by Nick Carter
I moved along the edge of the treeline to the rear of the castle. There was no activity back there and I decided to chance it. I raced from cover and scrambled down into the dry moat where I saw a kind of makeshift drawbridge of planks leading down to a pair of heavy, oaken doors. I climbed up on it and leaned against one of the doors. Surprisingly it moved, creaking and reluctant, but it moved. I slipped in, pushed it closed behind me and saw I was in the wine cellar once again. As I crawled between the rows of big, fat wine casks, a little cubbyhole in my brain opened up at once to remind me that something about the cellar had bothered me when I visited it with Helga. I gazed around and had the same feeling again. But whatever was bothering me still danced on the edge of my consciousness, part of that strange, mental mechanism that was at once irritating and beneficial. It would come to me, I knew. As I went up the stone steps and into the stone hallway, I heard much noise and activity in the direction of the kitchen and the main dining hall and the sounds of chairs being moved and tables being set.
I went in the other direction, up the wide stone steps to the second floor of the keep. Beyond the small, square alcove just off the steps, I saw the three rooms still tightly shut. Moving cautiously, checking carefully at each archway, I reached the first of the rooms. I was certain I'd find the gold, probably in bars, possibly in sacks. Maybe arms and ammunition, too. It turned out I was in the right church, but the wrong pew. It wasn't gold I found but feathers, feathers attached to real live birds in rows of huge cages — big birds of golden-brown with black markings. Long, vicious talons and sharp, piercing eyes, fierce, proud heads and the soft gold of the golden eagle, perhaps the fiercest, fastest of the falcon family. Each bird was in its own cage, some hooded, some unhooded, each a fierce, winged killer.
I slipped out and in the other two rooms found more of the eagles, plus a lot of falconry equipment, jesses, bewits, leashes, rufter hoods and the like. I went back to the first room and looked at the fierce-eyed birds. Most were fully adult eagles and most had a little bait left at the bottom of their spacious cages. Herr Dreissig was obviously a devotee of the ancient sport of kings, falconry. But these were not peregrines or kestrels, but the far more powerful, far larger golden eagles. Obviously he had been developing a variation on the ordinary falconry. At sometime I had heard that the golden eagle had been trained to hunt in the same manner as the falcon. This hobby no doubt added to his rapport with the Arab sheiks, but it was a jarring and entirely unexpected note here in the middle of the Rhineland.
As I moved across the room, I saw one of the great eagles watching me with unusual interest. I'd seen falcons in action, seen what their talons could do to flesh and bone. These huge eagles, deadliness and beauty combined, could tear a man to bits and the iciness in their unfeeling eyes gave me a chill. I closed the door quietly and stood in the hallway, thinking of where to look next. My first guess had been a big fat zero. I didn't have long to think, for footsteps were echoing on the stones, coming my way. I squeezed into a small space behind the arch of the corridor entrance. I could peer through a wide space between two of the stones and found myself facing a suit of armor on a stand across the alcove. One of Dreissig's men appeared with a robed Arab wearing the traditional burnoose. The guard spoke to him in English.
"Herr Dreissig asks that Ben Kemat, most honored advance representative for His Excellency Abdul Ben Mussaf, please wait here. He will be with you in moments."
The Arab bowed his head and the guard clicked his heels and disappeared down the hallway. The Arab was rather light complexioned with a pair of harsh, deep eyes. What with his robes, burnoose and headgear, most of him was covered up. Banking on the implications of the conversation I'd just overheard, that Dreissig and this character hadn't met, I decided to move boldly. I had a deep tan. Wearing the Arab's outfit I could get by among non-Arabs, at least. I wouldn't make it in a tent of sheiks, but here I had a better than even chance. If Ben Kemat were here to arrange things for the boss's arrival, it would be a made-to-order chance not only to get to Dreissig, but to draw him out. It might even be a golden opportunity to wrap the whole thing in one shot. I dropped Hugo into my hand, the pencil-thin blade of the stiletto cold against my palm. I never liked the sudden sneak attack, but I was dealing with a group of boys who had a patent on it. Besides, this had to be fast and permanent. It wouldn't do to have the real Ben Kemat wake up in the middle of my briefing. I moved out from behind the archway, flipped the blade hard and fast and watched the Arab stagger, then sink slowly to the floor. He lay there, looking like a big pile of rags.
