The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Once past the security, he had navigated to the relevant databases and quickly found the information she was looking for.

  The house where Malchus had taken Ava was owned by Lord Drewitt, seventh baron Stockbridge. It had been in his family for generations, and the family coffers had been sufficiently healthy to cope with the death duties and inheritance taxes that had brought many similar aristocratic families to their knees and the bankruptcy courts.

  The present Baron Stockbridge, Anselm Drewitt, had inherited the house and title from his late father. Now aged fifty-six, Lord Drewitt had pursued a successful career as an economist, before being appointed Warden of All Hallows College, Oxford, where he now spent most of his time.

  The database contained a wealth of further biographical and confidential information, which Ava had read with increasing interest.

  When she had finished, she got hold of Lord Drewitt’s secretary’s mobile phone number, and made an apologetic but urgent appointment to see him on the pretext she was compiling a biography of the country’s hundred most influential people. She doubted he qualified, but it had got her into his diary.

  Now, the next morning, walking swiftly under the ancient university city’s iconic Bridge of Sighs, she passed the house of Edmund Halley the astronomer, and headed into the medieval high-sided lane leading to All Hallows College.

  The passageway’s ancient windowless walls were studded with a riot of comical gargoyles, and ended abruptly in a tall square medieval tower, from which a large stone statue of the Virgin Mary gazed serenely down, as she had for the last seven hundred years.

  Ava stepped through the wicket in the immense gnarled old wooden gate, and entered an airy quadrangle filled with an immaculately trimmed green oval lawn. It was bordered on all sides by the usual Oxbridge college arrangement—a chapel, a grand hall, and a set of monastic-looking buildings housing the fellows and students.

  It was a world of medieval neatness and precision, frozen in time away from the progress of the centuries.

  Turning right into the first doorway, as the secretary had directed, she began climbing the narrow wooden stairs up to the Warden’s Lodgings.

  At the top, she found a deep doorframe fitted with two painted wooden doors—the touching faces upholstered in green baize. The outer one was open, while the inner was closed. It was the traditional arrangement to indicate the Warden was in, and would receive visitors.

  She knocked and waited.

  After a few moments, the door was opened by a tall bald man in a cream shirt and pale blue bowtie. He had thin lips and a lean face, set off with a pair of large metal glasses.

  He ushered her into a plush drawing room—elegant and traditional without being grand. The summer sunlight filtered in from a pair of mullioned windows overlooking the quadrangle and formal gardens, spectacularly edged with a wide herbaceous border of bold-coloured flowers.

  “I never tire of the view,” he said, noticing her looking out of the window nearest her. “It’s the oldest university quad in England, you know—quite revolutionary in the late 1300s. All others are copies of this one.”

  He ushered her towards an upholstered armchair. “Can I get you some coffee?” he asked genially, “or perhaps a small sherry?” He was clearly comfortable playing the role of the Oxford don.

  Ava took a seat in the comfortable chair and shook her head. “Sorry to cut to the chase, but for such an eminent public figure, you keep some unpleasant company.”

  Drewitt looked bewildered.

  She continued before he could answer. “Take Malchus and his national socialist enthusiasts’ club for example.” She was watching him closely for any signs of reaction, and was pleased to see the skin around his eyes tighten.

  “I don’t know any such person,” he responded coldly, his bonhomie instantly gone. “Now I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here. But I shall now kindly ask you to leave.” Despite the calm words, Ava could hear the strain in his voice.

  “Strange that you don’t know Malchus,” she continued. “He seems most at home in your house down in Wiltshire. He treats it like his own.”

  Drewitt was already by the door, which he was holding open for her. “This interview is over. Good day.”

  His voice was icy.

  Ava remained firmly in the chair, showing no signs of moving. She glanced down at the side table next to her, at a large glass paperweight with an engraved family crest of three bezants on a plain shield. “Dexter et sinister!” she read the motto aloud, lifting it up to examine it more closely. “‘To the right and to the left!’ An old battle cry, and a very old coat of arms.”

  “I don’t see it’s any of your business,” he replied curtly. “Now I’ve asked you to leave.”

  Ava put the paperweight down again. “I wouldn’t want to leave it like this,” she replied. “Otherwise I might accidentally tell the wrong people, and perhaps even get some of the facts muddled. I could be mistaken,” she paused, “but I don’t suppose that would be helpful for a man in your position?”

  She could see anger flashing in his eyes. And something else, too.

  Fear.

  “Now look here,” he was staring at her with undisguised hostility. “I don’t appreciate your insinuations. And I’m too old to care about your threats. Please leave as I have requested, or I’ll have you removed.”

  Ava looked out of the window. “I mean, it all gets so confusing—especially that nasty business in the Palasthotel in East Berlin. People could so easily get it all wrong.”

  She saw his eyes widen in shock, before his face visibly crumpled.

  Reaching out a hand to steady himself, he leant on the back of a chair, gaping at her. He was breathing heavily, as if someone had physically winded him.

