Knights of the Blood (22 page)

“Good afternoon,
Kapitän
Drummond. I hope you are not leaving us?”

“I’ve decided to do a little sightseeing for the next few days, so I’d like to settle my account and, if possible, leave one of my bags here until I get back.” Drummond reached into his pocket for his wallet and started to pull out a credit card.

“There is no charge for the room,
Kapitän.
After last night, it would be impossible to charge you for your stay.” The manager grimaced at the necessity to even allude to the attack on Drummond the night before. “As for your bag, just leave it with the porter. It will be here when you return.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the kindness.”

The porter was placing Drummond’s smaller bag in the trunk of his car when the Bentley silently drove up and crunched to a stop on the gravel drive. Despite his usual preference for German cars, Drummond found himself reluctantly admiring the graceful lines of the pre—war Bentley, the bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds reflected in miniature on the large headlamps and nickel—plated radiator.

The door of the pale blue and black car opened, and Anton von Liebenfalz slid from behind the wheel, immaculately clad in a gray three—piece suit with a heavy gold watch chain swagged between his vest pockets.

“Ah,
Kapitän
Drummond,” he said. “Not leaving Vienna so soon, are you?”

“No, not at all. I’m just going out into the countryside for a day or two.” Drummond tipped the porter, then turned back to von Liebenfalz. “What brings you to Palais Schwartzenberg?”

“Two things.” Von Liebenfalz smiled and, with the thumb and index finger of his right hand, brushed up the ends of his moustache. “The first is this,” he said, reaching into an inside pocket of his suit coat to produce a thick buff—colored envelope. “I was able to gather some further information on the Order of the Sword.”

“Ah. Thank you very much,” Drummond said. “As to the other reason–“ Von Liebenfalz leaned forward and lowered his voice as if he were about to betray a state secret. “I am having lunch with the Countess von Hohenrobertin.” He winked at Drummond.

“Well,” Drummond said, glancing at the envelope in his hand, “I can certainly recommend the dining room here at the hotel.”

“Dining room?” The baron arched an eyebrow. “My dear
Kapitän,
ours is an
assignation,
not a business meeting. No, we shall drive to some discreet country inn, where our presence will not be noticed.”

Drummond looked at the pale blue Bentley with the swooping black fenders. “Of course,” he said. “Where you won’t be noticed.”

Apparently deaf to the droll understatement, von Liebenfalz pulled a large gold watch out of his vest pocket and snapped it open. “Well, I see it is late,
Kapitän,
so I really must be going.
Auf wiedersehen. “

As von Liebenfalz turned and started up the granite steps leading to the hotel, Drummond called after him.

“Just one more thing, Baron–“

Von Liebenfalz stopped in mid—stride and turned to face him.

“Yes?” he said.

“About the research fee?” Drummond was careful not to associate von Liebenfalz with anything so common as money, especially in public.

“Ah. I have been instructed to inform you that in this instance, all services have been provided
gratis.”
With a click of his heels and a curt bow, von Liebenfalz turned and, before Drummond could reply, vanished into the hotel lobby.

Instructed?
Drummond returned to his car, pondering just what von Liebenfalz could have meant by his last remark.
Instructed by whom?
he wondered.

Still trying to figure out von Liebenfalz, Drummond tossed the fat envelope on the seat beside him and started the Mercedes, buckling up before pulling out the gates of Schwartzenberg Palace. As he turned onto Prinz Eugen Strasse, a motorcycle, its rider clad in black leathers, pulled out from the opposite curb and followed at a discreet distance.

Vienna was as congested as Los Angeles, and it took Drummond several wrong turns before he finally found the road that pointed him out of the city and toward the ancient town of Salzburg. Within a few miles, the road became autobahn, and Drummond put his foot down.

Cruising the Mercedes at well over one hundred miles per hour, Drummond followed the signs for Salzburg, stopping in that town only long enough to refuel his car. Swinging northwest of Salzburg, he followed the signs on toward Munich. The road to Munich was significantly faster, and Drummond was able to, blast along at speeds approaching one hundred fifty miles per hour, before he had to slow for the transition to the ring road that curved east around the city, heading back toward Riem, and Munich’s international airport. A mile behind him on the autobahn, the rider in black leathers gave a slight squeeze to the brake lever and shifted down from sixth to fifth gear, following Drummond’s Mercedes off the super highway and into the parking lot of the largest of the airport hotels.

