“Yes,” Sarah agreed. “What’s it got to do with Colonel Brinkman and whatever he’s up to? You’re not suggesting he’s working for the Nazis?”
“Heavens no. Perish the thought.” Davenport smiled. “But the connection will become clear, I promise you.”
“You mentioned two expeditions that Streicher described,” Guy reminded Davenport.
“I did. Though he was a bit vague about the second.”
“Sounds like he was a bit vague about the first,” Sarah said.
“Indeed. I confess, I’m not sure about the relevance of the other expedition. Or rather, excavation because it was in Germany. Near Freiburg, wherever that is.”
“It’s in the Black Forest, I think,” Guy told him.
“Ah, then perhaps I do see the relevance. Or begin to.”
“Yes?” Sarah prompted.
“The fruits of the 1934 expedition were shipped to a castle at Beetlesborg,” Davenport said. “And that is also in the Black Forest. It could be a coincidence, but…”
“So tell us about this expedition or excavation,” Guy said.
“Don’t know much. As I said, Streicher was rather vague, and by that stage rather drunk. But he did tell me that some time in 1936 he and his team were sent to a part of the forest near Freiburg, to assist with an aircraft crash.”
“You mean to find out what caused it?” Guy asked.
“No, Streicher has no expertise in that sort of thing. From what he said, they were told to treat the area round the crash like an archaeological site, and excavate the remains of the plane. They didn’t want to know what caused the crash—perhaps they knew that already. But they were keen to discover everything they could about the aircraft itself, and what was inside it.”
Sarah leaned forward. “And what was inside it?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea. Our discussions rather petered out at that stage.”
“Shame.”
“Yes. Though I can take a guess at what they found in Tibet.”
“Go on,” Guy urged.
“Well, at the French site they were most interested in the burial chamber, and in particular the sarcophagus containing the body of the chieftain.”
“You think they found something similar in Tibet?” Guy said.
“I do.”
“And they shipped the French sarcophagus back to Germany, just like the one from Tibet,” Sarah assumed.
Davenport sucked air through his teeth. “Well, yes and no. That is, they think they did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that someone removed the crate from the train it was on and sent it somewhere else.”
“You?” Guy guessed.
Davenport made a point of inspecting his fingernails. “I really couldn’t say. But I can’t help wondering, as they obviously went to a lot of trouble to find that sarcophagus…”
“What’s really inside it?” Sarah asked.
“Of course. But I also wonder what they’ll do when they find they no longer have it.”
CHAPTER 17
The sun was setting behind the western towers of the castle. Standing on the battlements, looking across the main courtyard, Hoffman thought it was a strange contrast. The stark blackness of the castle wall silhouetted against the diffuse red of the sky.
Beside him, Streicher wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. It was unlike Streicher to show nerves, Hoffman thought. But then standing with the Reichsfuhrer at a time like this was enough to make anyone nervous. Hoffman was aware his own hands were curled into tight claws behind his back.
The distant rumble of the approaching trucks jolted them all out of their reverie. Hoffman fancied he heard the faintest exhalation of relief from Streicher.
Himmler checked his watch. “A few minutes early,” he said. It sounded more like a criticism than a compliment.
“They have come a long way,” Streicher said.
“Through space and through time,” Himmler said. “is that not so, Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman?”
“As you say, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” He forced a thin smile. “As we examine these artifacts, we will also be looking back into history.”
“And forward,” Himmler said. “To the glorious future.” The setting sun was reflected in his glasses as he turned, staining them for a moment bloodred. “Now we can build on the work done at Beetlesborg, the discoveries from Freiburg and Tibet and…” He broke off to watch the convoy enter the castle.
There were four trucks in all. They drew up alongside each other in the vast courtyard. SS soldiers jumped down from inside, lowering the tailgates of the trucks and starting to unload the crates.