  She had him off guard, and knew she had to press her advantage home now, before he recovered himself. “You see, a lot of government people who watch and listen quietly from the shadows on both sides of the Atlantic are currently very interested in your friend Malchus. And right now that means they’re also interested in you.”

  He sank into the nearest chair, crushed, his bravado gone. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Someone you need to talk to,” she answered quietly. “Because I’m willing to bet you’ve got more reason to hate Malchus than most.”

  He looked visibly older than when she had entered. “I’ve no love for Malchus, or his politics,” he answered bitterly.

  “Then we have that in common,” she reassured him. “But there are many who won’t believe you.”

  He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “I’ve lived under threat of exposure by that … , that … .” He was clearly struggling for words, overwhelmed by emotion.

  Ava got up and walked over to the sideboard between the two windows. It was stocked with several single malt whiskies. She poured a large measure into a heavy cut crystal tumbler and handed it to Drewitt, before returning to her chair.

  He took the glass mechanically and began again, speaking quietly. “Not a day goes by when I haven’t wondered it if will be the day my world disintegrates. And all this … ,” he indicated the room around him, “… everything I have worked for—will all go.”

  Ava let silence descend for a moment, before changing down a gear. “If you want to tell me about it, I think we may be able to help each other.”

  Drewitt looked up at her, beaten and weary, his fight visibly gone. “Is there any point? You seem to know it all anyway.” He held the glass of honey-coloured liquor in his hand, but did not drink it. He seemed lost in some reverie.

  “Start at the beginning,” Ava encouraged him.

  There was a long pause before he began speaking, his voice low. “In 1988, I was a successful senior economist with a large energy company in London. I was also, I still am, maybe, although a little rusty, a keen competition chess player.” He indicated a handsome chess board with porcelain pieces set on a table on the other side of the room.

  “I wa
s offered the chance to compete in a friendly amateur tournament against a team from behind the Iron Curtain. Of course, there was nothing amateur about the Communist players—it was a typical Soviet stunt to showcase their intellectual superiority. The competition was to last a week, at the Palasthotel in East Berlin—a city the Communists were always proud of showing to Westerners.”

  Ava nodded. She did not need to say anything. He was talking freely now, seemingly relieved on some level to be sharing the burdens he had carried for so many years.

  “There were a dozen of us on our team—from Europe and the U.S. When we landed at Berlin Schönefeld, we were met by our escorts—a group of guides, translators, and a government minder or two.”

  He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I should say that I’m not married. And I’m sure, if you’ve read my file, you’ve drawn your own conclusions.”

  Ava nodded her assent.

  “Among the group attached to us was a translator—a very striking young man. I was considerably less old then, and flattered by his attentions. He made no attempt to hide his interest in me, and it led to … an understanding.” Drewitt’s voice caught in his throat.

  He took a gulp of the whisky. “It all happened so fast. I learned later that he had some sort of latent weakness in a blood vessel in his brain. One minute he was very much alive and vigorous, and the next he was not.”

  Drewitt seemed in a daze as he was speaking. His eyes were unfocused, staring into the middle distance as he relived the traumatic memories. “To my shame, I panicked, fled his room, and hid back in mine until the morning. I was terrified of being implicated in some kind of crime passionnel. Additionally, as you note, my family is an old one, and the headlines and scandal would have finished our reputation.”

  He paused, staring blankly at the golden liquid in the heavy glass. “The next morning, it was obvious to the poor maid who discovered him what had been going on. I had fled without touching anything ... and, well, you get the picture.” Drewitt’s voice was breaking with emotion. “The maid ran screaming from the room—and the hotel, of course, called the police.”

  “That’s when Malchus entered the scene?” Ava asked.

  Drewitt nodded bleakly. “It was only a matter of time before he found me. He calmly explained that the young man and I had been seen together on a number of occasions, and that the hotel’s rooms were comprehensively bugged and monitored by a permanent Stasi team resident in the hotel. Malchus got hold of photographs of it all, you see? The animals were watching and listening to everything.” Drewitt’s voice faltered. “I confessed all, and begged him not to release details. You can imagine the sheer relief I felt when he agreed it was in no one’s interest to attract publicity. He duly hushed up the affair in the way only totalitarian states can.”

  Ava nodded.

  Drewitt took another large gulp of the fiery liquor. “At the time I thought my troubles were over. It was only later I came to realize they had only just begun. Men like Malchus don’t do anything for nothing. He came to England the following year, after the Berlin Wall came down, and wasted no time in getting in touch with me. Since then, he has extorted increasing amounts of money and favours from me under the threat of releasing the photographs, which he still has, and stoking speculation I was responsible for the young man’s death.”

  Ava could only imagine how terrifying he must have found being blackmailed by Malchus.

  “And so I have lived under this threat for almost twenty-five years.” He took another large mouthful of the whisky, emptying the glass. “In which time I have come to hate him as I have never hated anyone or anything in my entire life.”

  Ava sat quietly for a moment, allowing the emotion of the moment to pass.

  “What do you know of his neo-Nazi activities with the Thelema?” she asked, changing the subject.

