.

"Yeah," Eberle replied. "I thought you'd like it."

Moving through the sparse crowd, Eberle guided them toward a small outdoor cafe.

"I hope you like venison," he said, as they sat down at a rustic table. "And potatoes. That's all they do here."

Drummond grinned. "I love barbequed Bambi."

"Great," Eberle said, signaling to the waitress for two beers. "In that case, you're in for a treat."

The waitress set down two large gray steins with domed pewter lids.

"
Prost
," Eberle said, thumbing back the lid of his and raising it in salute.

Drummond clunked his stein against Eberle's and repeated, "
Prost
."

The beer was dark and thick and had a slightly sweet flavor. Drummond couldn't tell if he liked it or not, and decided, as he licked the foam from the corners of his mouth, that it was probably a subtly acquired taste.

"After you went home last night, I did some thinking," Eberle said, when he had given the waitress their order. "And there was something I didn't tell you about the killings that happened in the forest last week I think you ought to know."

Drummond paused with his stein halfway to his mouth. "What's that?"

"At the crime scene we found several bare footprints." Eberle took another swallow of beer. "None of them matched either victim, so we figured that the killers must have left them."

"Go on," Drummond said, setting down his stein.

"Remember when I asked you if you thought Kluge could be heading up a cult of some kind?" Eberle asked.

"Yes."

"Well, suppose their initiation involved killing these people and—" Eberle looked around to make certain no one was listening"—and drinking their blood? That would fit in with your vampire theory, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose it would, if it was just an initiation," Drummond said. "But suppose for a minute that they really are vampires. What then?" He regarded Eberle over the rim of his stein for just a moment. "In that case, I'd say they were out hunting."

Eberle paled slightly. "What makes you suggest hunting?"

"Because I think they were out looking for a ritual victim and just happened to find the campers," Drummond said. "Was there any sign of a struggle at the scene?"

"No," Eberle said. "None at all."

"So we can suppose that the killers surprised the man and decapitated him before he could make a sound to warn the girl." Drummond took a sip from his stein. Then, they dragged the girl out of the tent—"

Through the tent," Eberle interrupted. "They sliced the tent open and pulled her out."

"And before she could resist, they killed her," Drummond said.

"And then," Eberle's voice had become a hoarse whisper, "when they had finished, they blew hunting horns in the night."

"What are you talking about?" Drummond asked.

"At the campground, near the crime scene, people complained about hearing hunting horns sounding in the woods at midnight." A slight glow of perspiration shown on Eberle's forehead. The forester thought it might have been poachers hunting by night…"

"Not poachers. Vampires," Drummond said. "It was Kluge and his vampires who killed the campers."

"Kluge?" Eberle asked.

"Wilhelm Kluge," Drummond replied. "SS Sturmbannführer Kluge. The same man Hans Stucke reported to the police here in Vienna before he was murdered."

Eberle did not answer until the waitress had set down two steaming plates of venison and withdrawn.

"Come on, John. It couldn't be Kluge," Eberle said, picking up his fork. "Kluge would be an old, old man if he were alive today."

"Markus, the killer not only could be Kluge, I'm convinced he is Kluge. And," Drummond said, "Kluge isn't alone. He's building up some sort of Nazi vampire army. I don't know why, but whatever his reason, he has to be stopped."

They ate in silence for several minutes before Eberle spoke.

"John, I wish I could believe you, but frankly I can't. I'm one of those hardheaded pragmatists who only believes what he sees." Eberle avoided looking at Drummond while he spoke. "You show me a vampire, then I'll believe. Until then—well, let's just say that I'm after the leader of the cult that killed those campers, huh? And leave it at that."

Drummond thought for nearly a minute while he finished his venison.

"Suppose I introduce you to some vampires?" he finally asked.

"Sure," Eberle said in an offhanded manner. "Why not?"

"Can you get a few days off work?"

"Are you serious?" Eberle said.

"Deadly serious, Markus. Can you get away for a few days?" Drummond asked again.

"Maybe next week," Eberle said. "Why?"

"Like I said, I want you to meet some vampires." The waitress arrived with the bill, and Drummond paid it with a few notes pulled from a wad of Austrian schillings.

"How long would it take you to get to Luxembourg from here?"

"Flying? About two hours. Driving? About ten." Eberle grinned. "Wouldn't it be faster to go to Transylvania?"

Drummond laughed despite himself. "I'm serious, Markus. When could you meet me in Luxembourg?"

