The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  The doorway to Malchus’s study was partly open.

  He listened attentively outside it, but could hear nothing.

  Nudging the door wider, it swung open, giving him a clear view of the whole room.

  There was no one in it.

  Even though Stockbridge House had been the Drewitt family’s ancestral home for over four hundred years, Malchus had been categorically clear that these rooms were his personal sanctuary. He forbade Drewitt or anyone else from entering.

  So as Drewitt stepped quietly into Malchus’s study, he knew he was crossing a line.

  It was an act of open defiance.

  He looked around and could feel his pulse quickening.

  Even though his parasitic guest was not at home, he knew enough about Malchus’s violent rages to be aware what would happen if he was caught there. But after all the years of fear, it felt good to be one step ahead. And if it helped get Malchus out of his life, it was a risk he was more than willing to take.

  He looked round the once-familiar room with distaste.

  He had never imagined there being a shrine to such darkness in his home.

  Malchus had truly made it his own.

  Despite the fact it was afternoon, the curtains were drawn, and no natural light entered.

  One wall was hung with a pair of large framed photographs.

  To the left was a young Heinrich Himmler in interwar Munich, posing in front of a paramilitary truck alongside the henchmen of his fledgling SS. Drewitt could not see how the scrawny bespectacled bureaucrat, the second most powerful Nazi after Hitler, could have been any use in the orchestrated street violence at which his thugs were by then becoming proficient—but his watery eyes already had that distant mechanical gaze.

  Beside it was a signed portrait photograph of SS-Brigadeführer Karl Maria Weisthor, who Malchus had explained was ‘Himmler’s Rasputin’. Weisthor had been drafted into the SS as high priest in charge of spiritual matters, research into runes and the prehistoric Germanic super race, and developing rituals honouring Got, the ancient Germanic deity at the centre of SS worship. It was Weisthor, Malchus had confided, who designed the infamous Totenkopf skull-and-rune ring presented to all SS officers—returned on death to a great chest in the crypt of the castle at Wewelsburg, the SS Valhalla where the fallen were honoured.

  It all made Drewitt feel ill.

  Above the repulsive photographs hung a parade banner. The large words emblazoned across it read ‘THULE GESELLSCHAFT 1919’, which Malchus had explained with relish was a group of occult ariosophists that had given birth to the Nazi party—providing the bedrock of magical mystical beliefs that were to underpin the party.

  Malchus had stroked the banner reverentially, pointing out that it was embroidered with the early date of 1919, and already prominently featured a swastika swathed in oak leaves.

  Drewitt turned away in disgust.

  On the opposite wall, as if representing the other half of Malchus’s dark longings, was a large brooding image of Baphomet—the demonic deity supposedly worshipped by the heretical and blasphemous medieval Knights Templar.

  Malchus had told him the picture was by the renowned French occultist, Eliphas Lévi, who had represented Baphomet as a breasted man with a horned goat’s head and hoofs. The beast was sitting cross-legged with one hand pointing to Heaven and the other to Hell, a large pentagram branded into his broad forehead.

  Repulsed, Drewitt looked away, towards the far side of the room, where he knew Malchus’s prize possession lay—inside the shallow safe sunk into the floor.

  He had already decided it would be the best place to start his search.

  Stepping over to the room’s far corner, he lifted the silk rug to expose the polished floorboards underneath. Pulling up two that were loose, he uncovered the safe and quickly dialled in the combination. He knew the code by heart—his father had put the strong box in many years ago.

  When he heard the mechanism click, he turned the heavy handle, lifted the thick steel lid, and peered inside.

  He could immediately see that apart from Malchus’s prize object, it was empty.

  He breathed out deeply with disappointment. He was not sure what he had been expecting to find—but he had hoped there would be something.

  Anything.

  Instead, he gazed down at the familiar large bundle Malchus had once ecstatically unwrapped for him.