“Very well,” Himmler decided. “It is time to unpack our destiny.” He led the way along the narrow walkway to the nearest tower, and then down winding stone steps.
“You think the training will take as long this time?” Hoffman asked as they descended. “Almost two years last time…”
“But last time, we did not know what we had. We were still learning its secrets.”
An area had been cleared in one of the storerooms close to the main laboratory. Several large crates had already been brought in. Himmler and Hoffman watched as more arrived. Streicher had a sheaf of papers. Together with one of the SS soldiers, he went from crate to crate marking them off on the papers.
“Is that all?” he demanded when the last crate had been brought in.
“That is all of them, yes, sir.”
Streicher frowned, checking the manifest again.
Himmler stepped forward. His voice was worryingly quiet. “A problem, Standartenfuhrer?”
“We are short of one crate. I’m certain it will turn up. Or perhaps it is an error in the paperwork.” Streicher double-checked the papers. “It is not important. Some minor artifacts unearthed near to the site. I suspect we would have discarded them as superfluous anyway.”
“Then this saves us the effort,” Himmler said, bloodless lips curling into the merest hint of a smile. “Now—where is the Ubermensch?”
“Of course.” Streicher snapped to attention. “Crate A-17.”
The SS private next to Streicher also snapped to attention before hurrying to find the crate. Other soldiers helped, checking the labels pasted to the wooden sides.
“Here!” one of them called.
Himmler hurried over, his eagerness evident in every step. Hoffman followed, picking his way round the other crates and boxes. One of the soldiers had produced a crowbar and stood ready to prise the top off the crate. At a nod from Streicher, he forced the end of the crowbar under the lid, and heaved down on the other end.
The crate looked, Hoffman thought, unnervingly like a coffin. The wood creaked and then splintered as the lid was forced off. Another soldier grabbed it and pulled. Nails screeched in protest as they tore loose. Straw spilled out.
“We use the straw to pack the artifacts securely,” Streicher said unnecessarily as a soldier pulled away handfuls of straw to reveal the contents nestled beneath.
A metal door, removed from the main entrance to the burial chamber.
Streicher frowned. Himmler’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses before turning accusingly toward Streicher.
“Apologies, Reichsfuhrer…” Streicher was leafing quickly through the papers. “A-17, that’s right.”
Hoffman stepped forward to tap the label on the side of the crate. “A-17,” he agreed. “Your list must be wrong.”
“But that door should be in…” Streicher turned several sheets. “… B-09.”
“Perhaps that’s where we shall find what we are looking for,” Himmler said. There was no mistaking the edge to his voice.
“B-09, sir,” a soldier called from nearby.
“Too small,” Streicher said. His forehead was sheened with perspiration.
“Open it anyway,” Himmler ordered.
The crate was the size of a small suitcase. Again, it was full of straw. Streicher had already turned away, but Hoffman pulled away th
e straw to see what was inside. Broken pottery, a tarnished brooch, two silver goblets.
He lifted out a bronze bracelet. It was heavy, inlaid with an intricate tracery of silver lines. Unlike the other artifacts in the crate, it was in pristine condition. There was no sign of rust or tarnish. It could have been made just days ago. The inside of the bracelet was studded with small indentations. A hinged clasp allowed it to open in half and then close round the wearer’s wrist.
“Ah, well done, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
He had not been aware of Himmler watching him. He handed the bracelet to the Reichsfuhrer without comment. Himmler examined it, nodding slowly. He too was careful to hold the bracelet by the edges.
Across the room, Streicher was supervising the opening of another crate.
“The French Resistance make a habit of changing shipping labels,” Hoffman said. “They alter timetables, swap manifests … Anything they can to disrupt the smooth running of the Reich.”
Himmler walked over to join Streicher at the latest crate. “May I suggest that rather than trying to make sense of your list, you simply open all the crates. Start with the largest—we can see that the Ubermensch isn’t in most of these.”
