‘One of the chosen few?’
‘Correct.’ She grinned. ‘Josef “Sepp” Dietrich, then commander of the Liebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. If Dietrich attended the Excalibur rite in nineteen forty-one, then it’s very likely Lauterbacher would have accompanied him. He must have risen rapidly through the ranks because by nineteen forty-five he’s a Gruppenführer in command of an SS Panzergrenadier division that suffered severe casualties on the Seelow Heights. He was seriously wounded in the fighting there. I don’t have any information on his post-war life. Adam’s people are working on that, too, and they’ve promised to send me anything that seems relevant.’
‘Tell them everything is relevant and that we need it today.’
She nodded and opened her laptop. ‘I’ll e-mail them.’
By lunchtime Jamie had made a sufficient recovery to be able to think about food and they went to a restaurant close to the hotel where they had steaks washed down with Hövels beer. When they returned to Jamie’s room Charlotte’s e-mail reply had arrived, complete with a downloaded report.
Her eyes widened as she read the contents and Jamie moved in beside her so he could see what was on the screen.
‘Don’t bloody hold out on me, woman,’ Gault growled.
Jamie read from the computer file. ‘Our Gruppenführer has had an interesting life. After the surrender, Rolf Lauterbacher was tried for war crimes. The Americans accused him of murdering Allied prisoners of war and the crew of a shot-down bomber. The court acquitted him, but he was still wanted in Poland, where he would almost certainly have faced the death sentence. In nineteen fifty he turned up in Buenos Aires, where he’s suspected of providing an escort for one Adolf Eichmann, who arrived around the same time. A few years later the CIA, would you believe, sent him to Egypt where he trained anti-Israeli guerrillas. By nineteen fifty-six he’s back in Germany, in Munich, but he disappeared again when the authorities began sniffing about. The suggestion is that he was being protected by the Gehlen Organization.’
‘Gehlen?’ Charlotte’s voice mirrored her confusion.
‘It was an independent spy service set up by the Americans under a tame former Wehrmacht general at the start of the Cold War. They used Nazi intelligence experts who still had contacts behind the Iron Curtain. Lauterbacher must have somehow fitted the bill. He didn’t resurface until the mid-seventies when he was an adviser to the Omani ministry of youth. Last known living the life of a recluse in Madrid, Spain.’
‘He’s still alive?’ Gault demanded.
‘There’s nothing here that says otherwise,’ Jamie frowned. ‘But he must be in his eighties now.’
Charlotte reached for her laptop. ‘Then we’d better get there quickly.’
XIV
Twenty men sat round the table in what had once been the wood-panelled ballroom of a large mansion house in the London suburb of Hampstead. They knew they could speak freely because it had been swept for listening devices or any of the other nefarious intelligence-gathering apparatus the security services had at their disposal these days. Each man had come here separately and by a route and a means of transport designed to either lose any follower or, at the very least, make them show themselves. Strategically placed watchers had confirmed each of the arrivals had been ‘clean’, which was a relief to the organizer – the alternative would have meant further complications in what was an already complicated scenario. They were powerful men – politicians, industrialists, businessmen, at least one high-ranking military officer, and a relatively minor member of the Royal family – all with a devoted following of other powerful men, who commanded the loyalty of still more. As a group, they had a net worth of many billions, but the influence they wielded made them worth several times their mere monetary value.
