The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  Dinner passed in complete silence between Sturm and Mattie and almost complete silence among the others as well, Sturm responding in monosyllables to comments by Campbell or Hoch if he responded at all. Mattie could take a hint and didn‘t linger at the table after dinner, excusing herself and returning to her tent where she lit her kerosene lantern and pulled a camp chair up to the side of the bed. Shedding her clothes and putting on her green silk robe, she sat down and elevated her leg on the edge of the cot as Sturm had ordered. An after-dinner scotch was on the campaign table beside her. She took a long sip and savored the flavor.

  It was dark outside by the time Sturm came for her. He opened both flaps to her tent and pushed his way through the mosquito netting, leaving the tent flaps open.

  “Oh! You startled me,” Mattie said, but Sturm did not reply. His face grim, he walked over, wordlessly picked her up in his arms and placed her on the cot. He gently pushed her onto her back and moved onto the cot himself, his knees between hers, moving them apart.

  Mattie tensed, remembering her decision that morning to avoid the temptation of this magnetic man‘s bed and instinctively crossing her arms over her breasts. Sturm immediately grasped both of her wrists, pulled them apart and pinned them at her sides. He was stronger and, when he released her wrists, she left them there while he undid the sash to her silk robe, exposing her breasts. She tried to recapture her earlier resolve but that was easier said than done as she felt her pulse quicken, her nipples growing erect in the cool night air.

  Mattie remained silent as he pulled his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt and began unbuttoning his trousers, the same unbidden image once more flashing in her mind of Cockran doing the same. Sturm pulled the rest of her robe away and lowered himself between her legs. She knew she had to say or do something if she wanted him to stop but by then she could feel the rest of her body betraying her and preparing for him. That fleeting thought was the only resistance she offered, more to salve her own conscience than to stop him. Which it didn‘t. A single surge and her remaining resolve vanished. But it wasn‘t like the night before. There was no tenderness, no affection as he took control over her body again.

  He soon had her gasping, the familiar pressure rising in intensity. Then, before she could catch her breath, he roughly turned her over. Indifferent to her pleasure, she felt her silk robe slip down the curve of her back while Sturm pulled her to her knees and once more mounted her from behind. Except it hadn‘t been the same as last night. He didn‘t lean over her back to kiss her neck, to caress her breasts. None of that mattered to Mattie as she felt the wave wash over her again and again, barely noticing when he reached his release.

  Afterwards, he did not linger as before. Instead, he abruptly tugged free and left her kneeling on the cot, her face on the canvas, gasping for breath. Through her tears, she could sense the anger which had fueled him and that hurt her more than anything.

  As Sturm rebuttoned his trousers, he spoke for the first time. Initially, his voice was cold and even, not at all reflective of the fierce intensity of their coupling. “I wanted to remember what it was like to be with you because this may be the last time. I know this and you should too. There are men out there trying to kill us and, if you continue to act as you have the last two days, you and others like Gregor and Willi Wirth will surely die before this expedition is over.” Then his voice broke and emotion emerged. “I would regret that more than words can say,” he said almost in a whisper as he turned and pushed through the mosquito netting. He did not close the flaps. Only ten minutes had elapsed since first he entered.

  Mattie continued to kneel in the position where Sturm had left her, feeling the cold mountain air on her exposed body and the rough, damp surface of the cot against the side of her face as her tears streamed onto the canvas. She was unaware of the presence of Reinhard Hoch in the shadows outside her tent, a silent witness for the second night in a row of the romantic spectacle she and Sturm had provided. As she slowly lowered herself face down on the cot, tugging her robe back over her body, her charms no longer so explicitly on display, a disappointed Hoch slipped away, vowing that if he were ever again this near her naked body, he would make Sturm‘s woman his own.

  Mattie was miserable, her tears no longer the product of pleasure. For that was all it ever had been or meant to Sturm. Pleasure, not love. And she wanted to be loved. But she had lost that because of who she was and what she had chosen for a career. Cockran was with another woman and Sturm was no longer a diversion. She had even lost the thin romantic illusion that Kurt harbored tender feelings for her. The past few minutes were proof of that.