  Drewitt walked shakily over to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “I’d say they’re a highly dangerous bunch. They seem fully committed to an aggressive SS ideology, and are almost all violent extremists. Malchus has been assembling them for a long time. They’re professionals, not weekend warriors—so it’s no great surprise to me that the authorities have finally woken up to them as a threat.”

  “What about his occult activities? Do you know about those?”

  Drewitt shook his head. “Afraid not. I largely see what he’s up to from the outside. But from what I can tell, he and his cronies have recycled a number of the darker occult strands within Nazism and made them a central feature of their creed. It’s pretty toxic as far as I can see.”

  “What about right now,” Ava pressed him, now he was speaking freely. “Is he up to anything in particular?”

  Drewitt nodded. “I think so. He made me borrow a medieval Hebrew manuscript from the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris a while ago. I had to pretend we wanted it for display in the college archives. And I know he’s become increasingly obsessed with King Solomon’s Temple. I’m not sure why. He seems to be recreating bits of it. I’m afraid I don’t have much insight into what his perverse mind is devising.”

  Ava stood up and walked over to the window. She had heard enough to be able to make a decision.

  There was no doubt Drewitt was closer to Malchus’s activities than anyone else she knew, or was likely to meet.

  She turned back to the pale don. “We both have the same objective here. We can help each other.”

  Drewitt returned her gaze with more animation than he had shown since she had begun talking. “If you think there’s a chance you can get him out of my life, I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Ava paused. “I have to be honest. I don’t yet know where this will lead. But the more information we can get about what he’s up to, the easier it’ll be to make the right decision.”

  Drewitt nodded slowly. “What exactly do you need to know?”

  “Anything,” Ava replied. “Anything at all. What he’s up to. Who he’s dealing with. Where he’s travelling. What he’s focused on. Is he doing anything out of the ordinary? Has he changed his routines? What’s his fixation with King Solomon’s Temple? Has he acquired anything recently? We need to piece together a full picture of exactly what he’s doing.”

  Drewitt stood up. “How do I get in touch with you?”

  “Just call, the old ways are sometimes the best.” She walked over to a small antique desk with a pile of college crested notepaper on it and wrote out her mobile number on the top sheet.

  Drewitt steered her to the door, and held out his hand to shake hers. “Have I just been recruited?” he asked, managing a weak smile as he shook her hand.

  “Something like that,” she smiled back, as she slipped out of the doors and onto the ancient creaky wooden stairs.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  54

  Stockbridge House

  Nr Newton Tony

  Wiltshire SP4

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Lord Drewitt gently pushed open the door of his family’s country house—the home in which he had grown up.

  As a younger man, it had always held fond memories for him.

  But ever since Malchus had effectively moved in, he had avoided returning there—preferring to stay at his comfortable rooms up in Oxford.

  However, the visit that morning from the young woman, who he later realized had not given her name, had changed everything.

  Although it had been a terrible shock to learn that the incident at Berlin’s Palasthotel all those years ago was in files people were now reading, by the end of the meeting he had been overwhelmingly pleased she had tricked her way in to see him.

  If there really was a chance that the net was closing in on Malchus, then he was ready to do everything he could to be helpful.

  He had carried the burden of Malchus’s demands for so long, like some chronic disease he had come to accept with a black fatalism.

  But now he had the chance to do something about Malchu
s, and it filled him with a newfound optimism and energy.

  Once she had left, he had quickly finished up his work for the day, then got on the road down to Wiltshire, eager to begin.

  As he drove though the countryside, he had started looking at the situation from all angles, and had begun wondering if maybe it was a trap—if it was some twisted new game Malchus was playing with him.

  Perhaps that was how the woman knew about East Berlin?

  But after turning it over in his mind for most of the journey, he had concluded it was unlikely to be a trick. He could see no reason why Malchus would go to such lengths to find out he hated him. It was hardly a secret between them.

  No. It was far more likely that Malchus had upset the wrong people, and a long-overdue payback was finally coming.

  Now, standing on the doorstep, smelling the freshly cut grass from the lawns, he pushed open the heavy front door, and felt an excitement he had not known in years.

  Something was finally happening, and he wanted to be a part of it.

  Closing the door firmly behind him, he quietly crossed the hallway, and peered into the main drawing room.

  It was empty.

  Looking about, he could see that everything was in order. There was no sign Malchus had been there recently.

  He stepped back out into the hallway and checked all the other rooms on the ground floor, one by one.

  They were all likewise empty.

  The only other place Malchus was likely to be was on the first floor, where he had taken a suite of private rooms for himself.

  Climbing the wide sweeping stairs as stealthily as he could, he turned into the corridor that led to the north wing.

  The thick old Afghan rugs muffled the sound of his feet on the polished parquet floors as he strode quietly down the vase- and painting-filled corridor.

  Dropping down a shallow step into an older part of the house, he arrived at a set of pillars dividing off an elegant lobby.

  Stepping quietly across it, he approached the door leading to the suite of rooms Malchus used.