I moved fast, putting on his outfit and then dragging him across the floor. I'd already figured a nice, safe place for him. I hadn't figured on how much work it is to get a body into a suit of armor. It took much too much time, and I was sweating profusely when I finished and closed the visor down on the suit of armor once again standing against the wall. I had reason to sweat for I'd just finished securing the damn thing to its stand when I heard footsteps and turned to see the tall man in the gray suit approaching. Cold-blue eyes, carefully waved gray-blond hair, a trim athletic frame. His face, too imperious to be handsome to me, had plenty of matinee-idol appeal to it nonetheless. He held out his hand and I was surprised to find he had an iron grip. He was probably a physical culture enthusiast, too. His smile was disarming, ingratiating and just a shade too mechanical. But of course, I was being critical. I knew he'd go over with plenty of socko on a speaker's platform.
"Welcome, Ben Kemat," Heinrich Dreissig said in excellent English. "I suspect you and I will follow the same procedure as His Excellency and I do?"
He saw the frown that crossed my face. "I mean we will speak in English," he explained. His Excellency's German is not that fluent and my Arabic is limited. But we both know English."
"Ah, please," I said with a half bow. "I would appreciate it." Dreissig led the way to the room which I'd glimpsed as an office. A large map of Israel and the surrounding Arab territories had been pulled down to almost fill half a wall. At Dreissig's gesture, I sat facing it. He was giving me a charming smile that didn't mask a calculating once-over.
"You do not look Arabian," he remarked casually.
"My father was English," I replied matching casualness. "My mother raised me in Arabia and gave me her name."
"The agenda for His Excellency's visit is simple," Dreissig smiled, satisfied with my answers. "I understand he will arrive about midnight. The usual arrangements to bring the gold have been made and it will arrive sometime before dawn. My men will unload it and store it away. You realize, of course, that only my most trusted men take part in our operations here at the schloss… the castle, excuse me. Then tomorrow, a bit of sport for relaxation. I understand His Excellency is bringing his two most successful birds with him."
I nodded. It seemed the right place for a wise nod.
"After dinner," Dreissig went on, "we will lay plans for our initial joint moves."
This was not the spiel I was after. I decided to toss out a fine and see if he'd go for it.
"I am to take over a greater part of the operational detail." I began. "But I may not be able to take part in your discussion tomorrow night. His Excellency has asked if you would go over the broad outlines of your plan with me. He said that only you, Herr Dreissig, could impart the inspirational elements so important to understand."
I complimented myself. It sounded pretty good for someone groping in the dark. Dreissig puffed up and went for it like one of his eagles going for a chicken.
"My pleasure, Ben Kemat," he said, pointing with a long, thin finger to the map of Israel. "Here is our enemy, yours and mine, though perhaps for different reasons. Israel is the enemy of the Arab peoples today as she has been for thousands of years. The Jews want to rule and make the Arab people their servants. The Jews are not important in Germany today, but they are determined to fight us from the outside. Israel is the emotional heart of the Jews. When the heart is killed the enemy is dead."
He paused
for a drink of water from a karafe on the desk.
"The Jews plot against a united Germany from outside. They plot against a united Arab front from Israel. Peace in the world can only come when the Jews give up Israel and their plots against Germany. But, and here is what His Excellency has recognized, the Jews must be forced to see the error of their ways. The Russians will never help you against the Israelis, except for some material equipment. The Russian army has never been any good outside of Russia. Its equipment is not designed to fight in the heat and the sand of the Middle East. The Americans will never help you defeat the Jews. They are filled with Jewish propaganda about morality and Judeo-Christian relations.
