Knights of the Blood (13 page)

“Look. All I need is one piece of information. No names, nothing important. Just one small bit of info that may tie all of this together.” Drummond released the other man’s hand. “And if it does, I’ll waltz it all in here and you can put it on FLASH.”

Morwood tossed his pencil on the desk. “Okay, what do you want?”

“The name and address of the blood bank in Vancouver. “

“Is that it? I mean, that’s all?” Morwood sounded slightly suspicious.

“That’s it. Swear to God.” Drummond gave Morwood what he hoped was a sincere look.

“Okay. I’ll have it for you tomorrow.” Morwood sounded relieved, if not totally convinced.

Drummond stood up. “Thanks, Sandy. I mean it.” Picking up his briefcase, he headed out the door and down to the parking lot below Parker Center.

When he got home, Drummond climbed into an old pair of jeans and a faded T—shirt before opening a
Dos Equis
and heading down to collect his mail. The pale ivory envelope stood aloof from the bills and junk mail that had piled up in Drummond’s mailbox over the last few days. Unlike the computergenerated labels that nowadays were stuck on all of the mailv this letter had been addressed by hand, in an elegant, cursive script that neatly floated between a pale green Austrian stamp and the golden coronet that occupied the upper—left corner of the envelope.

Back in his condo, Drummond slit open the envelope with a steak knife, careful, not to damage the stamp. The letter paper inside was as elegant as the envelope. The pale ivory paper was embossed with the sender’s crest and edged with gold. The aristocratic penmanship was as interesting as the message itself.

My dear Mr. Drummond,

I have been informed by a colleague in Switzerland of your interest in a certain august society, and am writing to you in that regard. If you would care to meet with me in Vienna to discuss this matter, I would be only too happy to assist you in obtaining the interview that you seek.

Sincerely,

Baron Anton von Liebenfalz,

Chevalier de Saint Germain

Also inside the envelope was a small, neatly engraved business card with an address and phone number in Vienna for a place called
Ritterbuchs.

The next morning, Drummond was tied up in staff meetings, so it was nearly lunch time before he made it back to his office. The first thing he noticed as he sat down at his desk was the pale yellow Post—it note stuck to the center of his computer screen.

Euro Plasma Services Ltd.

112379 Queen Adelaide Street

Vancouver, British Columbia

Drummond picked up the phone on his desk.

“Alicia, would you get me the German Consulate on the phone? I need to speak to the trade secretary. Thanks.”

Replacing the phone, he opened his briefcase and took out the slim file that contained his notes on the vampire killings. Opening it up, he stared at the photo on top, the German Army tattoo just visible under the victim’s left arm.

The phone buzzed softly, and Drummond picked it up.

“Yes? Okay, thanks. Put him on.

“Mr. Spangenberger? I’m Captain John Drummond, with the Los Angeles Police Department, and I was hoping that you might be able to help us with one of our investigations.”

“Certainly, Captain. What can I do for you?”

Drummond looked at the note stuck to his computer screen. “We’re trying to locate a German firm that is in the blood or blood products industry.”

“Do you know the name of this firm?” Spangenberger’s voice was soft, with only a hint of accent.

“We think it’s called ‘Euro Plasma Services,’ although that may be a translation of its German name.” Drummond glanced at the address he had copied from the
Yellow Pages.
“They had an office here in L.A. about twenty years ago.”

“Very well, Captain Drummond. Leave it with me, and if they are still in business in Germany, I’ll send you what information I have.”

Drummond thanked the German diplomat and hung up the phone. He thought for a minute, staring at the Post—it note on his computer screen, then pulled it off and stuck it to the inside of the file folder. He picked up the receiver again as he ran his finger down a list of personal phone numbers, then punched up an outside line and dialed.

“Good morning, Cochrane, Smith, and Hamilton,” came the cheery voice on the other end.

“ ‘Morning, Yoko, this is John Drummond. Is the boss in?”