As Drummond got out of the car and went in to register, the big Suzuki purred into the lot and quietly rolled past Drummond’s parked car. The rider, stopped opposite the glass doors of the airport hotel and watched as Drummond bent over registration documents and credit card slips and was handed a key by the receptionist. Satisfied, the rider gave the bike’s throttle a deft twist and eased the machine forward, weaving through the parking lot to a huge gas station next to the hotel.

The rider dismounted stiffly after nearly five hours in the saddle, but moved with purpose toward a rank of telephones that lined one wall of the service plaza. Stepping into one of the phone booths, the rider pulled off the shiny black helmet and ran a black—gloved hand through sweat—matted, mousy—brown hair. From a jacket pocket came a plastic phone card, which the rider inserted into the appropriate slot in the telephone box. Black—gloved fingers pecked out a phone number, and after a few seconds someone answered.

“This is Magda Krebs,” the woman in the motorcycle leathers said. “Tell the Master that Drummond has checked into a hotel at Munich airport.”

FATHER FREISE
was pushing a baggage trolley with a large suitcase on it as he came through customs and into the arrivals hall at Munich airport. He was wearing his clerical collar under a black trenchcoat, but even without it, Drummond would have had no trouble recognizing the priest he had last seen at the sanitarium in New Hampshire. Pushing his way through the crowded concourse, Drummond walked over to where Father Freise had stopped near a sign marked “Meeting Point” in half a dozen different languages.

“John!”

The priest spotted Drummond before Drummond could get to him, and hurried to embrace him like an old friend.

“John, dear boy! God, but it’s good to see you!” Taking his cue from Freise, Drummond played along, pumping the old man’s hand and grinning self—consciously as Freise stood back to look at him, pretending long—time familiarity.

“It’s good to see you, too, Father. How was your flight? Did you get any sleep?”

They kept up the pretense all the way to the car, Drummond pushing the trolley and Freise chatting animatedly of inconsequentials but watching around them all the while–looking for what, Drummond had no idea. It would not have been evident to anyone but a professional who was looking for it, but Drummond had the definite impression that Freise had spent many years glancing over his shoulder.

They reached the car, where Drummond opened the trunk and stashed Freise’s big suitcase inside with his own. Freise fell silent as they got into the car, not looking at Drummond until they had threaded their way past the parking kiosk and were easing onto the autobahn.

From her vantage point near the taxi stand, Magda Krebs watched the white Mercedes head up the access ramp and onto the Munich ring road before she gunned her motorcycle to life and followed.

In the car, Drummond decided it was time to drop the pretenses.

“I don’t understand what all that was about, back in the terminal, Father, but I want to thank you for coming,” Drummond began.

“I had my reasons, Captain,” Freise replied. “However, for the next however long it takes, I’m officially off—duty, in a manner of speaking. So I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Frank.”

To emphasize the point, Freise reached up to his collar and pulled out the white tab showing at the center, then opened the top button, transforming the clerical attire into an ordinary black shirt. “How’s that?” he asked, turning to look at Drummond almost in challenge.

“Okay, Frank. You’d better call me John, then. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Freise agreed.

Drummond stole a sidelong glance at Freise as they headed up the on—ramp to the autobahn. Looking quickly in his rearview mirror, he thought he caught a glimpse of a motorcycle cop, and so refrained from pushing the car much over eighty.

“So, tell me about your vampires,” Freise said.

Trying to remain professionally detached, Drummond briefly related the incident of the attack in his room, and how his assailant had impaled himself on an iron fence and then walked away. In the cold light of day, he found himself thinking that if someone had come to
him
with such a bizarre story, he would have dismissed the guy immediately as a nutter.

“Is that it?” Freise said, when Drummond had faltered to a pause in his narrative.

Drummond braced himself to go on, beginning to wonder if it had been such a good idea to call the priest. But there was no point in holding back now.