  Mattie knew she should stop feeling sorry for herself, shake it off and focus on why she had come here. Her job. Her quest. The castle and the ancient Spear kept there which, if she could find it, would make her father proud. But that could wait for tomorrow. Right now, it felt good to cry and she did, rising slowly from the cot to extinguish the lantern, pull her robe closed, fasten her tent flaps and wrap a warm woolen blanket around her body before collapsing back on the cot, sobbing until sleep claimed her and the nightmares returned. Her beheading at the villa came first this time followed by the one that had been her constant companion, off and on, for the past eight years as her best friend once more died in a dark Munich alley.

  Munich

  Friday, 9 November 1923

  MATTIE and Helmut were only three blocks from their newspaper‘s office. The day was still cold and gray. A light drizzle was falling, occasionally punctuated by a gust of wind which caused her to shiver, her heavy wool turtleneck and coat notwithstanding. Most of the Storm Troopers had fled after the gunfire stopped, leaving behind fourteen dead and three times that number wounded. Miraculously, only one police officer had been killed by the Nazi machine guns. Mattie saw that Göring had been wounded in his left thigh and she watched him make his escape with all the others. General Ludendorff was the only prominent figure among the marchers to have been arrested, but the Bavarian state police captain she interviewed said that the police had a list of all the ring-leaders and their favored haunts. He guaranteed that they would be hunted down and brought to justice within a few days at most.

  Mattie and Helmut had not escaped uninjured themselves. The flying glass from the Mercedes windscreen had left them both nicked, cut and bleeding, Helmut more than Mattie. After completing their interviews, they had gone to a small clinic run by a physician friend of Helmut‘s who treated their wounds. They had been heading back to their office so that Mattie could file her story and Helmut develop the photographs. A few of the plates he had taken with the Speed Graflex before the action were undamaged and they had high hopes for them. More importantly, they had the roll of thirty-five millimeter film showing a shaken Hitler scurrying from the scene, leaving his wounded Storm Troopers behind.

  They had not eaten all day and stopped at a small café for bratwurst and beer after leaving the clinic. Fueled by adrenalin and warmed by the beer and the food, they talked excitedly of the day‘s events. “I‘ve seen the aftermath of battles,” Mattie said. “I‘ve even had snipers shoot at me. But I never experienced anything like that. Have you?”

  Helmut nodded but said little. He still looked shaken. “I was in the second battle of the Somme. I still have nightmares. Trust me, today was nothing compared to that.”

  Mattie tried to lighten the atmosphere, changing the subject to how they could use the photographs of the fleeing Hitler. Later, Mattie realized that she had been too unguarded in her conversation about the photographs. They never noticed the four Brown Shirts in the curtained booth beside them, nor the fact that they were followed when they left the café.

  It was dark when they made their exit from the café and they had barely gone half a block when they were attacked and roughly pushed into a nearby alley. Mattie doubled over in pain when a meaty fist slammed deep into her stomach and she fell to the ground and curled into a fetal position, gasping for breath. She saw Helmut go down also, no
more than five yards away, three of the men and their hob-nailed boots raining heavy kicks into his body while the fourth man did the same to Mattie.

  Mattie watched as the three men pulled Helmut to his feet, two of them holding him up, smashing their fists into his now bloody face. “Your camera, Jew! Where is your camera?”

  Helmut gestured weakly to the canvas bag laying at Mattie‘s feet. Mattie‘s assailant now turned his attention away from her and toward the bag. He dumped out the bag‘s contents onto the rain-slickened cobblestones. The man made quick work of the plates from the Graflex with the heels of his boots. He then turned his attention to the rolls of film in the bag, exposing and unrolling them as if they were spools of thread. He fumbled with the Leica and, when he couldn‘t open it, he used his boots to smash the camera open, exposing the film within.

  “Have you given us everything, Jew? You‘re not hiding anything, are you?” Mattie‘s assailant said, throwing the camera back on the ground.