“She sure is, Captain Drummond. I’ll put you right through.”

Drummond was on hold for less than ten seconds before a brisk but cordial voice said, “John, hello. Have you been watching the market this morning?”

“Nope, haven’t had time,” he said, looking again at the Post—it note. “That’s what
you
get paid for. Listen, Nance, I need a favor. There’s a company I’d like you to check on for me. It may be out of business, and I don’t know if it’s ever been on the board, but it’s called Euro Plasma Services. They do blood and blood products.”

“Euro Plasma Services, eh?” the woman replied. “Are you thinking of getting into pharmaceuticals? Your portfolio is already pretty diversified.”

Drummond smiled. “No, this is something else. If I stop by after lunch, do you think you might have something on it?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Nance.”

When he had hung up, Drummond tossed the file folder into his desk, stretched, and headed out to lunch.

The “Nightwatch” was halfway up the hill to the court house, and as usual was packed with cops. Drummond grabbed the door handle, an old police billy club, and pulled the door open. Inside it was cool, and Drummond found a seat at the counter next to a young Chinese officer. After a few minutes Paula, one of the waitresses, came over to take his order.

“What’ll it be today, Captain?” Paula asked.

“Same as always. Reuben and an iced tea, please. “

“You want potato salad with that?” Paula shook her head from side to side as she asked the question.

“No, thanks,” replied Drummond. “Think I’ll give it a miss.”

“Probably a wise decision,” Paula said, before sliding off to take care of the other customers at the counter.

While he waited for his food, Drummond reread the letter he had received from von Liebenfalz the day before. Like Father Freise’s telephone call a few weeks earlier, it was clear that von Liebenfalz wanted a meeting–but in Vienna, not New Hampshire. As he munched his way through the Reuben sandwich, Drummond decided that he’d try to phone his mysterious contact in Vienna, and failing that, he would have to take some vacation time to meet with him in Austria.

There was a small travel agency next to the “Nightwatch” that specialized in package tours, and on his way back to Parker Center, Drummond stopped in to check on flights to Vienna. The prim young man behind the counter produced an armload of brochures and suggested that the “Sound of Music” package really was the best tour to take.

“Really?” asked Drummond.

“Oh, yes. Actually, it starts in Munich, then goes on to Salzburg and
then
Vienna, but it’s very good value for your money–and it leaves every Thursday from LAX. You get to see the film on your flight over, and then when you arrive in Munich, a deluxe coach takes you to all of the lovely locations used in the movie. It’s breathtaking.” The young man seemed on the edge of fainting with excitement.

“I’m not really much of a Julie Andrews fan myself,” Drummond began. “I don’t suppose there’s some sort of cheap charter available, is there?”

“Hmmm, let me see.” The young man’s slender fingers tapped the keys of his computer. “Well, there might be space on the Austrian Opera Tour in November–that’s a little cheaper–but I’m afraid that’s about it.”

“You’re sure that’s it?” Drummond asked. “The Mary Poppins tour is the only one available?”

“It’s the Sound of Music Tour,
sir,
and if you don’t like Julie Andrews, I’d suggest you try for tickets to a Bette Midler concert.” He threw his head back and gave Drummond an icy stare. “It’s probably more your style.”

Drummond scooped up the brochures and headed out the door. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

His next stop was Cochrane, Smith, and Hamilton. Drummond winked as he walked past the pretty oriental receptionist, going straight through to Nance Hamilton’s office. The elegant Nance was finishing a carton of yogurt and watching the market quotations on an amber computer monitor, looking like a million dollars–which, in fact, was only a fraction of her net worth. She beamed and put the carton aside as Drummond came into the office. Her russet silk suit precisely matched her mane of red hair.

“John Drummond, long time no see,” she said, wiping her hands on a pale yellow kleenex. “Have a seat. Not only do you make me a fair amount of money, but you are definitely one of my more interesting clients. Where did you hear about this Euro Plasma Services?”