“Perhaps it isn’t in any of them,” Hoffman offered. “It’s a small step from disruption to theft.”
Himmler nodded thoughtfully. “Then let us hope they do not know what they have.”
“It’s here somewhere,” Streicher insisted. “It has to be. There are half a dozen crates large enough. It must be in one of them.”
It became increasingly obvious that the crate they wanted was not among the others. Streicher’s men were almost quaking as they opened the last of the larger crates. Hoffman might have found their discomfiture amusing if the situation wasn’t so dangerous. Who knew what Himmler would do, deprived of the replacement Ubermensch.
In the event, to Streicher’s obvious surprise, the Reichsfuhrer waved a hand in the air as if to say: “These things happen.”
“We do have the bracelet,” Hoffman said.
Himmler nodded. “The delay is unfortunate, but as you say, we have the bracelet.” He held it up, so that the light from the bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling reflected off the bronze and silver.
“Forgive me, Reichsfuhrer.” Streicher dabbed at his forehead again. It seemed more than nerves—Hoffman wondered if perhaps he was coming down with a fever. “I don’t know what could have happened.”
“It is no matter,” Himmler said. “With this we can track down the Ubermensch.”
“With a bracelet?” Streicher asked.
But the Reichsfuhrer had already turned away and was striding from the room.
Streicher turned to Hoffman. He rubbed at his own wrist through the sleeve of his jacket, an instinctive, nervous movement. “Is he serious?”
“Completely,” Hoffman said. He wondered how much Streicher actually knew of what he had been searching for. What he would make of the events about to unfold. “But first, we need to hold a séance.”
* * *
The coffee was hot but very bitter.
“How did you become interested in Colonel Brinkman?” Guy asked Davenport. “I don’t see the overlap between our stories and yours.”
“Don’t you?” Davenport sipped at his own coffee, and made a face before setting it aside. “Someone told me they make this stuff from acorns now. I can believe it. So what do you think Brinkman’s team is doing?”
“Something secret, obviously,” Sarah said. “They warned me not to talk about the aircraft I saw. But whether it’s ours or theirs…”
“Theirs,” Guy said. “I think that’s what a UDT is. That’s what they were tracking at Fighter Command when they threw us all out of the Ops Room.”
“Could still be a secret plane of ours, couldn’t it?”
“Then they’d have known it was going to be there and cleared the area. You’d never have been allowed to fly there.”
Davenport was nodding, like a teacher encouraging his class. “That seems logical.”
“You mentioned a crashed aircraft, that this Colonel Streicher excavated in the Black Forest.”
“But why would they excavate their own aircraft?” Sarah asked. “And what’s it got to do with Brinkman? Or that base at Bletchley?”
Guy counted off what they knew on his fingers, thinking aloud. “Experimental German aircraft. One crashed back in 1936 and they wanted to find out why. We detect these craft. Bletchley is some sort of tracking station, I guess.”
“But then why doesn’t everyone know about them?” Sarah said. “If it’s an experimental plane why was one over Britain? And if it’s in service, how can it still be a secret?”
“And what’s it got to do with Hess?” Guy added. “If Brinkman is responsible for, what—finding out about German secret aircraft? Then why’s he interested in Hess?”
“Would Hess know about the project?”
“He didn’t mention anything about aircraft. Just some old book.”
“The Coming Race?” Davenport asked.
“That was it,” Guy said.
“Have you read it?”
“I’d never even heard of it.”
Davenport sighed. “Pity. There is one possibility you’ve not thought of.”
“And what’s that?” Sarah asked.
“That this experimental secret aircraft, if that’s what it is, wasn’t developed by either us or the Germans.”
Sarah frowned. “It’s American?”
Davenport smiled. “I suspect you are still missing the point. You’re thinking too narrowly.”
Guy was going to ask him what he meant. But before he got the chance, there was a commotion outside the room. The sound of heavy footsteps. Raised voices. The steward, Charles, still dressed immaculately but looking flustered, hurried in.