  He pulled it out and gingerly took off the small outer rope, curious to see the object again—this time without Malchus insisting that human hands may not touch it.

  As he unwrapped the cloth, the material fell away to reveal a narrow leaf-shaped piece of metal about a foot long, tapering to a vicious point. It had clearly been ravaged by time and was a mere shadow of what it had been the day it emerged, white-hot, from the smith’s fire. Nevertheless, it was still instantly recognizable—an antique spearhead.

  Running his fingers gently over it, he could see it had been mended many times over the years. There was a gold sleeve over the middle section, and the rest was held together by six bands of tightly bound silver wire, which also acted to secure an old nail laid into its blade.

  Malchus had told him it was the Lance of Longinus, the Spear of Destiny—the weapon that a Roman soldier had used to slice open Christ’s dead flank on the cross. The nail, he had explained, was from the crucifixion itself.

  The claim sounded deluded and insane to Drewitt, but Malchus had seemed transported by the object, explaining it had long been believed to give its owner celestial powers over enemies, which is why it had been sought and owned by all history’s great warriors, including Alaric, Charlemagne, Barbarossa, and the Hapsburgs.

  Malchus told him that Hitler had wasted no time in seizing it from conquered Vienna in 1938, fired up by its role in Wagner’s opera, Parsifal, and convinced it was a talisman of power he had wielded in a former life.

  Hitler had brought it triumphantly back to Nuremberg in an armoured SS train, and put it in the former monastery church of Saint Katharina. Later, in 1944, as the end of the war approached and he became concerned for its safety, he had it moved by his agents to a secret location, from where the liberating American army recovered it in 1945.

  But, Malchus had gloated, in the late 1980s, while still a Stasi officer, he had learned that the end of the story was not all it seemed.

  Towards the end of the war, a fraternity of Catholic priests of Nuremberg, still secretly devoted to Saint Katharina, had switched the spear, ensuring a fake was handed over to Hitler’s agents. So the ‘holy spear’ discovered by General Patton’s victorious army and returned to its glass case in Vienna’s Hofburg palace was a useless replica.

  Malchus had become obsessed with the priests’ treachery, and had tracked down the three elderly celibates, who still guarded the true spear. He had them seized and brought to the basement of the Ministerium, where he was able to work on them undisturbed. Although they put up more resistance than he thought possible from elderly men, the combination of prolonged major trauma and strong drugs proved too much—as it always did. In their screaming delirium, they confessed the spear’s hiding place, and signed their own death warrants.

  So Malchus had taken possession of the spear, and it now lay safely in Drewitt’s house.

  He was not concerned about elaborate security, because as far as the world knew, the spear was safely under permanent guard in the Hofburg palace in Vienna.

  Drewitt shuddered.

  Everything in the room reeked of violence, pain, and darkness.

  He wrapped up the spearhead again and locked it away in the safe, dropping the carpet back into place before walking over to the antique desk against the far wall.

  It had once been a favourite room and desk of his—before Malchus had come. Its top surface was inlaid with old brown leather and edged with a gold patterned border. Tall bronze lamps sat firmly at either end, casting their gentle light down over the desk. If the curtains had been open, the windows would have give
n an attractive view out over the gardens.

  It had been a restful place to work.

  But the thick dark curtains Malchus had installed were firmly closed, and the lamps cast a pale glow down over his strange books and papers.

  Drewitt flicked idly through the top book. It was a leather-bound copy of something called the Monas Hieroglyphicas by Dr John Dee. He had never heard of it. As he turned the pages, he could see they were all in Latin, covered with strange geometrical and astrological symbols.

  It was like those older books in the college library that ever fewer people were able to read. He had always wanted to be able to understand Latin properly—not just the occasional word here and there. He had never needed it for his work as an economist, but it would be a fun project for his retirement.

  Moving the book aside, he could see underneath it several more ancient leather tomes, all filled with similarly incomprehensible writing and symbols. The titles were equally strange to him—Ars Almadel, Ars Theurgia Goetia, Grimorium Verum, Liber Iuratus Honorii.