“Oh, around.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Okay, be cagey. You won’t make any money on this one, though. It’s gone, defunct, kaput.”

“Out of business, eh?” Not that Drummond was surprised.

“If you were interested in the one in L.A., it is,” she replied. “However, there
was
a prospectus for shares in general stock in a San Francisco company called Euro Plasma pIc.”

“I
see,”
said Drummond.

“Unfortunately, that was in 1986.”

“Damn,” Drummond muttered under his breath. Nance chuckled. “I thought that might be your reaction, so I called our San Francisco office. Guess what? They had a copy of the company’s annual report for that year in their files.”

“San Francisco, eh?” Drummond said. “What are the chances of getting a copy of that report in the next few days?”

Nance smiled and reached into her desk drawer, withdrawing a stack of FAX flimsies.

“Somehow I had a feeling you were going to say that,” she said, handing them over. “You sounded really interested, so I had them FAX me the whole thing. The company showed promise in the early eighties. They were on the cutting edge of the early AIDS research.” She craned her neck to look over the top of the document as he leafed through the pages.

“Unfortunately, for some reason the company went belly up and never did go public. I couldn’t get a feel for what actually happened, but the offering was withdrawn and the company just disappeared.”

Drummond raised an eyebrow and looked up at her. “Disappeared?”

“Poof! Right off the board, just like it never existed,” Nance replied. “If you’re still interested, there are a few other things I can cross—check, but I’m afraid it’s a dead issue.

“That’s okay, Nance. You’ve told me what I need to know. Thanks. l owe you one.”

He spent the next half—hour after he got back from lunch going over the 1986 annual report for Euro Plasma pIc. He wasn’t sure what he’d thought he might discover by reading it, but it didn’t seem to be very helpful. Just the usual collection of sales figures and market strategies, with several photos of clean—cut looking blood donors being bled, a mobile blood bank with the Euro Plasma logo on the side, and earnest technicians looking at test tubes full of blood and doing things with unknown medical equipment in which Drummond had no particular interest. The name had to be more than coincidence, though.

Drummond had just checked his watch and calculated the time difference between Los Angeles and Vienna when the phone on his desk buzzed.

“Hi, boss.” Alicia’s Valley girl voice never failed to amaze Drummond. “It’s someone from the German Consulate. I didn’t get her name.”

“Thanks, Alicia. Put her through, would you?” The voice on the other end of the line was harsh, and the accent was heavy. Drummond guessed that, whoever she was, she probably looked like an East German Trabant.

“Captain Drummond? I am Uda Kreise, Dr. Spangenberger’s secretary. He asked me that I should phone you about a company in Germany.”

“Ah, yes. I need the name of a company–“ But before Drummond could finish, Miss Trabant—voice cut him off.

“Yes. That is so. The name of the company you want is only one in our directories for blood.” She paused, and Drummond realized that listening to her was giving him a headache. “It is called Europa Plasma Technik.”

“Could you repeat that, please?” Drummond asked, hardly believing his ears.

“Ja. Europa Plasma Technik. They are on Bindler Strasse in Hamburg.”

Drummond furiously scribbled the information on his note pad. “Thank you very much. You’ve been most helpful. Please thank Dr. Spangenberger for me.”

Reaching across his desk, he punched one of the outside extensions on his phone, glancing at one of the brochures from the travel agent before quickly dialing their number.

“Hello, Melody Travel? Yes, I’d like to book your Sound of Music Tour. Yeah. The one that leaves next Thursday.”

* * *

At the German Consulate on Flower Street, Uda Kreise sat at her typewriter carefully filling out a Trade and Commercial Development form. All requests for information concerning German businesses were processed in the same way. The person who had requested contact with a German firm was sent the appropriate information. As a backup, the firm itself received a copy of the report so that they could contact the client themselves. A model of Teutonic efficiency, and the sort of double—tracking system that had contributed to the “miracle” of the post—war German economy.