‘So we are agreed, gentlemen?’ The chairman’s voice carried a gravity and an authority that even these men of power could not ignore. ‘In the light of the latest outrage and the likelihood of future even more costly atrocities, the time has come to take strong action against those in our society who pose a threat to this country. Our United Kingdom has not been in greater danger since the darkest hours of the Second World War, and it is only by invoking the spirit of those times that this nation will prevail. The man who led us from the darkness into the light never shirked from taking difficult decisions, no matter the hardship it caused.’ He paused, allowing the abrasive bulldog figure of their hero to fill their heads. ‘Let there be no doubt in your minds, gentlemen, we are as much at war now as we were then, only the enemy is not at the gates, he is already in our midst.’ Another decisive pause to make his point, and he had to make a mental effort to stop himself imitating the gruff wasp-chewing voice that filled his head as he continued. ‘It is a different type of war, but one that will require even greater courage to fight. Our present leader must prove he has the moral fibre to take the necessary decisions, or he does not deserve our support.’ A murmur of approval rippled around the table. One of the politicians – a man whose presence was unfortunate, but necessary – opened his mouth to say something, but the chairman resumed before he could speak. ‘This meeting triggers a four-stage programme to make our Government see sense. In the first instance, we will use our collective influence to place pressure on the Prime Minister to act with the kind of courage required in our current situation.’
He waited, meeting each man in the eye so they understood it was not only the Prime Minister who required courage to do what must be done. When he resumed, he counted off each priority on his slim fingers as he gave voice to it. ‘First he must reinstate the death penalty for terrorist-related murder. Second, he must order the immediate arrest and detention of all suspected Islamic extremists, their funders and the radical imams who trumpet their acts as though they were some kind of triumph. Third, he must order the closure of all mosques linked to these persons. Fourth, he must put in place a registration scheme for all immigrants, up to and including the fifth generation of their line, and create selection centres where they can be thoroughly screened. And finally he must agree to the expulsion of all those with the slightest taint of a threat, plus their immediate family, to their country of racial origin.’
He looked round the room and saw that he had them: the electronics factory owner wondering where his next defence contract was coming from; the billionaire property developer unsure whether the ‘incentives’ he’d provided would ever bear fruit under the current administration; the not quite so well-connected industrialist who’d lost his market and needed government intervention to create another. The knowledge gave him the confidence to take the next step.
‘If terrorist atrocities continue even under these restrictions, he must put in place a strategy to create quarantine zones where the divisive elements in our society can be held in isolation until the danger is past. No opposition can be tolerated if it threatens public order and our ability to hunt down the terrorists. It is our fervent hope that the Prime Minister will respond to these reasonable suggestions. However, should he not, we will move to Stage Two.’ He deliberately kept his tone to a dull monotone now, as if this was just another board meeting, because he knew any sign of passion might frighten some of the more intuitively conservative among them. ‘We will rally our all-party support in Parliament and the Lords to campaign for a free vote on the above matters; a vote that in the current climate we would expect to result in a resounding victory.’ He allowed another long pause to let them contemplate the righteousness of their cause. The politician was too busy nodding sagely to speak. ‘Obviously, we would expect any rational person to agree to what is a perfectly reasonable and democratic request, however,’ he saw a few heads come up, concern in the eyes, even fear, the usual suspects, there would always be one or two; the cause might be just, but certain risks were involved and not everyone could be a hero, ‘if our legitimate demands are thwarted by the intransigence and timidity of our so-called leaders, then it may be necessary to rouse up our supporters, to take our protest to the streets
if that is the only way to make our voices heard.’ Naturally none of the men in this room would be marching, but their financial contributions and the climate of fear engendered by the M25 massacre would ensure there would be no shortage of support.
‘And finally,’ now he allowed his voice to become grave, ‘there is Stage Four. I will not go into detail, because you are all aware of the particulars and the part you have in them should the unthinkable happen and our leaders betray us. Suffice to say that it is a last resort, but this country must have strong leadership or the society we all know and cherish and which has served our United Kingdom so well will be destroyed, perhaps for ever, by the aliens we have allowed, nay, invited, into our lives and who have abused our hospitality with bloody intent. It is a time for strong men to stand up and be counted.’ His eyes met the Duke’s and he saw a mask of resolve that was only mildly blighted by the several brandies he had consumed and the air of privileged conceit that hovered over him like some over-officious servant. ‘I know I can count on all of you.’