  He had no idea what they were all about, but the dark collection of texts left him feeling disturbed.

  Before meeting Malchus, he had assumed all these occult materials were mumbo-jumbo. But now he knew very differently. The things men like Malchus were prepared to do in order to find such books, and what they did once they had become intoxicated by them, were very far from harmless.

  It was pure evil.

  As he moved the books aside to uncover a piece of paper on which Malchus had been writing, he caught sight of a purple leather case hidden under the pile.

  It was about the size of a cigar box. The leather was heavily worn, and the silver clasp that once held it together at the front now hung loosely, long broken.

  He put a fingernail under the catch, and carefully lifted the lid.

  It rose with no resistance, and he exhaled audibly at the sight of what lay nestled on its pearl-coloured silk lining.

  It was a seal or a medal—he could not tell the difference, a little larger than the width of his hand.

  He knew a thing or two about paintings, but was out of his depth with solid objects.

  His first impression was that it was old—but he was worldly enough to know that modern forgers were highly skilled, and regularly duped all but the most experienced specialists. Nevertheless, he could see it had a certain irregularity and smoothness that suggested it had not come out of a Chinese factory or off a counterfeiter’s workbench. It had an undefinable inconsistency and mellowness hinting at authentic age.

  He touched its surface, tracing the images and writing covering the front face. He could read some of the words, but they made no sense to him.

  Prising it gingerly out of the box, he flipped it over, revealing more carvings on the other side. They were in a completely different style—rougher and cruder. Again, he could not make any sense of them.

  He turned the object over in his hands again.

  It was quite one of the oddest things he had ever seen.

  Startled by a noise behind him, he froze, before a second noise triggered a burst of adrenaline that spun him round to face the door.

  His heart was hammering as his eyes scoured the room and the hallway outside for even the smallest clue to what may have made the noise.

  But there was nothing there.

  He took several deep breaths, continuing to stare at the empty doorway.

  Forcing himself to remain calm, he listened acutely. But there was only silence.

  Relaxing, he lowered his tense shoulders and reminded himself it was an old house. It made noises. It always had. As a child in bed, he had constantly fought the urge to panic when the floorboards creaked, expanding and contracting as the house settled down each night.

  He steeled himself to stop imagining things, and turned back to the desk.

  Thinking quickly, he pulled the phone from his jacket pocket, and flipped on the camera.

  Holding it a foot above the strange seal, he snapped a photograph of the front, then flipped it over and took one of the reverse.

  Peering at the phone’s screen to make sure the pictures had come out, he noted with satisfaction that they had. All the details were clear and crisp.

  Laying the seal back on the box’s silk lining, he opened the photographs into an MMS message, and added the telephone number the young woman had given him at his college that morning.

  Typing quickly, he wrote her a brief explanation:

  ON HIS DESK. MAYBE OF INTEREST TO YOU?

  AD

  He hit the SEND button, and as he did so another noise from the doorway made his heart skip a beat.

  This time there was no mistaking it. He was not imagining things.

  There was someone there.

  Slipping the phone quickly into his pocket, he turned around slowly to see a figure emerge into the doorway.

  A hot flush of sweat broke out over his body as he saw it was Malchus, standing quietly, watching him.

  As his tormentor stood there, fixing him with an icy expression, he began to feel a knot of cold fear tightening in the pit of his stomach.

  “I was just … . I thought perhaps … ,” Drewitt blustered, struggling to think up any excuse to explain what he was doing in Malchus’s rooms.

  He prayed Malchus had not seen him taking the photographs.

  “There’s no need to explain,” Malchus replied coldly. “It’s quite clear.”

  “No, no … you see,” Drewitt stammered, “I was looking for today’s newspaper. I thought ... I thought perhaps you had brought it upstairs.” He trailed off, aware Malchus had begun walking over towards him.