It was odd, she thought, that the Los Angeles Police Department would want to do business with a German blood bank. Maybe the police were afraid of AIDS and were looking for a supply of clean blood.

Carefully she typed in the name of the business contact: Captain John Drummond, Los Angles Police Department. Then, removing the form from the typewriter, she inserted an envelope and carefully typed the company name and address:

EURO PLASMA TECHNIK

Bindler Strasse

Hamburg, DEUTSCHLAND.

VIENNA

THE OLD
Jew shuffled along the uneven sidewalk, the collar of his shabby coat turned up against the light rain. From a vantage point in the shadows of the building across the street, only his crisp white shirt—collar dimly visible, Wilhelm Kluge watched intently as the old man stopped under the flickering street lamp to catch his breath before climbing the stone steps to the front door of his apartment block. Kluge smiled to himself in the darkness as he noted that the door to the apartment house was unlocked. This would be easier than he possibly could have hoped for.

As the door closed behind his prey, Kluge tried hard to imagine where he might have seen the old Jew before. Probably at one of the camps, but he hadn’t a clue which one. Not that it mattered. He would have had no reason to remember any of the concentration camp inmates with whom he came in contact, although those who had survived the war would undoubtedly remember him.

Kluge licked his lips and waited, watching for a light to come on in the correct window. His hunger gnawed at his consciousness, demanding to be fed.

Within a week after the attack on the crusader castle, Kluge had known what his hunger demanded. And he knew how to feed it.

It was simple. Shoot a prisoner in the neck–or better still, cut his throat–and as he lay dying, just suck a mouthful or two from the wound. Kluge had to be careful that he wasn’t observed, but fortunately very few Germans wanted to know what an SS officer was doing with prisoners that were marched out of the camps, and his victims never survived to complain.

He had come to terms with his hunger fairly easily. At first it had demanded blood on a constant daily basis, but then it seemed to become a part of him, rather than trying to consume him, and Kluge had found that he needed to feed less often. Before the arrival of spring, Kluge had found that he needed less than half a liter a week to satisfy his craving. It need not even be human blood, though that was the most satisfying.

Kluge stared at the building across the street. Although it was dark, and only one street lamp was working, Kluge was able to see everything in sharp detail, even deep into the shadows of the decaying brick building. The vision wasn’t bright, but it was clear, like a television with its contrast levels set too low, the brightness gone from the picture. It had come upon him gradually, as his initial hunger evened out. He remembered the first time he became aware of his keen powers of night vision ... .

His patrol moved quietly through the snow, trying to stay ahead of the advancing Allied Army. Darkness had come early, and with it a light snowfall that obscured vision and deadened sound. Kluge halted his men and pulled out his map, carefully tracing his finger along the line of their march. As he studied the map in near darkness,
Scharführer
Baumann stepped over to him and shined a flashlight onto the map. The pool of pale yellow light hurt Kluge’s eyes, causing him to squint as if he were trying to read the map under the glare of a noonday sun.

“Turn off that light,” he ordered. “Do you want to draw enemy fire?”

The
Scharführer
snapped off the torch, and in the enclosing darkness Kluge realized for the first time that he could see as well at night as most of his men could see on a rainy afternoon. Taking his bearings carefully, Kluge directed his men north—west, heading them away from the approaching American troops.

But despite their hard push to elude the Americans, General Patton’s Third Army raced ahead and outflanked them, and in less than a week Kluge and his men found themselves cut off from the main German retreat. Moving only at night, Kluge and his men managed to make it as far as the Czech—German border before coming into contact with the enemy.

What fools!
thought Kluge, as he watched a detachment of British Tommies brewing tea beside a small stream. There were ten of them, and the way they were clustered together, Kluge knew he could kill most of them with a single hand grenade, and then rush in with his men and finish the rest. In 1941, he probably would have done just that, but by early 1945, Kluge had become cautious. He knew that, militarily, Germany was on the edge of total collapse, and if the Reich was to salvage anything out of its defeat, it would be necessary that he, and others like him, survived to carry’ on the struggle.