A few nods, a ‘hear, hear’ and a slap on the table from the politician, but the faces were uniformly grim, as they always were when the question of Stage Four came up. And it was only right, considering what the men who were now filing from the room had invested, and, more pertinently, what they had to lose, when – when, not if – Stage Four was implemented.
He waited until the murmurs faded and the house had been silent for more than a minute before he pushed the button below the table. A tall figure in a dark suit emerged from a concealed door in the panelling. Pale eyes the colour of old ashes swept the room and he carried himself with a wary alertness that always reminded the chairman of a presidential bodyguard, which was appropriate enough. The man poured himself a drink from one of the decanters on the table before taking a seat.
‘What did you think?’
‘They’re solid,’ the tall man acknowledged. ‘We’d know soon enough if anyone stepped out of line and the arrangements are in hand for that contingency.’ The chairman’s smile set rigid and the tall man suppressed a smile of his own. Odd that someone who had done what he’d done and contemplated what he did should be so squeamish about his friends. ‘My only real concern is Franklin. He’s a little too erratic for my liking.’
‘Franklin is a politician.’ The chairman’s voice took on a note of contempt. ‘He clawed his way to within reach of the ultimate prize and then his greed brought him down. The thought of being back at the top table excites him but, more importantly, the rest think he’ll bring his party’s backbenchers with him. Of all the people who sat in this room, he is the most venal, arrogant and self-obsessed, which is something of an achievement. Fortunately, there will come a time when he’s expendable.’
The other man nodded. Only the inner circle, five out of the twenty, those the chairman deemed most reliable, were aware of the true extent of the plan. A new Britain. A Greater Britain that would no longer be a figure of fun on the world stage, kowtowing to earnest Harvard graduates and bossy German hausfraus. There would be no stages two or three. If the Prime Minister turned down the group’s demands, the next atrocity would take them immediately to Stage Four and nothing anyone could do would stop it. They were ready. Only one other element was required. Their eyes met as they simultaneously pondered the weakest link in the plan.
‘The Duke?’
‘He has his limitations, but we need a figurehead.’
‘We’ve discussed it before, but—’
‘I know,’ the chairman growled. ‘The figurehead needs a symbol to show the people he has been chosen by God.’
‘We must have the sword.’ The tall man’s features turned hard and his expression sent a shiver through the chairman. It was the face of a fanatic, the kind of man who could command a firing squad and then joke about it with his friends in the mess afterwards. ‘Whatever it takes …’
‘We will. If anyone can find it, Saintclair can.’
Three hundred and twenty miles east of the London mansion, a young man braked to a halt beside a parking bay in the city of Cologne and manoeuvred his dark BMW saloon into the space. He had no idea why he’d been told to use this particular space, only that he was doing a favour for a ‘friend of a friend’. Neither was he aware that in the locked boot of the BMW a hundred pounds of high explosive had been carefully packed, linked to a detonator wired to a cheap mobile phone and surrounded by drums of rusty nails. In fact, the site had been chosen because it was close to a bar popular with the local police and a shopping mall where hundreds of schoolchildren from the nearby Hauptschule liked to gather when they finished their lessons in the early afternoon. If things went to plan the bomb was due to detonate at around two p.m. when this assembly was at its height, with young people of all ages packing the entrance hall directly opposite the epicentre. The timing didn’t need to be exact. The shockwave from the blast, travelling at a thousand feet a second, would throw a wall of shattered glass ahead of it, devastating and eviscerating everything caught in its path; the incredibly high temperature would carbonize flesh and ignite combustible material including school uniforms. Anything that survived the initial millisecond of the blast would suffer severe trauma injuries and soft-tissue damage from the lethal hail of nails propelled in the immediate wake of the shockwave. It was calculated the bomb would inflict several hundred casualties, including many deaths, and cause maximum outrage due to the arbitrary nature of the event and the number of ‘innocents’ killed.