  He winced as he saw Malchus glancing at the disturbed carpet, where it had folded back onto the floor with a visible wrinkle.

  As Malchus drew level with the desk, Drewitt noticed with a sickening lurch that the leather case containing the medal was still open, and Malchus was looking directly at it.

  Drewitt struggled desperately for something to say.

  At first he thought perhaps he should make light of it, but he listened with growing despair as the rushed words came tumbling out of his mouth. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. Academic curiosity, you know. Sorry.” He was rambling. Even as he heard the words, he knew they were hopelessly inadequate.

  Malchus carried on staring at the medal.

  “As I said, no need to explain,” Malchus answered robotically. “I can see exactly what’s been happening here.”

  To Drewitt’s surprise, Malchus put an arm round his shoulder and began steering him towards the door.

  “Well, I honestly—” Drewitt began, unsure what to read into Malchus’s reaction. But his thoughts were interrupted by Malchus jabbing his hand into Drewitt’s jacket pocket with lightning speed, and pulling out the phone.

  Impulsively, Drewitt lunged to grab it back, but Malchus was too quick, and had already stepped away.

  At that moment, the phone emitted two short low chimes.

  Drewitt felt sick.

  “Your correspondent has replied,” Malchus opened the incoming message.

  “Look, I can explain—” Drewitt began, but Malchus again cut him off.

  “MANY THANKS FOR THE PHOTOS”

  he read out aloud.

  “THEY LOOK FASCINATING. I’LL BE IN TOUCH. KEEP IT UP!”

  As Malchus scrolled up to read Drewitt’s original message, Drewitt could see the embedded images of the seal’s two faces filling the entire screen.

  Malchus clicked the phone off, and slipped it into his pocket.

  With no more excuses and nothing to hide or lose any longer, Drewitt gazed defiantly at Malchus.

  “This is very … disappointing,” Malchus stared at him. “You’ve violated our arrangement.”

  Drewitt glared back, finally making no show of hiding his loathing for him.

  “I’m afraid this changes things,” Malchus said quietly, nodding towards the doorway.

  As Drewitt’s eyes
followed him, he saw one of Malchus’s thugs standing in the hallway outside the room.

  “Goodbye, Anselm Drewitt,” Malchus murmured, with no hint of emotion, walking past the bodyguard into the hallway. “We shall not meet again.”

  Whatever ambiguity Drewitt felt there may have been in Malchus’s parting words quickly evaporated as the bodyguard pulled a long cut-throat razor from his pocket, and advanced into the room.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  55

  10b St James’s Gardens

  Piccadilly

  London SW1

  England

  The United Kingdom

  In her London house, neatly tucked away behind the rush of Piccadilly, Ava’s mobile phone vibrated.

  Since arriving back in London from visiting Drewitt in Oxford, she had called Ferguson, and told him to meet her at the house so she could bring him up to speed.

  She felt it was the right thing to do.

  In the pub the previous evening, he had asked for three days in which to show he could be useful. If he failed, he would go, and take Prince with him.

  Ava knew a good deal when she saw one.

  So she had decided to enter into the spirit of it properly.

  When he arrived, she had briefed him on everything she knew. Fair was fair. She needed to give him the information, otherwise he stood no chance of being useful to her. And she was not risking a lot in telling him what she knew. After all, he was aware of much of it already, or could get it from Prince and DeVere, so she was not giving anything away.

  He had listened attentively in silence, and afterwards asked incisive questions, keen to put the pieces of the jigsaw together.

  What had she thought General Hunter’s motives were in telling her about Malchus and her father? What had she made of Saxby and his sudden appearance? Who did she think Saxby worked for, and why had he passed her the ticket to the Burj al-Arab auction? Did she have any proof the snatch-squad at the Burj al-Arab had been Malchus’s men? Why did she think Prince had helped her with the flash drive? What did she realistically expect from Drewitt? And a host of other detailed questions, many of which she had been asking herself incessantly over the last few days.