Kluge’s men circled around the British soldiers while he and another sharpshooter armed with sniper rifles fitted with telescopic sights moved into position. The stock of the Austrian—made Mannlicher hunting rifle was cold against his cheek as he sighted carefully through the 2.5—power scope, picking as his target a young—looking British soldier who had stepped up to a tree to relieve himself.

Kluge’s index finger pulled the rearmost of the twin triggers fitted to his rifle, setting the front trigger to go off at four ounces of pressure. Through the scope, he could see a dark stain appear on the trunk of the tree and steam rise up in the cold morning air.

Centering the cross—hairs of the sight on the soldier’s back, he touched the front trigger. The crack of his 6.5mm hunting rifle was the signal for the rest of his men to open fire. Within seconds, four Tommies lay dead or wounded on the snowy ground.

Kluge watched dispassionately as the man he had shot staggered backwards, away from the tree, and fell writhing on the ground. Bringing his right hand back, Kluge slid his fingers up under the butterknife bolt handle of his rifle and pulled it back, ejecting the spent cartridge and chambering another one as he slid the bolt forward in a single, fluid movement. Staring through the scope, he panned across the open ground and caught just a glimpse of another British soldier peering up from the stream bank, his head almost hidden behind his tin helmet.

Kluge waited as the soldier slowly raised his head another inch to get a better view of his surroundings, placing the cross—hairs over the soldier’s left eye–and fired again.

The 130—grain bullet raced across the open ground between Kluge and his target at three times the speed of sound. The impact of the bullet equated to more than three quarters of a ton, causing the soft, pointed projectile to mushroom on impact. The force of the bullet passing through the soldier’s skull ripped his helmet from his head and tore it open like the lid on a can of tomatoes. He collapsed like a bundle of wet laundry.

Five of the Tommies were down now, and two more were trying to ford the icy stream in a desperate attempt to make for the woods on the other side. Two shots rang out from the underbrush, and the soldiers in the stream jerked and sank beneath the black water, disappearing soundlessly. The three remaining British soldiers threw down their rifles and raised their hands above lowered heads, with cries of
“Nicht schutzen, nicht schutzen
...
Kameradinl’

No more shots rang out. Through the eyepiece of his telescopic sight, Kluge watched as the men got slowly to their feet, glancing around warily, hands above their heads. Glancing aside at the man on his left with a slight nod, Kluge took careful aim on the soldier in the middle and set the trigger. As he fired, his partner did the same. Two of the Tommies fell, and the third one balanced and remained standing, eyes screwed shut, trembling hands stretching even higher above his head.

“Don’t shoot,” he pleaded. “Please don’t shoot.”

Slinging his rifle, Kluge climbed up from the frozen ground and walked into the clearing where the lone British survivor stood trembling, his hands still above his head. The stripes on his sleeves declared him a corporal, and he was very young.

Unbuckling the flap of his holster as he approached, Kluge drew his pistol and set its muzzle against the soldier’s forehead. The touch of the cold barrel elicited a gasp, and startlingly blue eyes popped open to stare at Kluge in dreadful fascination.

“Which way to your lines?” Kluge asked in heavily accented English.

The boy looked very young and scared, and sweat was running off his face, even with the snow all around.

“West, sir.” He moved his head slightly in the direction the two dead men in the stream had been runnmg.

“How far?” Kluge asked.

Tears welled up in the corporal’s eyes, choking his voice as he answered, “About a mile–maybe a bit less, sir.”

Kluge stared at him for a moment—a scared kid in a corporal’s uniform, trying to hold back his tears. Kluge’s voice softened.

“Thank you.”

The young soldier blinked and looked at Kluge. Kluge smiled slightly–and pulled the trigger ... .