  His face bloody and swollen, Helmut could barely croak out his reply. “No, that‘s everything.”

  Mattie watched in horror as a large man with close-cropped light blond hair calmly took a Luger from the pocket of his overcoat, pressed the barrel against Helmut‘s temple, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot reverberated through the narrow alley as the left side of Helmut‘s head disintegrated in a shower of blood, bone and gray matter which hit Mattie full in the face. Mattie winced when she felt someone clutch her hair and painfully pull her head up.

  “You should keep better company, Fraulein. Hanging out with Jews can be bad for your health. The next time it might be you.”

  With that he returned both hands to her hair, gripping it tightly, and slammed Mattie‘s head down with frightening force. Her head bounced off the pavement but she did not lose consciousness. She felt the tears building up inside her but she stifled them and kept her eyes closed waiting until she could no longer hear the SA thugs and was certain they were gone. She tried to focus her thoughts away from Helmut‘s horrific death but it was impossible. His blood and tissue on her face were a wet and unwelcome reality. She tried to think of something, anything. The future. Something to look forward to. Then she remembered. The 35 mm roll with Helmut‘s last photos of the fleeing Hitler was securely inside her right coat pocket. Helmut had died because he took those photos. That was all that mattered now. If it was the last thing she did, she had to make sure that Helmut‘s last photos, the unflattering photos of the frightened putsch leader, the man who dreamed as a youth he had held the Spear of Destiny in an earlier era, would soon be on the front page of the Daily Mirror along with her exclusive, eyewitness story of the failed putsch and the cowardly murder of her best friend.

  48.

  Fear for Mattie

  The Austrian Alps

  Thursday, 11 June 1931

  COCKRAN had been awake for some time when the farmer approached their campsite to wake him, a silhouette against the faint blue of sunrise. He felt drained. Part of it was due to absorbing the vibration of an 420 HP radial engine through his hands, arms and chest. But it was also like the war, when his body shook with the impact of shells, the mechanical shrieks of artillery so ubiquitous he could hear them in his sleep. His body was shaken from the attack in Venice and the ambush in the Alps. The stitches in his hip didn‘t help either.

  But his mind had been shaken most by fear for Mattie‘s safety. Worse, Cockran couldn‘t get past the pain she would be feeling, thinking he had left her for another. What kind of man did she think he was? If only he had told her how hard it had been to love again after losing Nora; if only he had told her how very special she was to make that happen.

  The farmer halted short of their campsite, surprised to see Cockran awake. Cockran waved to him and said, “Danke.” The farmer nodded and turned away. Cockran rose to his feet and stoked the dormant coals of their small fire from the night before.

  Sullivan was first to wake to Cockran‘s quiet activity and tied up his sleeping bag. “Have you decided where we‘re heading?” Sullivan said, holding out an empty plate to receive the oatmeal Cockran was stirring in the pot. Others were up now, washing out their tin cups and plates from supper the night before. He gave Sullivan a helping, followed by hot coffee.

  “We‘ll check the western approach first.” Cockran said. “See if they went that way.”

  The light had spread more evenly in the sky but the sun still hid behind granite peaks in the east as the autogiros climbed swiftly above the hills and dipped in and out of the miniature valleys that lay between folds in the rounded hillsides. They saw no signs of any human activity, neither Mattie‘s expedition nor the ominous SS troop shadowing her.

  They flew for nearly an hour like this, following the hills as they rose into the mountain, but they found nothing. “Bourke?” a voice crackled in his ear. It was Rankin‘s. “It‘s after nine. Want to try the eastern approaches? I don‘t think they took this route.”

  Cockran craned his head to look at the terrain below.

  “There‘s no reason they would come this far,” Rankin added.

  “All right, let‘s turn it around,” Cockran banked the autogiro in a circle until they were headed back towards the eastern side of the mountain range. They regained altitude so that they could open the throttle and get back to 75 miles per hour. Then his thoughts returned to Mattie.

