Fall of Knight (9 page)

April 30, 1945

S
TURMHAUPTFUHRER (CAPTAIN) WILHELM
Wagner sprinted through the underground bunker, doing the best he could to ignore the explosions coming from the Allies inevitable, and infuriating, march upon the Reich Chancellery above them. There, in the center of Berlin, the forces of the Fuhrer were making their last stand. Wagner’s troops had been damned near wiped out by the advancing Soviet troops, and the captain would have far preferred to die with his men.

Instead fate had apparently spared him for something else entirely. He had pulled his men back to full retreat in the face of the Soviets, and Wagner himself had barely gotten out of there. His impulse was to go back and fight, but his orders had been very specific:
Fall back to the Chancellery and report to the Fuhrerbunker where Field Marshal von Greim will meet you.
The specifics of what he was supposed to do upon encountering von Greim had not been presented him. That was, of course, acceptable. His was not to question orders, but merely to follow them.

His uniform was filthy with the blood of his men along with the dirt and grime of the battlefield. Buildings had collapsed into rubble around him, and dust was everywhere, including having coated his lungs. Every so often he had to stop, lean against whatever he could find, and cough heavily and repeatedly in a desperate attempt to clear his breathing passages. He wondered if that alone was going to kill him.

Wagner had no idea how matters had come to such a pass. His belief in the Fuhrer’s vision for a Germany that could stand up tall and proud in the world, never to be pitied or conquered again, had never wavered. He had been absolutely certain that theirs was the Master Race. How in the world could it be that here, in the center of their own capital, they could be hunted, under attack, on their last legs.

There had to be a plan. That’s all there was to it. The Fuhrer had to have some sort of plan. Perhaps what he was planning to do was lure the Allies to some prearranged point in Berlin, then spring a trap on them. That would certainly be the sort of devious, brilliant planning for which the Fuhrer was noted. And perhaps…perhaps Wagner was to be a part of it. What a notion. What an honor!

Wagner had never met the Fuhrer; he’d merely seen him from a distance during occasional rallies. He wondered if the opportunity would be presented him now. He wondered what he would say.

The walls of the underground passage suddenly rocked from another blast overhead. Wagner staggered, catching himself before he fell over, and he snarled a curse at the oncoming Russian army…not that they could hear him, of course.

He arrived at a checkpoint in the tunnels and was amused to see a lieutenant sitting at a desk. He had papers neatly arrayed in front of him; amazingly they had not been tossed around by the shaking from overhead. Either that or he had managed to sort them back into order very quickly. He looked as if his presence there in the tunnels, illumination provided by a series of lanterns, was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up quizzically, and said, “Yes?”

“Heil Hitler,” said Wagner immediately, thrusting out his hand.

“Heil Hitler,” echoed the desk lieutenant, responding to the salute in a casual fashion. “How can I help you?”

“Sturmhauptfuhrer Wagner, reporting as ordered.”

“Ah. Yes.” He glanced at a particular paper on his desk, then reached down and picked up a field phone. He cranked it up for a moment, then lifted the receiver and announced that Captain Wagner had arrived. He nodded in response to whatever was being said on the other end, then replaced the phone and looked up impassively. “Walk down that way, turn right. You will be met.”

“By Field Marshal von Greim?”

“You will be met,” was all he said in response.

Wagner nodded, tossed off yet another salute, got the required response, then headed down the corridor as instructed. Once having turned the corner, he felt another coughing fit coming on. He leaned with his back against the corridor and proceeded to cough so violently that small spots of blood and—he thought—a piece of one of his lungs emerged from his mouth.

“Are you ill?” a rough voice asked from nearby.

Wagner began to respond, then he saw who was asking him. It was not von Greim. The man who approached him was cloaked in an aura of death, and wore that cloak proudly. His head was square, his forehead high, and his eyes narrowed into a perpetual squint of suspicion.

Captain Wagner immediately slammed the backs of his heels together and saluted. “Herr Bormann! They had…told me to expect Field Marshal von Greim…”

“He is indisposed,” said Martin Bormann, the right-hand man to the Fuhrer himself. “This particular duty has been given me by the Fuhrer himself. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Herr Bormann.”