Nearly half a century later, Kluge reflected that he might have made something of that young man, had things been different. The boy had been weak, but that was the fault of the system that had bred him. The British were fellow Aryans, after all. With the right leadership, they might have shared in the dream of the Third Reich. But they had chosen to deny their common blood and set themselves to thwart the Fuhrer’s plan for the Master Race ... .

A battered gray Volkswagen van pulled up in front of the apartment house, and two youths in leather jackets, studded wrist—bands, and skin—tight black jeans got out and crossed the dimly lighted street, heading toward the shadows where Kluge stood waiting. The burlier of the two had shaved his head bare and wore a dangling silver earring of a skull in one earlobe; the more slender one sported a technicolor Mohawk and a rose tattoo on one cheek. As they approached him, Kluge could feel the contempt begin to boil up inside–contempt for the nihilistic punks that he must gather around him to carry out the work of rebuilding the Reich. History, it seemed, had come full cycle. Just as the Party had needed the Storm Troopers in the early days of Hitler’s rise to power, so they were needed again to bash into line anyone who would oppose Kluge’s will.

Modern day SA men,
thought Kluge
. Necessary, but totally expendable.

For some of his followers, the night of the long knives would come very soon. These two were already on a short tether, though for sheer expediency, Kluge thought he might salvage one of them, if he sacrificed the other. He looked at them disdainfully as they approached in the pale light of the single street lamp, weighing which should be which.

Half a century ago, the Gestapo would have sent this scum to a labor camp, he thought, as he gave the two a half—smile of recognition.

The one with the tattoo on his cheek spoke first, and with respect.

“Good evening, sir. What are your instructions?” His speech was slightly slurred, and when he spoke, gaps were plainly visible where his front teeth should have been.

“Up there.” Kluge pointed across the road at the shabby apartment house. “On the second floor, in the front. An old Jew by the name of Stucke.” He looked at the two punks in front of him. “The door to the building is not locked. His own door may be. Take him, quietly, and bring him to the warehouse. “

“What if he resists?” It was the skinhead who spoke this time, and Kluge could tell from his tone of voice that he was looking for an excuse to beat someone tonight.

Kluge stepped slightly out of the shadows so the two of them could see his face.

“If you so much as leave a mark on the Jew,” he said, though his voice never rose above a whisper, “I’ll rip your balls off.” He punctuated the whispered threat by violently grabbing the skinhead by the throat and crotch and slamming him against the wall. “Do you understand?”

The skinhead’s eyes were bugged wide in terror and pain, but despite the viselike grip on his throat and testicles, he managed to croak, “Yes!”

Releasing him, Kluge stepped back into the shadows.

“Excellent. Now, go.”

A light drizzle started to fall as the two punks trotted across the road and went up the stone steps of the apartment building, neither daring to speak until they got inside. But once they were out of Kluge’s sight, the skinhead stopped and doubled up, groaning, one hand pressed to his bruised throat while the other dropped to massage his crotch.

“You okay?” asked the tattoo.

“The pig—fucker! I’m gonna mess him up good!” the skinhead muttered under his breath, though he managed to straighten and continue up the stairs with his partner.

“Hey, man, don’t even think shit like that!” The tattoo looked nervously at his mate. “If he even
thought
you were a threat, he’d kill us both.”

“Asshole. I’ll show him,” the skinhead said, still rubbing his aching crotch.

“Shut up. This is it.” The tattoo raised his hand and tapped quietly on the door to Stucke’s apartment. There was no immediate answer, so he tried again, only this time a little harder. Still there was no reply. He was just trying the doorknob when they both heard the sound of a toilet flushing somewhere behind them.

They turned around just as Hans Stucke stepped out of the small toilet, there on the landing opposite his apartment door. The old man looked at them with mingled curiosity and wariness, clearly uncertain what to do. When neither of them spoke or made a move toward or away from him, Stucke spoke.

“Excuse me, please, but you are in my way,” he said.