"What the Arab people need is a German-trained and German-staffed fighting force. Such a force of fierce Arab warriors, led by German military genius, will destroy Israel once and for all. My military advisors have already drawn up the military blueprint. We will use the technique developed by Rommel with certain added innovations. We will cut Israel into thirds and then move across and down. It will be the old schwerpunkt und aufrollen used simultaneously in three carefully selected spots. The name Lawrence of Arabia will be forgotten when I am finished. It will be Heinrich of Arabia the world will remember."
I almost laughed out loud. Not with that name, chum, I said to myself. With a name like that you've got two strikes against you. To Dreissig, of course, it wasn't ludicrous. To anyone else, it was downright funny, too funny to take seriously. Or was it? I seemed to remember another character with the musical comedy name of Adolf Schickelgruber who made it big. Too big. Suddenly Heinrich of Arabia didn't sound so funny any more.
Dreissig was on again and my attention snapped back to him. His eyes were shining, his voice full of fervor. It was the same brand of twisted evangelism that blew up the world not too many years ago. It was packaged more cleverly this time, with fewer raw edges, and therefore twice as dangerous. As I listened to him I kept hearing echoes, old refrains that had been changed a little, but were still the same tune. New wine in old bottles.
"You understand," Dreissig went on, "our quarrel with the Jews is not racial at all, but a result of their political bias. It is their political stand against the Arab peoples, asserted by their military posture. It is their political stand against the reunification of Germany, asserted by their wealth and connections. That is why we will move on two fronts — politically here at home, in Germany, under my direction, and militarily against Israel. When it is over, the world will know the names of Heinrich Dreissig and Abdul Ben Mussaf."
Old wine in new bottles. I said it again to myself, because that's what it was. The arched window behind him told me that it had gotten dark outside, and I wanted to get Dreissig off his soap-box. I still had some important questions.
"A glorious vision, Herr Dreissig," I cut in. "The gold shipment tonight, it will come the usual way, you say?"
"Yes, on barges up the Rhine to my private landing here," he said.
"Very good," I smiled. It had been a most informative briefing, much more so than my neo-Nazi host had any idea. I was thinking of how to broach the last question, where was he stashing the stuff, when there were loud voices outside. Three of the guards burst in with a fourth figure, a figure in a clinging red jersey and blue-on-blue checked slacks.
I closed my eyes slowly. Oh, God, no, I groaned inwardly. Make it go away. But it didn't go away. I opened my eyes and the red jersey was still there.
"We found her prowling outside, trying to get near the gate and sneak in," one of the guards said. I was pretty sure Lisa hadn't recognized me in my costume. She hadn't even glanced at me, but was giving Dreissig a cool, hard stare.
"I lost my way and your big bully-boys grabbed me," she said icily. Dreissig smiled at her.
"She may be working with the American agent," he addressed the guards. "Take her downstairs to the torture chamber. We'll have her talking soon enough." He turned to me. "These old castles still have their uses," he said. "The old medieval torture chamber in the cellar can't be beat by anything today."
A guard started to pull Lisa away, but she shook him off and walked out on her own. I watched her go out, back straight, head high.
Lisa Huffmann, I said to myself, if they don't kill you I'm going to fan your little ass so hard you won't be able to sit for a month.
VIII
Dreissig asked me to join him for something to eat prior to the midnight repast he was setting for Ben Mussaf's arrival. All I could do was think of Lisa, with my emotions alternating between anger at her damned nosiness and concern for her life. Dreissig, for all his Nazi echoes and his musical-comedy ideas of grandeur, was playing for keeps. Beneath the smooth rhetoric, the polished propaganda, beat the soul of a dangerous dictator, I was convinced. I thought of pulling Wilhelmina out and blowing his head off right here and now, but I didn't dare. I didn't know how much he had borrowed from his veiled idol, Adolf Hitler. If his followers were imbued with the same Götterdämmerung philosophy, the death of their leader could touch off an orgy of self-destruction and wild killing. Lisa would be as good as dead then for sure. I wouldn't place bets on my own chances either.
