Knights of the Blood (21 page)

The next page seemed to be some sort of assessment sheet. Down one side of the page there were a number of questions, and opposite these were five boxes. Most of the tick marks were in the first two boxes, with only one showing a tick in the last box. Drummond immediately resolved to buy a German—English dictionary, so he could find out what Kluge’s one apparent failure was.

The next page was a list of place names, and Drummond speculated that it might be a list of Kluge’s duty assignments. Running his finger down the list, he saw that the first entry was for Lichterfelde. The dates next to it indicated that Kluge was there for nearly two years before being transferred to Wewelsberg.

After less than a year he was posted to Wien–Vienna–arriving there in December of 1937. In April of 1938, he was again posted to Wewelsberg, this time until May of 1944. After that date was written
Sonderkommado der Ahnenerbe—SS.
Drummond wondered what it meant.

The last page in the file was a copy of a document in English, prepared by the U.S. forces occupying Vienna at the end of the war. After the usual military headings and codes there followed three very short paragraphs.

1. This department has conducted a thorough investigation into the execution of twelve civilians on 15 March 1938 in the alley adjacent to SS HQ at 17 Dietrich Eckart Strasse.

2. All evidence indicates that the victims were arrested and executed on the direct order of SS Haupsturmführer (Captain) Wilhelm Kluge.

3. This department therefore requests the Judge—Advocate General to prepare an indictment citing the above named German officer as having committed war crimes on the date first set out in this document.

Wm. Logsdon, Major AUS

Drummond stared at the document for several minutes, slowly gathering his thoughts. The scenario that confronted him seemed impossible, but just as Sherlock Holmes said to Dr. Watson, “Once you have eliminated the possible, what remains, no matter how impossible it may seem, is the truth.”

Drummond had several impossibles to deal with. He had a priest who admitted killing half a dozen “Nazis,” as well as a Mexican gardener, in Los Angeles back in the early seventies, because they were vampires. The priest had vaguely connected the vampire notion with an obscure order of knights supposedly living in a castle in Luxembourg.

His only lead for more information on the knights had brought him into contract with an eccentric Austrian aristocrat whose home was the former headquarters of some strange branch of the SS dedicated–or so it would seem–to the eradication of Freemasonry.

Then there was Stucke–some pitiable survivor of Hitler’s holocaust who turns up dead in a bathtub within a month of telling the police he’s spotted Wilhelm Kluge, the man the U.S. Army said was responsible for the execution of the twelve Freemasons at von Liebenfalz’ home.

The room was getting chilly, and Drummond decided to close the doors to the terrace. Neatly stacking the papers to one side of the desk, he stood up and turned toward the open doors.

The intruder froze where he was for just an instant, and then, as Drummond turned to face him, sprang forward with all his might.

In his surprise, Drummond was taken totally unawares, and crashed to the floor as his assailant slammed into him. Reflexively, Drummond tried to roll away from his attacker, but found himself tangled in the broken legs of the writing desk. Struggling to distance himself from man who had leaped on him, Drummond saw the glint of something bright in his adversary’s right hand.

Lashing out with both feet, Drummond kicked himself free, and struggling to his knees threw a round—house punch that landed square on the side of his assailant’s head. Reeling under the blow, the punk sagged slightly, and Drummond was able to scramble to his feet.

In an instant, the punk was after him, taking a vicious swipe with his knife that came within inches of laying open Drummond’s belly. Drummond jumped back, and instantly dropped forward into a crouching position, well—balanced on the balls of his feet.

The punk lunged again, and Drummond caught his wrist in both hands, twisting and pressing down as he pulled his attacker closer. Shifting his weight, Drummond suddenly lifted straight up and heard a loud
pop
as the arm was dislocated from the shoulder.

The punk sagged slightly, then delivered a vicious kick aimed at Drummond’s groin. Letting go of the punker’s wrist, Drummond jumped back, the kick glancing painfully off the point of his hip.