"Let me see," Eberle said, pulling out his diary. "I suppose I could drive up in the Corvette next Wednesday and come back on Saturday." He looked up at Drummond. "How's that sound?"

"Fine. I'll call you on Tuesday and tell you where to meet me." Drummond pushed himself away from the table. "'Scuse me, but I gotta pee."

"Me, too," Eberle said, standing up. The drains are out back."

The green-and-white tiled men's room was immaculate, and it wasn't until Drummond finished washing his hands that he noticed there were no towels. Seeing Drummond's predicament, Eberle laughed.

"Another lesson in Austrian custom," he said. "When there is no attendant at the door, there aren't any towels to be had."

"Great. No towels," Drummond said. After shaking as much of the water off his hands as possible, he put them in his pockets, hoping that would blot off any remaining moisture. "Remind me to add towels to my shopping list."

Laughing, the two men walked back toward the entrance of the park.

"Tell me," Drummond said, as they neared the gates, "where can I go to do some shopping?"

"That depends on what you need," Eberle said. "Most of the good men's shops are on the Karntnerstrasse, or over in the Kohlmarkt."

"No, what I need are outdoor clothes. Hiking boots, parkas, that sort of thing," Drummond said.

"Well, then," Eberle said. "I know just the place. I'll drop you there on my way back to the office."

Drummond had to admit it. Eduard Kettner's was possibly the most interesting store he had ever been to in his adult life. Everything from Swiss Army knives to elephant guns were on sale, along with more outdoor clothing and camping gear than L. L. Bean could sell in a century. All thoughts of "minimalist" survival tools went out the window as he wandered through the massive hunter's emporium.

So far, Drummond's escape from the Mossad had gone smoothly. He still didn't know what had changed their minds about him, between letting him go and trying to kill him, but it was only a matter of time until they learned that they had shot the wrong man back in Los Angeles and sent another team out after him. He was reasonably safe as long as he kept moving, but he had already taken a bit of a chance by returning to the Palais Schwarzenberg, where they knew he had stayed before. There was only one place where he knew for certain that he'd be safe until Agent Raymunds could call off the Israelis, and that was back in Luxembourg with Father Freise and the knights of the Order of the Sword.

The knights' castle presented other problems. Living in a medieval castle had always sounded romantic to Drummond, but having spent the better part of ten days at Schloss Marbourg, he knew that it was lacking in certain basic amenities. He also knew that his stay could last for several weeks, perhaps even months, and that if it did, the clothes he had brought from sunny California would be woefully inadequate in the cold of a European winter.

Carefully Drummond browsed through the store, mentally ticking off all of the things he was going to need for a prolonged stay at the castle. Finally, after mentally considering and discarding several hundred different items, he approached two clerks at the cash desk.

"Excuse me," he said in his most American accent. "Is there anyone here who speaks English?"

The clerks answered with blank stares. "
Nein
," one of them finally answered. "
Aber, stehen Sie hier, bitte
."

Drummond got the gist of what was said, and the clerk's gesture made it clear that he was to wait.

The clerk spoke again to his companion, then with a slight bow to Drummond left the cash desk. A few minutes later he was back, accompanied by a middle-aged man in velour knickerbockers and shocking blue socks, who was followed at a respectful distance by a pale youth with a sunken chest.

A rapid exchange took place between the clerk and the man in the knickerbockers, and when they had finished talking, the pale young man with the sunken chest bowed to Drummond.

"
Exzellenz
," he began, "you I am to help, my director says." The young man's expression was as serious as a tax inspector's. "Please to show me, uh, what you want to buy."

Drummond shot a curt bow to the man in the knickerbockers. "
Danke schön, Herr Director
," he said.

"
Bitte schön, Exzellenz
," the director replied, returning Drummond's bow.

As they headed down the aisle, Drummond turned to his interpreter. "So, what is your name?" he asked.

"Paul,
Exzellenz
," he replied.

"Well, Paul, my friend, let's start with a knapsack." Drummond stopped in front of a display of every conceivable kind of backpack, and after a brief inspection of the available selection, picked out a knapsack made of black kevlar.

"Put this on," he said, handing the knapsack to Paul.

Nodding gravely, Paul slipped into the straps on the lightweight backpack and settled it on his back.

"Good," Drummond said. "Now for some socks."

