Cockran increased the autogiro‘s airspeed again as it climbed higher over the hill. He had to time it just right. He checked his altimeter and ground speed once again and then swung the aircraft around in a wide arc. Cockran wanted to have the autogiro dangerously close to the ground, no more than fifteen feet, hurtling directly toward Hoch at 75 miles per hour so that when he cleared the top of the hill and began his descent down the road on the other side, Hoch would be confronted with a flying windmill bearing straight at him. With luck, Hoch would panic and lose control, sending his bike, and hopefully Hoch with it, over the edge of the road.
Cockran completed the autogiro‘s wide arc at a slow speed and started back up the ridge. Ahead of him, he could see the BMW‘s single headlight stabbing into the sky. He increased his air speed as quickly as the plane‘s safety would allow. By the time Hoch‘s bike crested the hill and turned with the bend in the road, the autogiro was only 50 yards away and closing fast. As hoped, Hoch panicked, braking the big motorcycle and spraying gravel as Cockran flew harmlessly overhead. Damn it! He wasn‘t low enough.
Cockran came around for another pass, this time from behind, barely 10 feet off the ground now, his speed nearly 90 miles per hour, a mere gust of wind standing between him and a crash of the autogiro on the road below.
Hoch ducked, hunching lower on the handlebars as the autogiro swooped overhead.
Still not low enough.
Cockran circled around for another pass from behind. Cockran opened the throttle as quickly as he could, trying to close the distance between them. Closer, he had to get closer to the ground. He was within 20 yards of Hoch, barely five feet above the tarmac but the stretch of road ahead straightened and leveled out, allowing Hoch to increase his speed. Cockran cursed to himself—the autogiro couldn‘t accelerate at the same rate. He had been within ten yards, but Hoch was beginning to pull away and he knew it, briefly looking back over his shoulder.
Distracted, Hoch saw too late that debris from the hillside had spilled onto the middle of the road. Hoch swerved to avoid a large rock but then hit the thick branch of a tree with his front wheel, popping the front end of his bike into the air a good 10 feet. Hoch hung on and was able to maintain control of the bike but the autogiro swept past him just as he and the motorcycle went airborne. The wheels of the autogiro hit Hoch at the bike‘s apogee, jarring the aircraft and sending the bike crashing to the road.
The autogiro shuddered now. Something was loose. The rotary wing still gave the craft lift, but it didn‘t sound happy. Cockran circled the autogiro around and made a low pass over the straightaway, scanning closely, evaluating the possibility of a landing. The motorcycle was 20 yards down the road and Hoch‘s body was pinned beneath it. Up in the passenger cockpit, Sturm was unconscious. He had lost a lot of blood and he might well not make it if Cockran didn‘t take a look at him soon. Worse, if he didn‘t land and check the rotary wing now, they both might not make it.
Cockran circled around and floated the autogiro gently to earth, landing in front of the forest debris that had spelled Hoch‘s demise. Once at a stop, Cockran lifted himself out of the cockpit and turned his attention to Sturm. He climbed forward over the main body of the plane and pulled Sturm from the passenger cockpit. He eased the unconscious man down, laid him out on the ground, opened his shirt and held a gauze bandage tightly over the wound, stopping the blood flow. Holding a roll of tape in one hand, keeping the wound compressed with the other, he wrapped the tape tightly around Sturm‘s bare torso. He could do no less for the man who had saved Mattie‘s life. Whatever might have gone on between them paled by comparison and Cockran would have to live with his role in bringing that about. Halfway though the process, Sturm opened his eyes and gave him a silent acknowledgement of thanks and closed them again.
Cockran then took a wrench and climbed back on the fuselage. He sat on the edge, peering at the frozen rotor blades in the moonlight, probing with his fingers at the delicate and complicated hinges. He had no idea what to look for but he could tell something was wrong with them. One of the blades was somewhat loosened, but when he tightened the bolts, its hinges still seemed to work. That was the most important thing. At least, he hoped so.
Finally, Cockran walked over to examine Hoch‘s lifeless body. Had Harmony really been working with Hoch and the SS all along as Sullivan and Mattie suggested? He had to concede it was possible and it anwered a lot of questions. But even so, she hadn‘t deserved to die, the image of her lifeless body on the altar flashing through his mind.