Eyes blazing, the punk stepped away from Drummond and put his back against the wall. Crazily, Drummond noticed that he had a tattoo on his right cheek–the tattoo of a rose. Slowly lifting his dislocated arm, the knife still clutched in his hand, the punker suddenly gave an almighty jerk–and the arm snapped back into the shoulder socket.

Drummond watched in utter amazement, his only thought that the skinhead had to be, on drugs in order to withstand that much pain. The punk slowly circled around towards Drummond, who now stood with his back to the wall. Drummond took advantage of his position and moved closer to the open French doors, determined to make a dash for it if he had the chance. The chance came.

There was a heavy pounding on his door as the concierge shouted,
“Kapitän
Drummond,
Kapitän
Drummond, are you all right?”

For an instant the punk hesitated, and Drummond made his dash for the open doors. The punk leaped at Drummond but missed. Crashing to the floor, he grabbed Drummond’s ankle, causing him to trip. Drummond recovered his balance and turned to face his attacker, just in time to see the knife coming arching down toward his chest.

Somehow Drummond was detached from what was happening, almost as if he were watching someone else fighting for his life. It was as if everything in the world was happening in slow motion, and he had a ringside seat. He watched the fist clenching the knife as it came bearing down on him, and saw his hand come up and catch it just behind the wrist. He turned slightly and, bracing his body, felt a slight bump as his hip connected with his assailant’s body. Bowing slightly, he could hear the rustle of the punk’s clothes as he slowly sailed past his head. Turning his neck slightly, Drummond watched as his would—be killer drifted past and vanished over the edge of the balcony.

Suddenly the world was moving at full speed again. Drummond heard a scream as the punk went over the edge and crashed down on the spikes of the ornate wrought iron railing that surrounded the Palais Schwartzenberg. Breathless, he ran to the balcony and looked down.

In the moonlight, his attacker lay limply across the top of the railing, two ugly spikes projecting through the back of his black leather jacket. As Drummond watched, he stopped twitching and for a moment lay very still.

Then slowly, and with great determination, the attacker grabbed the top bar of the railing and simply pushed himself up off the spikes. For a moment, he balanced himself straight—armed on the top rail, then swung his legs to the side and over the top with the ease of a gymnast and dropped to the ground below. Impossibly, disappearing in the shadows and darkness, he trotted off in the direction of the Belvedere Palace.

The door to Drummond’s room slammed into the wall as the concierge and night porter burst into Drummond’s sitting room.

“My God, what has happened?” The concierge sounded on the verge of hysteria.

“Someone came in through the window and attacked me.” Drummond surveyed the room for the first time. Aside from the shattered desk and a few pictures that had been knocked askew on the walls, the room had survived pretty much intact. The night porter came back from the balcony carrying a large, high—power flashlight just as two uniformed policeman came through the door.

A quick exchange in German ensued between the concierge and the police, then the concierge turned to Drummond.

“The police would like you to go with them to make a statement at the police station,
Kapitän,”
The concierge made the police request sound like an apology.

Drummond walked over to his jacket, still draped on the back of the chair, and stuck his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out his badge wallet and something else–the rosary Father Freise had given him several weeks before. Drummond looked at it for a second, then stuck it back in his pocket. Turning to the two policemen, he handed them his ID.

“Tell these gentlemen,” he said to the concierge, “that I’ll be happy to make a statement in the morning. I’ve pulled a few muscles, and I’d like to have a hot bath before I tighten up. If they have any questions, they can check with Inspector Markus Eberle.”

The concierge translated for Drummond, and one of the policemen saluted as he handed back Drummond’s ID. They spoke with the concierge for a few more minutes, then left.

“The police will send a car for you tomorrow at ten, if that is convenient.” The concierge looked around the room. “Perhaps the
Kapitän
would prefer to be moved to another room?”

Drummond was exhausted. “No,” he said, “that won’t be necessary. You can clear up this mess in the morning while I’m downtown giving my statement. “

The concierge bowed slightly and started to leave.