No, I'd wait. Dreissig was dangerous, but I wanted to see how far Ben Mussaf went along. I had the feeling that the Arab could see only one thing through his congenital tunnel vision, a chance to get at Israel. He had, I felt sure, bought the very attractive military aspects of Dreissig's plan and not the twisted, distorted anti-Semitism that was a part of Dreissig. The Arabs were material realists. Even their hatred of Israel was subject to that realistic approach to life. Even now, certain groups were taking a realistic approach to the existence of Israel. It was the diehards like Ben Mussaf and the political activists such as Nasser who kept the pot boiling. But I was betting that if Ben Mussaf saw his new-found mentor go up in smoke, he'd pack his chips away and forget the whole idea in the light of reality. It was worth a try anyway. Besides, I had really no choice until I got Lisa Huffmann out of here.
I begged off Dreissig's dinner invitation and told him I'd like to go down to the medieval torture chamber to observe first-hand. He had one of the guards show me the way down the dark, gloomy, forbidding stone steps. I noted we passed the wine-cellar entrance and were entering a subbasement. We passed rows of old wooden boxes I recognized with a chill were ancient coffins piled up outside the chamber itself, which was lighted by kerosene torches.
"We don't use it that much," the guard explained. "Herr Dreissig saw no reason to install electricity down here. Besides, it adds to the atmosphere, doesn't it?"
"Definitely," I agreed. The sight of a man, stark naked and chained to wall irons, also added to the atmosphere.
"He tried to steal from Herr Dreissig," the guard explained. "His final punishment comes tomorrow, I understand."
The man showed signs of having been somewhat more than scolded. His chest and arms were a mass of red welts and there were burn marks on his abdomen. We had reached the main room of the chamber and an awe-inspiring collection of torture instruments lined the walls and occupied the center of the place. Along with an assortment of whips and chains, there were racks, torture wheels, places for hanging one up by any part of the anatomy, hot forges for binning and gouging and a number of delightful appliances I could only guess at.
The three guards had brought Lisa to the center of the huge room where, in flickering torchlight, one was holding her arms pinned behind her back while the other two undressed her. I arrived for the finishing touch as he pulled down her panties, black with pink trim. Lisa's eyes were filled with tears, her cheeks wet and flushed. Her breasts were, as I'd suspected, upturned and beautifully curved, pink tips thrusting out invitingly. Her legs were long, with tapered thighs and lovely calves, her body slender and curving into a smooth, flat abdomen. She had a figure for fitting in close to one's body, reveling in the excitement of bodily touch.
I stayed in the shadows, looking on as one of the guards pawed those beautiful breasts. Lisa tore an arm free an
d clawed at his face in tearful fury. The guard drew back, felt the blood on his cheeks, and hit her across the face with the back of his hand. She fell back against the torture wheel, the others seized her and strapped her onto the device. It was brutally simple. The victim was strapped onto the wheel by thick, leather straps that fitted around each thigh, across the abdomen and each forearm. Each turn of the wheel tightened the straps, shutting down the circulation while increasing the pain in a horrible contest between death and pain.
"Some people," the guard with me explained, "have had kidneys and other organs burst from the pressure and still lived on for an amazingly long period."
"Fascinating," I commented. They turned the wheel hard, three complete turns. I saw the leather tighten and bite down into Lisa's lovely abdomen. A long gasp of pain escaped her and I could see the wild fear in her eyes.
"Who sent you here?" the guard asked. He spun the wheel again and I watched the strap across her abdomen grow taut. "Nobody," she screamed. "Stop… oh, God, stop!"
He turned the wheel again in a complete circle. Lisa's lovely body arched against the straps and she screamed, an agonizing, pitiful scream that reverberated in the cavernous chamber. The guards were caught up in the psychosis of sadism now, and one spun the wheel again. Lisa's scream was a gasping, crying sound and I saw her stomach quivering in pain, contracting, drawing itself in as the muscles reacted to the pressure across her groin. She was crying steadily now, pitiful, wracking sobs. I had held back hoping they'd stop on their own and I'd get the chance to sneak back later and free her. But as I saw one of them reach to turn the wheel again, I knew that my hope was a hollow one.