  Why the hell hadn‘t he asked Mattie to marry him? Concerned that, if he did, Paddy might lose another mother? Who was he kidding? Just as he had done in taking on the IRA in 1929 and avenging Nora‘s murder, he had deliberately placed his life on the line in Germany and Paddy had been far from his mind. He was trying to hold Mattie to a standard he wouldn‘t or couldn‘t keep himself. That was going to stop. He knew it wasn‘t Paddy he was really concerned about. It broke Cockran‘s heart, but he knew Paddy had no conscious memories of Nora, no heartache. If they lost Mattie, it would break Paddy‘s heart but it would be for the first time. No, it was Cockran who just could not endure the agony of losing a woman he loved a second time. Well, that was goddamn well going to stop too. It didn‘t matter if Mattie wanted to continue her dangerous career. If that was what she wanted, then he was going to be in her corner. But first, he had to find her. Nothing else mattered.

  “The central stream should be coming up on our left,” Rankin‘s voice came over the radio. “Just over this next ridge.”

  “Let‘s take it then,” Cockran said and pressed on the left pedal to start a gentle bank. Their speed dropped back down to 45 miles per hour as they followed the rising pine trees up the ridge. As they topped the ridgeline, the ground dropped away steeply, revealing a quick running stream hundreds of feet below with flat, wide forest lands ranging on each of its banks. The hills rose slowly with a modest foothill on the other side of the stream. Cockran closed the throttle and banked left again, sailing upstream into the mountains ahead.

  Gentle waterfalls poured down from occasional overhangs that developed in the steep hill dominating their left flank. The low hills on their right inched closer to the stream, rising more steeply, creating a more canyon like feel that made Cockran nervous. With less room to maneuver, any sudden winds winding down the mountain would prove more difficult to handle. They continued their pace until he heard a shout on his radio.

  “A body!” Cockran heard someone say. “I‘m telling you, I saw a body.”

  “Where?” Cockran asked.

  “Down on that hillside to our right, there in a gap in the trees,” the voice was saying. It was Murphy. “I saw a man lying there, I tell you!”

  “Were there any more of them?” Rankin asked.

  “There could have been,” Murphy said. “I thought I saw one more, but I can‘t be sure.”

  “Let‘s find a place to land,” Cockran said. “We‘ve got to check this out.” Was it Mattie?

  God, let it not be her, he thought. Just let it not be her.

  49.

  To Fight for Cockran
>
  The Austrian Alps

  Thursday, 11 June 1931

  MORNING brought Mattie clarity. She didn‘t know how it happened but she woke up knowing exactly what she was going to do. Bugger self-pity and her ankle. She would find the Spear and then she would go back to find Cockran. That‘s what her father would expect. That‘s what she wanted. To be with Cockran. To grow old with him. And to hell with Harmony!

  Sturm had them break camp in the pre-dawn twilight. Yesterday‘s attack had given him a greater sense of urgency. The sooner they made it to the castle, the better. The sky grew pink behind them, the trail easier to see, as Mattie went over her new resolve and its rationale. She was going to fight for Cockran. And Paddy too. The truth had been there all along. If Harmony had seduced Cockran, it didn‘t mean that he loved her just as she didn‘t love Sturm. She wasn‘t giving up Cockran without a fight. She had to see him, touch him, talk to him. Doing that would make it easier to let go. But she wasn‘t going to let go easily. If she couldn‘t hold onto Cockran against someone like that English bitch, then maybe she didn‘t deserve to. Or, maybe it just wasn‘t meant to be. But it wouldn‘t be because she didn‘t fight for it. She was James McGary‘s daughter, the woman her father always meant her to be. She would never give in. Never.

  Cockran had been right. Her big, beautiful Irish bastard had been right. So was Kurt. Her life was worth more than a spectacular photograph or a sensational story. And so were the lives of those around her like Helmut, Anwar, Gregor and Willi. Mattie sighed. She could see what she had to do and why. She would find the Spear of Destiny and she would win back Bourke Cockran. She wasn‘t familiar with failure. She wasn‘t going to start now.