“Oh, there is
one
thing you could do for me this evening.” Drummond went to the closet and pulled a small notebook from his suit coat pocket. “I need to call the United States.”

“Of course,
Kapitän.”
The concierge bowed. “I’ll have our operator set up the line.”

When the phone jangled beside his bed five minutes later, Drummond. direct—dialed the Angel of Mercy Sanitarium in Auburn, New Hampshire. The phone rang half a dozen times before it was answered by a woman who sounded more like a warden than a receptionist.

“Angel of Mercy, can I help you?” The voice had a harsh edge to it.

“Father John Freise, please.” Drummond was put on hold, and then a man’s voice came on the line.

“This is Father Conklin, can I help you?”

“Yes, I hope so. This is John Drummond from the Veterans Administration, returning Father Freise’s call.” Recalling their first furtive telephone encounter, Drummond hoped that he wouldn’t have to play twenty questions with Father Conklin in order to get through to Father Freise.

“Could you tell me what this call is in regard to?”

“I wish I could, Father, but I just have a message to call back Father Freise. I’ve no idea why he called.” Drummond hoped that he sounded convincing.

“Where are you calling from?” Father Conklin asked.

“Ogden, Utah. That’s where our phone center is located. Why?”
Christ,
thought Drummond,
what’s with this guy?

“I only asked because it sounds like you’re a million miles away. Just a moment and I’ll get Father Freise. “

The phone went dead, and Drummond found himself wondering how much it cost per minute to be on hold. Just about the time he’d decided to hang up and call back, Father Freise came on the line.

“Mr. Drummond? Are you the gentlemen I’m supposed to speak to about survivor benefits?” Freise’s voice sounded guarded.

“That’s right, sir. It’s in regard to the late Mr. King’s military insurance.” Drummond could hear Father Freise breathe a sigh of relief.

“Certainly. What can I do for you?” Freise’s tone of voice was level.

“Are you free to talk?” Drummond asked.

“No, not at the moment.”

“Okay then, just listen. Remember when you asked me if I thought you were crazy?”

“Yes. “

“Well, you’re not. I was just attacked by one of your Nazi vampires a few minutes ago.” Drummond realized that his voice had a slight tremble in it.

“Well, that’s very interesting, Mr. Drummond, but I don’t see how I can really be of much help.”

“Do you have a passport?” Drummond asked.

“Certainly,” the priest replied.

“All right, which is your nearest big airport? One where you could catch a flight to Europe?” Drummond’s mind was racing.

“Let me see.” Father Freise paused for a moment. “Yes, I think I spoke to a Miss Logan in your Boston office.”

“Okay. Tomorrow there’ll be a ticket waiting for you at the TWA desk at Logan Airport. Can you make it?” Drummond felt his throat going dry.

“Just as soon as I get the paperwork, Mr. Drummond, I’ll hop right on it.” Father Freise was playing his part to perfection.

“Thank you very much, Father.”

“I’m glad to help out. Good—bye.”

Father Freise replaced the phone on its cradle.

The man seated behind Father Conklin’s desk leaned back in the leather chair, his fingertips brought together under his chin. Light flashed off the large oval—shaped sapphire on his index finger.

“So tell me, Father,” he asked, “who is this Mr. Drummond?”

“The police officer from Los Angeles who was here last month, Your Eminence.”

There was a rustle of crimson silk as the man behind the desk opened a folder and produced the photographs of Drummond that had been taken in the elevator at von Leibenfalz’s apartment.

“Is that him?” he asked, handing the photographs to Father Freise.

“Yes, Your Eminence. He’s asked me to meet him in Europe. He needs my help.” Freise looked beseechingly at the cardinal seated behind Father Conklin’s desk.

“You mean he needs the help of the Church,” the cardinal corrected him.

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Then in that case, you had better pack.”

The cardinal extended his hand, and Father Freise bent down to kiss the ring.