Standing over the bike, Cockran saw a pool of blood beneath Hoch‘s head. He knelt down to check for a pulse and stopped short when he heard Hoch groan. But the man‘s eyes were closed and he appeared unconscious. He felt for a pulse on his neck. It was strong. Probably has a concussion, he thought, as he lifted the bike off Hoch.
Cockran wondered what to do with Hoch now that he was alive. Killing him was one option; leaving him to die here exposed to the elements was another. One thing he wasn‘t going to do, Cockran thought, was take him to a hospital and file murder charges with the local police for his killing Harmony. That was a mug‘s game. The Nazis were too plugged in. Jacob Weintraub‘s “suicide” and Hoch‘s release were proof of that. He turned his back on Hoch to lower the motorcycle‘s kickstand.
“Behind you!” Sturm shouted in a hoarse voice.
Cockran whirled around to see the figure of Hoch surging toward him, his right hand holding a long SS dagger. Cockran raised his left arm in defense and reached for his Webley but Hoch was on him too quickly. The blade ripped along the sleeve of his leather flight jacket but Cockran ducked under the charging Hoch and threw him over his shoulder. Hoch hit the ground hard but his SS dagger was still in his hand.
Hoch leaped to his feet and spun the knife from one hand to the other, alternating grips with speed and agility. Cockran could see the knife clearly now. Nearly a foot long and double-edged like the ones the SS had carried back at Wewelsburg Castle. Hoch advanced, slashing the air in front of him. Cockran hated knife fights, his worst class during MID training. Hand-to-hand was more his style but not when the other guy‘s hand held a god-damned ten inch blade! Hoch lunged again but Cockran swept the first strike away with his right forearm and the next with his left, followed by a right jab to Hoch‘s forehead.
Hoch staggered back out of Cockran‘s reach, shifted his grip to his other hand and lunged. Cockran parried with his left arm but the next strike was too fast as the blade sliced across Cockran‘s injured hip. He cried out, collapsing to one knee. Hoch was on him in a flash with a wide backhand swipe. Cockran leaned back to avoid the strike but lost his balance. He reached his left hand to the ground to steady himself but a kick from Hoch knocked him on his back. Hoch smiled as he straddled Cockran‘s waist and shifted the dagger to his right hand for the killing strike at Cockran‘s heart.
Cockran seized the Nazi‘s wrist with his right hand and rolled to his left. Hoch tried to jerk his hand free but he only gave Cockran more leverage, forcing him over onto his side. Then Cockran joined his left hand to Hoch‘s wrist and twisted him onto his back. Both men struggled for control of the knife but Cockran‘s weight slowly reversed the dagger until its point was aimed straight at Hoch‘s exposed throat.
In the moonlight, Cockran could clearly see the inscription on the dagger‘s blade. He didn‘t know much German but even he knew enough to read My Honor is Loyalty. Loyalty to what? Cockran thought, kidnapping innocent English girls and then killing them after you used them? He decided then that leaving Hoch to die of exposure in the mountains was no longer an option. Exerting more pressure, Cockran slowly pushed the blade up under Hoch‘s jaw and against his throat, hearing the man cry out as the sharp tip pierced his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood.
The man‘s eyes were wide with fright, silently pleading for mercy. “Please don‘t kill me. Believe me. I was only following orders. I was only following orders.”
Cockran‘s hazel eyes implacably lock
ed on Hoch‘s clear blue ones. Hoch‘s grip was weakening and he felt no remorse as he firmly pushed the dagger up though the base of Hoch‘s throat. The Nazi‘s hands fell away, resistance gone and Cockran thrust the dagger deeper, piercing the back of his tongue on its inexorable journey into his brain. There was no scream. Once it had gone up Hoch‘s throat to its silver hilt, Cockran twisted the dagger inside the SS man‘s brain until his eyes rolled up lifelessly into his head. Standing up, he left the dagger where it was.
Cockran returned to the autogiro and saw that Sturm was still conscious. “Thanks for the heads-up. I appreciate it.”
“I could do no less. It was a matter of honor.”