Stopping in front of a rack of thick wool hiking socks, Drummond stuffed a dozen pairs into the backpack, then led Paul over to a long rack of shirts. The German hunting shirts were a uniform gray-green color, and all of them abounded with pockets in various configurations. Drummond found a shirt that had pockets on both arms, patch pockets on the chest, and an additional pair of zippered pockets above the patches. With typical Teutonic efficiency, the size was given in both metric and standard European measurement. Drummond quickly pulled six of them from the rack and handed then over to Paul.

"These ought to be fine," he said. "Now, how about some trousers?"

Dutifully following in Drummond's wake, Paul managed to balance an ever-increasing mountain of clothing as Drummond gathered everything he thought he would need for a prolonged siege at the castle. Finally, having stuffed a pair of fleece-lined boots into the knapsack along with a pair of sturdy field shoes, Drummond asked Paul to leave the clothing items at the cash desk and show him the gun department.

It was on the second floor. It was very complete, with a variety of weapons besides firearms. Drummond looked longingly at the Savage Model 69 pump-action shotgun, but careful inquiry of the helpful Paul confirmed that local laws would probably prohibit its purchase by a nonresident.

The crossbow was another matter.

Drummond shouldered the space-age version of the medieval weapon and, staring through the telescopic sight, drew a bead on a large toy tiger perched on top of a mound of pith helmets. It wasn't a Winchester, but in his position, Drummond considered it the next best thing. Setting the crossbow aside, he picked up one of the short bolts and examined its broad head.

This is the kind for boar,
Exzellenz
," Paul said.

"And this one?" Drummond asked, holding up a bolt whose head was covered with a series of vicious looking barbs.

"For fish," Paul began. The line you tie to here." He showed Drummond a small loop on one side of the bolt head. "The shaft of the bolt comes out of the head when the fish begins to struggle, and you then reel it in."

"This seems a little large for fish," Drummond said, closely examining the inch-long head.

"Depends on how big is the fish," Paul replied, with the first flash of humor he had yet displayed. "We have bigger, too." He reached behind the counter and brought up a bolt with a two-inch head, each of its three razor-sharp vanes barbed on the end, and handed it to Drummond. This is for shark."

Drummond inspected the shark bolt. "How many of these do you have?" he asked.

Paul bobbed down behind the counter. "Only four,
Exzellenz
," he replied.

"Okay, I'll take them. And give me four spools of five-hundred-pound shark-line to go with them." Drummond handed the shark bolt back to Paul. "I'll also want fifty of the boar-hunting bolts."

"Most certainly,
Exzellenz
." Paul vanished into the back room to get Drummond's bolts, leaving him to examine a display case full of knives.

Drummond's father had taught him that the handiest tool a man could have in the wilderness was a good pocket knife. "The only time you'll need it," he had advised his young son, "is when you don't have it."

A Gerber survival knife in the display case attracted Drummond's attention, and he made a mental note to add that and a Swiss Army knife to his growing pile of supplies.

Paul returned with the crossbow bolts neatly packaged and set them on the counter beside the crossbow.

"Will there be anything else,
Exzellenz
?" he asked.

"I want a couple of knives." Drummond pointed through the glass top of the counter, underneath the crossbow. "The survival knife, and that six-bladed Swiss Army knife."

Paul retrieved them from the display case, setting them carefully next to the crossbow bolts.

"And," Drummond continued, "I need a special knife as a gift. Perhaps you could suggest something?"

"Certainly," Paul said. "They are down here, at the other end of the display case."

Drummond followed Paul to the far end of the glass-topped counter, where more than a dozen knives were displayed in two oak trays, richly lined with dark green velvet.

"These knifes are hand made," Paul said, as he lifted the two trays out of the case so Drummond could inspect the knives. "They are simply
die beste
."

"Which one would you recommend?" Drummond asked.

"A skinning knife is the most useful," Paul said, wanning to his subject as he picked up a small knife with gold mounts and a stag horn handle. This has a Damascus blade." He drew the knife from its sheath so Drummond could see the swirls and ridges forged into the blade by a master smith. "Any huntsman would be proud to own such a knife."

It was obvious that Paul would have been delighted to own the knife himself. A glance at the price tag, however, told Drummond that it was far beyond the financial realities of a stock clerk at Kettner's, even one who spoke English. "All right, I'll take it," Drummond said. "Now, how about that large knife with the ivory handle?"

This is probably the finest knife in Europe," Paul said as he carefully lifted the dagger from the display tray. "It is a copy of a fifteenth-century Swiss dagger that was made by Paul Muller just before he died." He handed the weapon to Drummond. "See how exactly the curve of the pommel and the cross guard match? Can you feel how the swell in the grip fills your hand when you hold the knife?"