“No, there’s more. There’s a series of unsolved and seemingly unconnected murders involving blood banks, back in the States and here–except that I think they may
be
connected. And the apparent suicide of an old Jew named Stucke—except that I think he was murdered. And a guy who may be a former SS officer named Kluge–except that he
can’t
be Kluge, because Kluge would be well into his seventies by now. I have a copy of his SS file in the glove box. Take a look, if you like.” He swung the Mercedes around to overtake a slow—moving truck in the lane ahead.

Father Freise opened the glove box and pulled out the copy of the file from the Wiesenthal Center. On top was the buff—colored envelope von Liebenfalz had given Drummond the previous afternoon. Ignoring the file, Freise held up the envelope.

“What’s this?” His voice was hard—edged.

“Oh,
that.
It’s a report on the Order of the Sword, the group that belongs to that coat of arms you sketched for me back in New Hampshire.” Drummond was distracted by something in the rearview mirror. “Why?”

“Because this seal on the back,” he held the envelope up so Drummond could see the purple seal stamped across the envelope’s opened flap, “is the seal of the Vatican library.” Father Freise stared intently at Drummond for several seconds before he spoke again. “Are you working for the Church?”

“God, no,” Drummond said. “I’m not even Catholic. I fell into this in Los Angeles about six months ago, and the first I knew of any church involvement was just now, when you told me about that seal. Other than their cover—up for you, of course. Why?”

Ignoring Drummond’s question, Freise opened the flap of the envelope and took out a thick sheaf of papers. “Do you mind if I read these while you drive?”

“Not at all,” said Drurnmond. “Go right ahead.”

* * *

Egon lay on the floor of the van breathing shallowly. The two wounds in his chest had finally closed, and he was no longer wheezing air with each breath, but it hurt less if he didn’t breathe too deeply. He was still very weak. Actually, he no longer felt very much pain–just total exhaustion.

Turning his head, he looked blearily at the girl in the torn fishnet stockings and Doc Martins. She had been nice to him, dragging him into the van when they were getting ready to go, instead of leaving him in the abandoned warehouse. He thought he had overheard her talking to someone else about him, something about it taking too long for him to recover, but he knew he was not going to die from his wounds. Kluge had seen to that. Egon was immortal. He was going to live forever.

He had not been so sure of that last night. After impaling himself on the railing outside of Drummond’s hotel room, he had managed to free himself, with a strength he had not known he possessed; but the superhuman strength had faded rapidly as he sprinted for safety toward the Belvedere Park. He had lost a lot of blood, between the fence and the running. He managed to hide himself in some shrubbery before collapsing, and tried to pinch his wounds closed, the way he had seen Kluge do that first night; but it hadn’t seemed to work as well for him as it had for the Master. He knew he mustn’t stay there indefinitely, but he couldn’t seem to summon up enough energy to do more than lie there on his back, listening to the wheezing in his lungs.

After an hour or so, he became aware that relief of a kind was near. A dog had wandered into the bushes, attracted by the sound and the smell of blood on Egon’s clothes, and had come sniffing too close. Using all of his strength, Egon had grabbed the dog and squeezed it around the throat until it passed out. Biting through the dog’s skin had been hard, especially as Egon was missing his front teeth, but eventually he managed to chew through to a vein. He had felt the dog die in his arms as he drank its blood, and its body had still been warm when he slid into exhausted sleep. He mildly regretted what he had done, because Egon liked dogs.

The morning rain had revived him. The dog’s body now was cold and stiff, but Egon felt a little better. Crawling out from the bushes, he somehow managed to stagger back to his Volkswagen van. By driving slowly, he made it to the all the way to the warehouse before collapsing again behind the wheel. When next he came to, his head was in the lap of the girl in the torn fishnet stockings, and everyone was climbing into shiny white vans with the Euro Plasma logo on the side.

Egon let himself float and dream as the van rumbled along, not caring where it was going. When it finally stopped, the door on the side was rolled back and everyone hopped out, the girl and two of her friends dragging Egon to the door. There, two clean—cut young men wearing white lab coats lifted him out of the van and helped him walk over to a large stone barn about fifty feet away.

Egon could hardly believe his eyes. Maybe his loss of blood was making him hallucinate. The interior of the barn was like the audience chamber of a medieval castle, lit only by torches. High overhead, a hammer—beam ceiling soared up to the center of the roof, and the walls were hung from ceiling to floor with long, narrow banners of crimson, like tapestries, each bearing the white circle and black swastika symbol of the Third Reich.