Cockran acknowledged that with a nod and helped Sturm enter the passenger‘s cockpit. The two agreed that they had to quickly get Mattie and their team away from Castle Wewelsburg. In the east, the sky was beginning to glow with a pink tinge as Cockran lifted off and once more pushed the autogiro to its maximum airspeed of 118 miles per hour. Sturm needed medical care; Sullivan was wounded as well; and Cockran‘s hip was killing him. He wanted any such care for all of them to be rendered as far from Castle Wewelsburg as possible.
74.
Parsifal Represents a Model
Westphalia, Germany
Thursday, 18 June 1931
MATTIE held one of Sullivan‘s .45s in her right hand and the Spear of Destiny in the other, both pointed directly at Josef Lanz. Over his protests, Sergeant Rankin had bandaged Sullivan‘s right side and fashioned a sling around his neck for his arm. Sullivan was seated on the wing of his autogiro, the second of his .45 caliber automatics also aimed at Lanz.
Not knowing when Cockran and Sturm would return and also not knowing when or if any more SS would return to Wewelsburg, they had all repaired to the two remaining autogiros being guarded by Churchill. Mattie had pulled out Sullivan‘s loaned .45 immediately after Lanz told her that he had reconsidered his offer to Professor Campbell and decided that the Sacred Lance would be safer in Templar hands, hidden away, rather than displayed in the British Museum, however well guarded. It was when Lanz took a step toward Mattie and the Spear with outstretched hands that Sullivan pulled his second .45 and even Winston pulled his Mauser.
“Not so fast, Herr Lanz. I may have missed the first time I took a shot at you, but I assure you, this time I won‘t.” Mattie had said. That had been over an hour ago and the standoff continued, Murphy having relieved the three Templars of their weapons. During that time, Lanz had explained his position to Winston and her over and over until she was tired of listening.
Mattie continued to keep her eyes and her weapon trained on Lanz and his men, superfluous as it was with the three Apostles doing the same, when she heard Sullivan groan.
“Murphy, I think you should be taking my weapon…” Sullivan began and then slumped to the ground unconscious, his fingers losing their grip on his .45 which fell to the ground.
“Bobby!” Mattie shouted as she saw Sullivan collapse, his shirt soaked in blood.
“Hold it right there!” Winston said as she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, Lanz starting to step forward as if to help, but freezing at the command. She stuck Sullivan‘s other .45 in her waistband and knelt down beside him. His skin was clammy, the right side of his shirt dark with blood. Shock, she thought, he‘s going into shock from loss of blood.
“Murphy! See if you can find a first aid kit,” Mattie said. “Winston! Shoot Lanz first if anyone tries to move.” While she said this, Mattie knelt beside Sullivan, the Spear in her left hand on the ground touching Sullivan‘s right side as she brushed his hair back and put her face up against Bobby‘s cold cheek. “Stay with me Bobby. Oh God, please, stay with me.”
The sunrise was beginning to break through in the east. Suddenly, Mattie felt heat in her left hand and looked down. The tip of the Spear was almost glowing as it rested against Sullivan. A golden aura seemed to be surrounding it. A few seconds after Murphy reached her side and thrust the first aid kit at her, she felt warmth begin to rise in Sullivan‘s cheeks.
Sullivan‘s blue eyes opened slowly and he smiled. “And won‘t we be keeping this our little secret? Doesn‘t that man of yours have a powerful temper and a mean streak of jealousy to go with it? We wouldn‘t want him to be getting the wrong impression now, would we?”
Mattie laughed in spite of the tears streaming down her face as she stripped away Sullivan‘s shirt, removed the old bandage and began applying gauze and tape to a long nasty wound where the bleeding had stopped and scar tissue astonishingly appeared to be forming.
In the distance, Mattie heard the now-familiar sound made by an autogiro‘s rotor blades and, moments later, Cockran‘s autogiro dropped softly to the ground. “Robert,” Mattie said to Rankin, handing him the Spear and wiping her tears with her sleeve, “please hold this for me.” Mattie ran to the autogiro as Cockran was stepping down off the wing and leaped into his arms. Grabbing him around the neck, she kissed him over and over. Then Mattie released him, turned to Sturm and, to his discomfort, embraced him as he kept his arms stiffly at his side. Suddenly, Sturm collapsed in her arms and she noticed the blood-stained bandage on his torso.
“Oh my God! Kurt! You‘re hurt! How bad is it?”