Drummond nodded.

"Now, take the dagger out of its scabbard and look at its blade," Paul said.

The finely wrought gold filigree covering the dark blue Moroccan leather scabbard depicted Parzival reaching for the Holy Grail. As Drummond slowly withdrew the broad, spear-pointed blade from the scabbard, rich gold letters danced above the soft silver-gray Damascus waves that Paul Muller had hammered into soft iron years before.

"The blade is made from the iron of a meteorite," Paul said. "In the Middle Ages, such blades were thought to come from heaven."

"What does the inscription say?" Drummond asked.

"It is old German," Paul said. "It means A True Knight."

Drummond returned the dagger to its sheath. "I'll take them both," he said. "You can prepare my bill."

They carried the crossbow and bolts and knives back downstairs to the cash desk, where Paul had left the clothing, camping gear, and other paraphernalia Drummond had selected. Paul ran the light pen across the bar-coded tags attached to the merchandise, his eyebrows going up a notch when he saw the total.

"That will be seventy-three thousand schillings,
Exzellenz
," Paul said, watching as Drummond wrote out the check without batting an eye and handed it to him with his check guarantee card. Thank you very much,
Exzellenz
."

As Paul dutifully copied the numbers from the card onto the back of the check, Drummond asked, "Do you think you could have these things delivered to my hotel?"

"Certainly,
Exzellenz
," the young man said with a stiff little bow. "You are staying at the Imperial, perhaps?"

"No. Palais Schwarzenberg."

The young man's eyebrows went up another notch, and even greater deference crept into his shaky English.

"I shall myself bring your items to the Palais,
Exzellenz
," he said, giving Drummond another bow, this one bringing his head perilously close to the corner of an ornate brass cash register.

Drummond thanked him, then left the store before the young man could seriously injure himself with another bow. Outside, he hailed a taxi and with a minimum of difficulty made the scruffy-looking driver understand that he wanted to go back to the Palais Schwarzenberg.

The taxi reeked of garlic and stale tobacco, and from the pitching back seat Drummond watched in some amazement as his chauffeur hauled away at the wheel, pushing the arthritic Audi through the afternoon traffic. Finally, to a never-ending chorus of muttered curses, they hove to in front of Drummond's hotel.

It was obvious by the pained expression on the doorman's face that the "boulevard express" delivering Drummond back to his lodgings was not a welcome sight on the hotel forecourt. Discreetly removing one of his white gloves, the doorman approached the taxi and, with a fair amount of effort, managed to pry open Drummond's door.

"
Fuerhunnert schilling
," the driver demanded, as Drummond stepped from the taxi. Before he could reach for his wallet, the doorman intervened.

"Has the
Kapitän
come from the airport?" he asked Drummond.

"No," Drummond replied. "I've just come from Kettner's on the Sielergasse. Why?"

Without answering, the doorman turned to the taxi and, bending down, spoke softly to the driver in German, none of which Drummond caught except the tone and the word
Polizei
at the end. The driver stared back in tight-lipped silence.

"There was some confusion over the fare, Herr Kapitän," the doorman said apologetically. "I have explained what will happen if he ever tries to rob one of our guests again. The cost of the ride is forty schillings."

Restraining a smile, Drummond paid the driver, who drove off in a spray of gravel.

"Thank you," Drummond said to the doorman, handing him a one-hundred schilling note. "Four dollars a minute is a little high, even for taxis in Los Angeles."

The doorman bowed as Drummond entered the hotel.

"Thank you, Herr Kapitän."

Drummond headed for the desk and asked if there were any messages for him.

"No messages, Kapitän, but this package arrived by bank messenger at about two o'clock." The desk clerk handed Drummond a sealed envelope.

"Thank you," Drummond said. "I'm expecting the delivery of some more packages later this afternoon. Could you see that they're put in my suite when they arrive?"

"Certainly, Kapitän. Will there be anything else?"

"No, just the key, thank you." As the clerk handed him his key, he turned and went up the stone stairs to his room.

He looked at his watch as he went inside and realized that it was nearly four o'clock, and he still had two important calls to make. Settling down at the desk in his sitting room, he pulled out his notepad and turned to the back page, where he had earlier written down several important phone numbers.

The first number rang repeatedly, and just as he was about to hang up, a woman's voice answered on the other end of the line.

"
Hotel im Schloss Dielstein
." The voice sounded somewhat hollow, and Drummond hoped that she spoke English.