“Follow me, then.”

As they headed down the corridor, Bormann spoke in a low, gravelly tone. “The Fuhrer selected me for this assignment as a little joke, you see. He knows the one point of opinion from which I diverge with him is on matters of Christianity. So, naturally, he puts me in charge of attending to this…”

“This what, Herr Bormann, if I may ask. And why me?”

“The Fuhrer likes your name.”

Wagner wasn’t quite certain he’d heard him correctly. “My
name,
Herr Bormann?”

Bormann nodded. “The Fuhrer was particularly influenced by the Wagner opera
Parsifal.
When a list of available officers for this particular duty was presented him, your name leapt out at him. It is a method of choice steeped more in superstition than logic, but our Fuhrer has his superstitions, and none can gainsay him on them,” he noted with a shrug.

“But…Wagner’s first name was Richard.”

“Actually, Wagner’s
middle
name was Richard. His first name was Wilhelm.”

“Oh,” said Captain Wilhelm Wagner, now understanding. Except…he didn’t quite. “With respect,” he said as they continued down a gradually darkening corridor, “I am still a bit confused. I mean…
Parsifal
? The opera about the legendary Grail Knight? Am I being put in charge of the Holy Grail?” He was unable to keep the amusement at the very notion out of his voice.

To his amazement, Bormann stopped, turned, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Something like that.”

Directly in front of them was a huge vault door. Nothing short of a Howitzer could have penetrated, and perhaps not even that. Bormann stepped in front of it and worked the series of combination locks upon it. There were three, and despite the continued sounds of explosions overhead, Bormann never once appeared hurried or concerned.

The last tumbler clicking into place, Bormann stepped back and pulled the door wide open. There was nothing but darkness within, at least insofar as Wagner could see. But Bormann reached in with confidence and withdrew a large black canister. It was buckled in several places along the side.

“You should at least see what it is you are being entrusted with,” said Bormann.

He knelt next to the canister and undid the fastenings. Then he carefully opened it, and Wagner found himself staring down at what appeared to be some sort of spear.

“I do not—?” He looked questioningly at Bormann.

“This,” said Bormann, “is the Spear of Destiny.” He looked up at Wagner, waiting for some sort of reaction. Wagner just stared at him and shrugged slightly. “The Spear of Destiny,” repeated Bormann. “The Holy Lance. The Spear of Longinus. Spear Luin, as the Irish call it. Does any of that mean anything to you?”

“Should it, Herr Bormann?” he asked politely.

Bormann chuckled slightly. It was an odd sound, coming from this man. “I suppose not necessarily. When one is with the Fuhrer as much as I, and hears about such relics as often as I have, one just tends to assume that everyone knows about them. The Spear of Destiny, Captain Wagner, is the Spear wielded by the Roman soldier Gaius Cassius Longinus…that was used to pierce the side of the body of Christ.”

“You mean…Christ on the cross?”

“Where else would he be?” Bormann asked sarcastically.

Wagner looked at the Spear with shocked reverence. The concept that he was beholding, with his own eyes, an artifact traceable to the savior himself…it was almost too much for him to contemplate.

“The Fuhrer,” Bormann continued, “has intense fascination with such objects. He has gathered as many as he can. He considers this Longinus Spear to be the crowning glory of his collection.”

“Does it…” Wagner wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Does it…possess any particular…you know…properties?”

“Properties?”

“It is said…” Self-consciously Wagner lowered his voice, even though there was no one around to hear it. “It is said that the Fuhrer seeks power through these…these items. And I was wondering…if I am not overstepping myself…?”

“What sort of power this Spear has?” He shrugged. “Frankly, Captain, the only power I know of that this Spear possesses is the power to convince others that it has true power. Other than that, aside from its value as an antique, it has nothing to recommend it other than the power generated by one’s belief in it. Since I have no such beliefs, it has no power over me. You are, naturally, invited to draw your own conclusions.”

“Am I correct in assuming, Herr Bormann, that you are not showing me this artifact simply because you thought I would be interested in its historic value.”