“Better,” Sturm said, grimacing as he opened his eyes. “I passed out from loss of blood earlier. I may not have made it but for Herr Cockran binding my wound.”
“Bourke,” Mattie said, her entire attention focused on Sturm and the makeshift bandage. “Ask Robert to bring me tape and gauze. Have Winston bring me the Spear. Please. Quickly.”
“The Spear?”
“Yes. Do it now! I‘ll tell you why later,” she said, impatience in her voice as she began to unwrap Sturm‘s bandages, applying pressure to the fresh wound to stop the flow of blood once the bandage was removed. It looked bad and she accepted the tape and gauze from Cockran without looking around or saying a word, focused only on re-bandaging the man who had saved her life so many times, oblivious to the man she loved looking silently on.
“Winston! Where‘s the bloody Spear?” Mattie shouted, still barking orders like a surgeon in an operating room, reaching back with her right hand to grasp the Spear near the top of the wooden shaft when Churchill handed it to her.
“Please, dear God,” she prayed softly, audible to no one but her. “Let it work again. Prove my father was right and I was wrong.” Unconscious again, Sturm‘s face was pale.
The spearhead began to glow again as she placed it next to Sturm‘s bandaged side. If she were seeing it for the first time, she might still have thought it an optical illusion but the heat from the spearhead and the golden aura once more surrounding it were unmistakable as the morning sunlight created a near-halo effect around Mattie‘s auburn hair.
In an intimate gesture, Mattie gently and tenderly brushed Sturm‘s hair away from his forehead knowing that Cockran was looking on, knowing that her concern for Kurt might be misconstrued, knowing that her future with Cockran might hang in the balance, knowing that she had no choice. Too many people had died because she was so impulsive. Her photographer Helmut was the first so long ago on that cold dark night in a Munich back alley. Others had followed. Kurt von Sturm, a man to whom she owed her life, was not going to be the next.
A long agonizing minute passed before the glow of the Spear faded and color rose in Kurt‘s face. Mattie stood up, handed the Spear to Churchill, and knelt back down beside Sturm.
“Bourke, please help me,” she said. “I need to check the dressing.”
“But you just now put it on,” Cockran replied as he knelt beside her.
“I know. But I must check something. Place your hands here and keep the pressure on to stop any new bleeding,” Mattie said as she unwrapped the tape and re-inspected the wound.
“Oh, my God...” Cockran said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You got that right, Cockran,” Mattie said as she stared down at a still fresh but newly healed wound, scar tissue clearl
y having formed just as it did with Bobby Sullivan.
Sturm opened his eyes at that moment. “Danke, fraulein. And you as well, Herr Cockran. I owe my life to you both now.”
A tear slipped from Mattie‘s eye. “Thank you,” she whispered as she leaned over and kissed him softly on the forehead she had so recently caressed.
Mattie stood up and took Cockran‘s hand warmly in hers. “Cockran, we‘ve got to talk.”
Cockran froze. “Ah, Mattie, are you sure this is the right time or place?”
“No, my dear sweet love. Not that.” Mattie said, feeling her face flush in embarrassment. “That‘s for later. Never if you wish. This is more immediate. I need to make a decision. Now.”
Mattie explained her dilemma to Cockran. Her father had been right. The Spear was so much more than a historical artifact. The legends were correct. It really had healing powers. But since it did, shouldn‘t the Spear be in holy hands and a holy place, not in a museum?
“The Templars‘ claim to the Spear dates back to the Crusades,” Mattie continued, “and while their hands are covered in blood, they may possibly be holy hands as well. I don‘t know. That‘s for them to work out with their Creator, not with me.”
“Why not give it to a church in England? Possibly the one where Longinus is buried?”
“That has a tempting symmetry,” Mattie said, “but I‘m not certain it‘s the safest place.”
“Professor Campbell and Winston were the ones who originated this little adventure,” Cockran said. “Shouldn‘t they concur on what to do?”
“No,” Mattie said firmly. “I talked with Winston earlier while we were awaiting your return. He agrees with me that my father started it all, not them. And that I‘m the one to finish it. I just need a little time to think about it. To figure out what my father would want me to do. It‘s my decision, Bourke. And no one else. My decision. And my father‘s.”
The Parsifal Pursuit Page 44