“Go with God,” the cardinal said. And almost as an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and tell Father Conklin I won’t be needing his office any longer, will you?”

IT WAS
raining when Drummond woke up the next morning. Despite the hot bath he had soaked in the night before, every bone in his body seemed to ache as he hauled himself out of bed and headed into the bathroom.

Small wonder,
he thought, as he surveyed himself into the large bathroom mirror and gave up trying to count the welts and bruises scattered across his body.

After a long, hot shower he felt decidedly better, and by the time he had shaved and dressed, only the ugliest of the bruises gave him any real discomfort. Adjusting the knot on his silk foulard tie, he slipped on the jacket of his navy double—breasted suit and went downstairs for a light breakfast. In the middle of his coffee and croissant, one of the waiters approached his table carrying a cordless telephone.

“Excuse me,
Kapitän,
but there is a call for you.” Drummond took the phone, and the waiter withdrew from the table.

“Hello, Drummond here,” he said.

“John, it’s Markus.” There was concern in Eberle’s voice. “I’m still at home, but I’ve just heard about last night. Are you all right?”

“Couple of minor bruises, nothing serious.” Drummond poured more coffee into his cup from the small silver pot on the corner of his table.

“Listen, I’ve pulled some strings, and this is going to be given top priority,” Eberle said. “We’re going to need you to make a statement, so if you don’t mind, I’ll have a car collect you at your hotel at eleven o’clock. I’m in court in–shit, I’m late!–half an hour, or I’d collect you myself. I hope that’s all right?” Eberle sounded rushed, but at the same time willing to do anything Drummond might ask of him.

Drummond picked up his cup. “That’s just fine, Markus. I think I can handle it.”

“Okay, pal. I’ll see you at the station as soon as I’m free.” Eberle hung up, and Drummond signaled the waiter to come and retrieve the phone.

Looking out the window at the rain, Drummond cursed to himself that he hadn’t brought a raincoat. There was time to buy one, though, thanks to the hour’s reprieve before he was due at the police station. After signing for his breakfast, he walked over to the porter’s desk and asked for a taxi to be called. While he waited for it, he borrowed an umbrella and went outside to look at the railings under his window.

The drop from Drummond’s balcony to the top of the railing was a good four feet–more like seven, from the top of the stone balustrade around the balcony. The railing below was of wrought iron, with slender spear points jutting up every ten to twelve inches. It would have been impossible for anyone to fall on them and survive.

Drummond had just about convinced himself that in the poor light of the previous night he had been mistaken in what he thought he saw, when he noticed the dark puddle of congealed blood pooled at the base of the railing. Directly above it, one of the spear points was bent, as though the weight of the falling body had shoved it slightly forward.

Reaching down, Drummond dabbed one finger in the reddish puddle and sniffed it. It was blood all right. No mistaking the cloying smell, even in the rain. As he went back to the porter’s desk to return the umbrella, he found himself almost wishing he had thought to put Father Freise’s rosary in his pocket.

The rain had worsened by the time Drummond’s taxi arrived at the hotel. Armed with the address of a travel agent and a men’s clothing store, Drummond climbed into the waiting taxi and headed out into the city.

The first stop was Herter’s, an exclusive men’s shop in Vienna’s fashionable third district. As the taxi pulled up to the curb, Drummond couldn’t help but compare the street with Beverly Hills’ famous Rodeo Drive. The shops tended to be as small as their merchandise was expensive. Rolex, Gucci, and Cartier were nestled side by side with Bally, Hermes, and Zolli, while out front the street was lined with Mercedes—Benz and Rolls—Royce motorcars.

Pushing open the door of the taxi, Drummond paused to glance up at the driver. <

“Bleiben Sie hier, ja?”
He had gotten the phrase from the porter, in hopes of not being abandoned again.
“Hier. Nicht gehen. Verstehen Sie?”