Twelve stone seats were arranged along three of the walls, each of the seats flanked by torches in tall, wrought iron standards. The fourth wall was pierced by a large window done in stained glass, mostly in reds, with a granite throne set beneath it that could only belong to the Master. In the center of the room, a long granite altar carved with runic symbols and the curved swastikas called sun—wheels rose organically from the stone floor.

Taking it all in, Egon suddenly felt very lightheaded. He must have swayed a little on his feet, because the clean—cut young men brought him into the great hall and gently helped him lie down on the altar, as the others from the vans filed in and quietly jostled into places behind the twelve empty stone seats. Prom Egon’s vantage point, if he lifted his head just slightly and forced his eyes to focus, he could make out the design in the window set above the Master’s granite throne. Golden eagles holding wreathed swastikas filled each corner of the blood—red window, while its center displayed the white roundel dominated by the black swastika of the Third Reich. The dark and brooding splendor of the room overwhelmed Egon, filling him with joy that the Master had finally seen fit to allow him into the sanctum of the holy knights of his new order.

With tears of pride staining his cheeks, Egon laid his head down again. Prom somewhere high above him, the strains of
Tannhäuser
began to intertwine with a hush that descended as a door closed somewhere behind him, the music building powerfully in the flickering torchlight. As steel—shod footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone floor, Egon turned his head slightly to behold a sight even more awesome than anything he had seen thus far.

From out of the torchlit shadows before the closed door, a dark procession approached—a glimpse, at last, of the powerful knights of Kluge’s new order—cloaked in black, the
Sigrunen
flashing on their collar tabs, each with a great two—handed sword carried at the salute, and crowned with the distinctive coal—scuttle helmets that had been modelled on the sallets of medieval knights. There were six of them, marching by twos, giving proud escort to a seventh knight with an eye patch who bore the sacred
Blutfahne,
the Blood Flag of the old Third Reich.

Egon could scarcely believe what he was seeing. So far as he knew, none of the rag—tag crew of punker youths he ran with had ever seen even one of the almost—mythic warriors whom Kluge had told them were the knights of his new order . Yet here were seven of them, and two more flanking the Master himself as
he
followed the sacred banner–the clean—cut young men who had helped Egon out of the van, white coats now exchanged for long black cloaks like the other knights wore, helmeted as well. They had actually touched Egon!

The procession passed to the left, behind Egon’s head, the column then splitting before the dais to form a sword—arch for the
Blutfahne
as it was carried up the steps and reverently set in a standard close beside the Master’s throne. Then the bannerbearer stood to attention on the other side of the throne, giving a stiff—armed salute as Kluge passed under the sword—arch and mounted the steps to his throne, looking like a god as he turned and seemed to set his gaze directly on Egon.

The moment was too intense. Egon had to close his eyes for a few seconds, too overcome to bear the awe of it. When he could look again, the knights with the swords had withdrawn to stand motionless before the six stone chairs nearest the dais, three to either side, black—gloved hands folded on the pommels of their great swords. Behind them, cowed before the potency of their very presence, the watching punkers had shrunk back almost to the banners on the walls. The two knights who had been Kluge’s personal escort stood at ease at the foot of the dais, facing Egon and the altar. But it was Kluge himself who drew all eyes to look upon him, Kluge who was the center and focal point of all that was coming to pass.

He was wearing the formal black uniform of an SS
Sturmbannführer,
with the silver braid and the lightning flashes and the high, peaked cap with the SS pattern eagle and swastika cap—badge. A blood—red arm band circled his arm above the left elbow, with the same black and white swastika and roundel that graced the banners and the window behind him. The torchlight glittered off the lightning runes and the silver braid and the mirror shine of his riding boots as Kluge set black—gloved hands on his belt and looked out upon them.

“Tonight we dedicate ourselves to the resurrection of our holy cause,” the Master said. He hardly raised his voice, but every word carried in the vaulted stone hall. “We bind ourselves together with our oath of blood and honor, made more sacred by sharing the sacrament of one of our own knights. “