The young man dutifully purchased a parking ticket and displayed it on the inside of the windscreen. When he locked the BMW’s door a motorcyclist drew up beside him and handed him a spare helmet, before driving him north out of the city. The time was 1.45 p.m. Fifteen minutes later, the young man was given notice of the other critical gap in his knowledge when the helmeted biker shot him in the back of the head with a 9mm round from a Ruger semi-automatic pistol as he walked to his car on waste ground near the river. The young man’s name was Mohammed, and he was named for the Prophet, but wasn’t particularly religious, a fact that annoyed his younger brother, a supporter of the radical imam Abu Hamza.
XV
The only flights to Madrid from Dortmund were via Palma in Majorca, with a lengthy stopover, but Charlotte discovered they could fly direct from Dusseldorf, less than fifty miles to the west. When they were a few miles from the airport Gault turned to Jamie.
‘I almost forgot, the boss asked if you could call him and give him an update at two.’
It seemed odd that Gault had overlooked an important instruction from Adam Steele, but Jamie shrugged the thought aside, switched on the satellite phone and pressed 2. It rang out after five rings and he was forced to redial the call. This time it was answered immediately.
‘Steele.’
‘Gault says you’re looking for a progress report, but I’m not sure I can add much to what he’s already told you.’
‘I just want to hear that you’re convinced the Excalibur codex is genuine.’ Jamie could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. ‘No more talk of the Hitler Diaries?’
‘I’m convinced Wulf Ziegler stole some kind of object from an English country house in nineteen thirty-seven and I’m convinced he’s faithfully recorded what he thinks he heard in the back of an ambulance on the Seelow Heights. But Ziegler never saw the sword, he’d just been blown up by Katyusha rockets and according to his account the Gruppenführer had a hole in him the size of a soup plate. That’s not the most solid foundation for an accurate report of the proceedings.’
‘The Gruppenführer, not Rolf Lauterbacher?’
‘All the evidence points to Rolf Lauterbacher being the soldier Ziegler met,’ Jamie admitted. ‘The records confirm that, but records have been known to be wrong, fabricated or just misplaced, especially in the final years of the war. We know many of the top SS men altered or wiped their records at the end of the war and simply became someone else. If the hints about Lauterbacher’s involvement in the Gehlen Org
anization are correct he would have been perfectly placed to disappear for good. With a death sentence hanging over him I wonder why he didn’t. Our best hope is that he can describe the sword to us and give us a location for the ceremony. Once we have that I’ll let you know what our next move is. But we won’t know until we reach Madrid.’
The address they’d been given for Lauterbacher was in an upmarket residential area close to the Plaza Salamanca, to the north of the verdant green island of Retiro Park. Germany had still been in the last fragile grip of winter, but here the trees were in bud and the air contained a subtle, softly pleasant and very welcome warmth. The broad streets and their tall, elegant buildings were the product of an earlier, more sophisticated age, but they hadn’t come here to admire the architecture. As they discussed their plan of approach Jamie decided that, even in his eighties, Lauterbacher, the old army officer, would identify Gault as one of his own kind the minute he laid eyes on him.
‘You stay with the car. I’ll take Charlotte and she can charm the old Nazi.’
Charlotte reached for her handbag, but Gault frowned. ‘You’re not leaving me behind. The boss said I was to cover your arse and I can’t cover your arse from the car. What if you walk into another trap?’
Jamie shook his head. ‘We’ll be safe enough. This is midday in sunny Madrid,’ he said reasonably. ‘Not midnight in darkest Dortmund. Our man stays on the ground floor of that block over there, so we’ll never be more than a hundred feet away. And he’s in his eighties, so unless he still has a machine pistol tucked away, I reckon Charlotte could probably take care of him on her own.’
‘I still think I should go with you. Who’s to say he isn’t armed? A lot of old soldiers hang on to their guns.’
The Excalibur Codex Page 11