“Ja, ja,”
the man replied, turning off the ignition as he nodded in the rearview mirror.
“Ich verstehe.”
The fact that Drummond had not yet paid him probably also helped to get the point across.

Slamming the door, Drummond dashed across the rain—slicked pavement and into Herter’s. An impeccably dressed salesman in his early sixties came immediately to his assistance, his English as crisp as his freshly starched shirt. Leading him to the back of the shop, he showed Drummond an impressive array of raincoats. Drummond selected a dark slate—blue leather one that, like his suit, was double—breasted. He also took a dark charcoal—gray hat, tried it on, and handed the man his credit card. Five minutes later, dry and warm at last, he was back in the cab, handing his driver the address of the travel agent.

The young lady behind the counter spoke flawless English with a slight British accent, and immediately set about booking Father Freise’s flight from Boston to Vienna.

“Now, sir, the Boston flight arrives in Munich at nine—thirty tomorrow morning, and connects with our flight at seven—thirty the following morning, arriving in Vienna at eight thirty—five.” She looked up from the amber computer screen. “Would you like me to book a hotel room from your friend for the night?”

Drummond was stunned. “That’s a twenty—two hour layover. Can’t you manage any better connection than that?”

The young lady shrugged and tapped the keys of her computer again. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve tried routing him through several different ways, but everything is booked solid.”

“What about other airlines?”

“They’re all in the computer, sir. There’s simply nothing available tomorrow between Munich and here.”

Drummond thought for a moment. Twenty—four hours ago, he would have taken the delay all in stride. The twenty—year—old trail of a series of unsolved homicides in Los Angles had hardly seemed urgent in Vienna, the land of Strauss and cream—filled tortes.

But that was before one of Freise’s Nazi vampires had tried to kill him. Drummond didn’t want to believe that was what the punker was, but he didn’t know of any human being who could impale himself on a wrought iron fence and walk away. He needed to talk to Freise, someplace that Freise didn’t have to be afraid to level with him. And he was not about to wait another forty—eight hours.

“Just book the flight through to Munich. I’ll
drive
to Munich and meet the plane when it lands.”

The keys clicked rhythmically for several seconds before the young lady paused and asked Drummond for his credit card. Handing her his American Express card, Drummond tried not to think about how much all of this was costing.

“That’s fine, sir,” the ticket agent said, when he had signed off on the charge slip and was putting his copy and the credit card back into his wallet. “Your friend’s ticket will be waiting for him in Boston. Have a pleasant drive to Munich.”

His faithful taxi driver was still waiting when he came out, and he handed the man an extra hundred —schilling note when he got out again at the Palais Schwartzenberg. A police car was pulled up outside, to the obvious disapproval of the porter, and a young, fresh—scrubbed looking uniformed police officer was waiting for Drummond in the lobby of the hotel. As Drummond came through the door, he walked over to him and saluted.

“Kapitän
Drummond?
”

Drummond nodded slightly by way of returning the compliment.

“I’m Drummond.”

The young policeman stood at rigid attention.
“Kapitän.
Inspector Eberle has asked me that I drive you to police headquarters.”

“Let’s go, then,” Drummond said.

“Yes,” replied the policeman. “We go now.” He turned on his heel and opened the door for Drummond. Following him over to where the car was parked, he stepped ahead of Drummond and opened the back door of the BMW.

Drummond smiled at the young man. “I’d prefer to sit up front, if you don’t mind.”

The policeman looked baffled. “We go now, yes?” he asked, the door still held open.

So,
thought Drummond,
you don’t all speak English.
He smiled at the policeman again. “Okay. We go now,” he said, and climbed into the cramped back seat of the BMW.

Cop cars the world over have an aroma all their own, and this one was no exception. The pong of urine and sweat, blood, vomit, and fear permeates the back of any police car. Drummond rolled the window down a few inches to let in some fresh air and settled back to endure it as best he could.