“Mr. Davenport, sir!”
Davenport got to his feet. “What is it, Charles?”
“I’m sorry, sir—I couldn’t stop them.”
Behind him, several more figures entered the room. Guy recognized the first of them immediately—it was David Alban.
“Oh, how tiresome,” Davenport said. “That’s all right, Charles. You can leave this to me.”
Alban spared Charles the barest glance as he pushed past. His expression was somewhere between anger and satisfaction.
“Well you two have led me a merry dance, I must say. But now it’s time to face the music rather than dance to it.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “And please don’t try to make a run for it. You’ll only increase the trouble you’re in.”
Guy looked at Sarah. She was very pale, but she looked determined. He hoped he was showing as much resolve, but he could feel his stomach dropping away. If they were lucky this would end with them locked up. How had he let things go so far? How had he got her involved in this? They should have backed off, let things lie. Damn his curiosity!
Davenport was still standing in front of Alban. He made a point of clearing his throat, then waited until Alban turned to him. There was a flash of recognition in the MI5 man’s eyes. Maybe something more than that, Guy thought through his fog of self-recrimination. Anxiety, perhaps?
“I think you’ve made your point,” Davenport said, his voice calm, quiet, reasonable. “We’re all suitably impressed. Now why don’t you run along.”
“You keep out of this,” Alban snapped. “I’ve no argument with you. Let’s keep it that way. But these two are under arrest.”
Sarah made to stand up. Davenport shot her a look that told her to stay put, and she sank back on to her chair. Guy wasn’t sure his legs would take his weight right now.
“May I ask the charges?” Davenport said.
Alban glared. “Treason, I should think. They followed a senior officer in pursuit of his duty. They infiltrated a secure facility—”
“You mean they went with Colonel Brinkman to Bletchley,” Davenport cut in. He turned to gesture at Guy and Sarah. “These two people are with me. A
s of this morning they are working for Station Z, reporting direct to Colonel Brinkman.” He pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket and thrust it at Alban. “Read this, please.”
Warily, Alban took the paper, unfolded it, and read it. The color drained slowly from his ruddy face. “This can’t be right,” he said.
Davenport reached out and took the paper back. “That is Colonel Brinkman’s signature. You can phone him if you need confirmation, though I doubt he’ll be very impressed to learn you can’t read.”
Alban stared back at Davenport for several seconds. Then without a word, he turned on his heel and stamped from the room. The other men followed without comment.
The sound of their footsteps on the stairs outside had died away before Guy found his voice. “Thank you. That was some bluff.”
Davenport seemed amused. “Who said I was bluffing?”
“Well, you sure convinced them,” Sarah said. “But how did you get that forged paper?”
“Forged paper?” he seemed scandalized. “I can assure you it is quite genuine.”
Pentecross felt as if the world was spinning around him. “But—that would mean…”
“It means I work for Colonel Brinkman, yes,” Davenport said. “He asked me to have a little chat with you both to see if I thought you could be useful. You’re certainly tenacious, but he wondered if it would be advantageous to bring you into the fold rather than have you trying to sneak in under the fence, as it were. For what it’s worth, my assessment is that it would. And with, I gather, something of a ringing endorsement from Dr. Wiles who I gather you impressed considerably with your insight and theories, that makes it something of a full house, as it were. Miss Manners will have your transfer orders out by breakfast tomorrow, so if you could both report to Station Z at oh-nine-hundred sharp, that would be helpful. You know where it is. We’ll be expecting you.”
CHAPTER 18
Everywhere was stone. The pillars that held up the vaulted ceiling, the floor, the circular table in the heart of the chamber. Dark smoke curled from the flame of a black candle that stood in the round recess at the center of the table. Other candles nestled in niches set into the pillars and the walls. Flickering lights and pools of shadow conspired to hide the dimensions and shape of the chamber.
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