“A safe assumption, Captain.” Bormann proceeded to put the Spear back into its case. “You know of the Russians’ progress. There is every likelihood that they will make it down to here, the heart of the bunker. Should that occur, they would doubtless take whatever is in it…and that would include the Spear. The Fuhrer absolutely does not want possession of the Spear to leave the hands of the Reich.”

“I am sure he does not…”

“You don’t understand, Captain,” Bormann said, snapping closed the case. “He is convinced that to lose possession of the Spear is tantamount to a death sentence. At least, that is what the superstition dictates. Whosoever has the Spear, if they lose it or it is taken from them, is doomed. At least so the Fuhrer believes, and neither you nor I am in a position to convince him otherwise.” He stood and handed the case to Wagner. “You were born and raised in this section of Berlin, yes? You are familiar with it?”

“There is no back road, no alleyway, no path that is unknown to me, even with the city as devastated as it is,” said Wagner proudly.

“Good. Then it will be your job to avoid all invading troops, and take this to—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The voice that echoed through the corridor was completely new to them, and Wagner’s Luger was instantly in his hand.
“Who goes there!”
he shouted into the darkness.

For a moment, nothing stirred. And then, seemingly from the very shadows themselves, something or someone separated from them and presented itself. It was a man, or at least bore the general shape of one. He was cloaked and hooded, making it impossible to see any specifics of his face or build.

He was, however, clearly holding something. There was a spear in his right hand. Even in the darkness, Wagner could see that it was an exact duplicate of the Spear of Destiny.

“Lower your weapon immediately,” said the man in the darkness.

Wagner had no intention of doing so. There was only one reason that he had not discharged his weapon instantly, and that was because—in the interest of security—he wanted the answer to his next question. “How did you get down here?”

“I got down here because down here is where I desired to be. Now put your weapon down.”

“That is no answer!”

“It’s all the answer I intend to provide.”

“Shoot him!” shouted Bormann, thoroughly unnerved.

As far as Wagner was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. Taking deadly aim, his finger began to squeeze tightly on the trigger.

But when the gun fired, it jerked wide of its target. That was because a knife had come slicing through the air, thrown so quickly by the shadow man that Wagner had never even seen his hand move. All he knew was that one moment he was taking aim, and the next a knife had buried itself in his shoulder up to the hilt. Wagner cried out, staggering, and dropped his gun. He tried to reach up and pull the knife from its new sheath in his body, but before he could, the shadow man was right in front of him, and he delivered a fierce punch right to the knife handle. This caused such a shock wave of pain through his body that he collapsed, crying out and feeling weak and unmanned because of it.

“Here is what is going to happen,” said the shadow man. It was difficult to get a read on his voice. He was speaking perfectly accented German, but Wagner suspected it was not his native tongue. It was impossible to determine, though, just what his nationality might be. Then again, with blood welling up from the brutal wound in his shoulder, Wagner wasn’t exactly at his best at the moment. “You,” continued the shadow man, pointing at Bormann, “are going to switch the spear I am holding for that one. I will then depart, and you will leave the fake spear to be found right here in the bunker. I assure you, this replacement is so close that it will take them years to discover this one is a fraud, if they ever do.”

“And you will return the Spear of Destiny to us?” Bormann asked carefully, still not sure what he was dealing with.

“What? Oh…no. No, that won’t be happening. I will be taking it to its true…destiny, if you will. Or even if you won’t, as the case may be. Now step back from the case.”

Wagner tried to get to his feet, but the pain was overwhelming. Bormann backed up slowly. It was curious that the intruder had not told Bormann to keep his hands raised. It was as if he didn’t consider Bormann a threat and didn’t care what Bormann did.

The shadow man opened the case and withdrew the Spear of Destiny.

“That,” Bormann said coldly, “is the property of the Third Reich.”

“Believe me,” replied the shadow man, “the Third Reich’s losing the Spear is going to be the least of your problems. Unless, of course, you believe that losing the Spear is the final nail in the coffin of the Third Reich, but I leave that to others.”