At police headquarters, he was escorted upstairs by his driver and ushered into a well—appointed office where three other men were waiting for him. Their conversation changed immediately from German to English when Drummond entered the room. One of the men, tall and on the thin side, with oversized square—framed glasses, immediately came over and offered to take Drummond’s coat and hat, while another one, tending towards overweight, bald and wearing a bow tie, introduced himself to Drummond.

“Hi, I’m Joe Guzman, from the embassy.” Drummond immediately picked up on the strong west Texas twang in Guzman’s voice.

“That wouldn’t happen to be the Embassy of the Lone Star State, would it?” he asked, as he shook Guzman’s hand.

Guzman smiled at the joke and introduced Drummond to the two other men. “This is the Director of Criminal Investigations, Dr. Lauda.”

The thin man with the glasses shook Drummond’s hand.

“How do you do,
Kapitän?”
he said.

“And this,” Guzman continued, “is State Attorney Milch.” The state attorney bowed slightly.

“If you have no objections,” Guzman went on, “we’ll tape—record the proceedings and then prepare depositions in English and German for you to sign. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable, Captain.” Guzman looked at his watch. “I don’t think this will take more than about half an hour.”

The deposition opened with the usual questions concerning Drummond’s name and address, age, and occupation. The state attorney asked the questions in impeccable English, in a voice that reminded Drummond of James Mason’s portrayal of Erwin Rommel in the film,
The Desert Fox.
The formalities over, Drummond was asked to tell what happened after he returned to his hotel from dinner.

Drummond carefully detailed his movements from the moment he and Eberle parted at the beer hall until he was attacked in his room. At that point, Dr. Lauda interrupted.

“Kapitän
Drummond, is it possible that you may have met this young man as you walked back to your hotel and invited him into your room?” Lauda’s implication was clear.

“No, I did not.” Drummond’s voice was firm but without any trace of emotion or annoyance.

Lauda bowed slightly in Drummond’s direction. “Very well. Please proceed.”

Drummond completed his story, although he left out any mention of seeing his attacker impaled on the fence and then pushing himself free and walking away. When he had finished, the state attorney asked if there was anything else he’d care to add to the transcription.

Drummond shook his head. “No, I’ve nothing to add. “

They offered him a coffee then, while a secretary transcribed the tape and prepared the depositions. When he had signed everything necessary, Guzman walked him to the door.

“Sorry you had this trouble, Captain. I assure you, this isn’t the way Vienna treats most Americans. I hope it hasn’t put a damper on your vacation. “

“No, it’s a beautiful city, Mr. Guzman. Thanks very much for your help.”

Outside in the corridor, Eberle was waiting for Drummond.

“How did it go?” Eberle asked as they walked toward the elevator.

Drummond shifted his leather coat onto his left arm and put on his hat. “Well, they took my statement, but I doubt they’ll catch the guy.”

“I’m sorry you have such a low opinion of our professional capabilities.” Eberle grinned, his two stainless steel teeth glinting as they stepped into the elevator.

“It’s not that I doubt it, Markus, it’s that I know it’s
not
the crime of the century. Besides, there must be a couple of hundred skinhead punks running around here in Vienna–though the rose tattoo might be a lead.”

The elevator stopped, and both men got out. “Can I buy you lunch?” Drummond asked.

“God, I wish I could, John, but I’m afraid I’m stuck in court all day.” Eberle looked genuinely disappointed at not being able to take up Drummond’s offer of hospitality. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Before Drummond could tell his friend that he wouldn’t be here tomorrow, that he was heading for Munich, Eberle glanced at his watch and winced. “Jeez, gotta run, John. I’m late again. Catch you later!”

Outside it had stopped raining, and as the sun broke through the clouds, steam rose off the pavement. Drummond glanced at the sky, took off his hat, and caught a taxi back to his hotel. In his room, he changed his suit for cords and a pullover, threw a few essentials into his carry—on, and packed the rest into his larger canvas bag. When he appeared at the desk with them, the manager greeted him with an anxious bow.