‘A deathly cry! I rushed in:
Klingsor, laughing, was vanishing from there,
having stolen the holy Spear.’
Richard Wagner: Parsifal
‘For myself, I have the most intimate familiarity with Wagner’s mental processes. At every stage in my life I come back to him. Only a new nobility can introduce the new civilization for us. If we strip “Parsifal” of every poetic element, we learn from it that selection and renewal are possible only amid the continuous tension of a lasting struggle. A world-wide process of segregation is going on before our eyes. Those who see in struggle the meaning of life, gradually mount the steps of a new nobility. Those who are in search of peace and order through dependence, sink, whatever their origin, to the inert masses. The masses, however, are doomed to decay and self-destruction. In our world-revolutionary turning-point the masses are the sum total of the sinking civilization and its dying representatives. We must allow them to die with their kings, like Amfortas.’
Adolf Hitler
‘You realize now what anxieties I have. The world regards Adolf Hitler as a strongman – and that’s how his name must go down in history. The greater German Reich will stretch from the Urals to the North Sea after the war. That will be the Führer’s greatest achievement. He’s the greatest man who ever lived and without him it would never have been possible. So what does it matter that he should be ill now, when his work is almost complete.’
Heinrich Himmler
CONTENTS
33 AD
23rd May, 1945
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
33 AD
. . . So the soldiers came and broke the legs first, and of the other who had been crucified with him; but when they came to Jesus and saw that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out blood and water . . .
John 19:32
(RSV)
23rd May, 1945
Sergeant-Major Edwin Austin almost smiled in pity for the pathetic figure who sat huddled on the couch, with a blanket wrapped round his trembling body. Almost, but not quite, for they said this innocuous little man had caused the deaths of millions in the vicious war that had just ended. His persecution of the Jews in his own country, then in other captured territories, had horrified the world, and even now, more atrocities were coming to light. Could this be the man who had instigated such evil, this timid creature wearing only shirt, pants and socks beneath the army blanket? Was he really the person he claimed to be? Without the moustache, weak chin and bloated neck unshaven, without the military uniform, without the arrogance of his kind, it was difficult to tell. When he’d been captured, the German had been wearing a black eye-patch and a uniform with all the insignia removed. He’d claimed to be a member of the Secret Field Police, but under interrogation had announced a different – a more sinister – identity.
When he’d torn off the eye-patch and donned a pair of rimless spectacles, the likeness was evident, despite his bearing, his nervous affability.
Colonel Murphy, the Chief of Intelligence on Montgomery’s staff, had accepted the German’s claimed identity, so why should he, a mere sergeant-major, doubt it? They had insisted the prisoner be watched every moment of the day; that’s how seriously they were treating the matter. The sergeant had already lost one prisoner who’d been put in his charge: SS General Pruetzmann had crushed a cyanide capsule between his teeth. He’d make no mistakes with this one.
Through the German’s interpreter, the sergeant informed him the couch was to be his bed, and he was to undress and lie down. The prisoner began to protest but became silent when he saw the resolution on the Englishman’s face. He unwrapped the blanket from his shoulders and began to take off his underpants.
It was at that moment that Colonel Murphy, followed by another uniformed officer, entered the room. The Intelligence Chief brusquely introduced his companion as Captain Wells, an army doctor, then ordered the German to strip completely.
The sergeant knew what was about to happen, for a small phial had been found hidden in the lining of the prisoner’s jacket two days before and they suspected he had another secreted somewhere on his person. They were taking no chances with a prisoner of this importance.
They began to search him, running their fingers through the hair on his head and pubic regions; they examined his ears and the cracks between each toe; they spread his buttocks and checked his anal passage. Nothing was found but there was still one area unsearched, and this was the most obvious hiding place. The doctor ordered the prisoner to open his mouth.
Captain Wells saw the black phial immediately, between a gap in the German’s teeth on the right-hand side of his lower jaw, and with a shout of alarm thrust his fingers into the open mouth. But the German was too quick. He wrenched his head to one side biting down hard on the medic’s fingers as he did so. Colonel Murphy and Sergeant-Major Austin leaped forward and threw the struggling prisoner to the floor, the doctor holding him by the throat, squeezing with both hands, trying to force him to spit the capsule out. It was too late though; the phial had been cracked and the poison was already finding its way into the man’s system. His death was inevitable but still they fought to prevent it.
Colonel Murphy told the sergeant to find a needle and cotton as quickly as possible and valuable minutes were lost as the interrogation centre was turned upside down in the search for such trivial articles. The doctor kept his pressure on the prisoner’s throat, but the death spasms were already beginning. The sergeant soon returned and it was the steady hands of the Intelligence Chief that had to thread the needle and cotton. While Sergeant-Major Austin forced the dying man’s mouth open, the Colonel grasped the slippery tongue and pierced it with the needle; by pulling on the thread they were able to hold the tongue out from the mouth, preventing it from blocking the throat. For fifteen minutes they used emetics, a stomach pump and every method of artifical respiration. It was no use; the three men had prevented the cyanide from killing with its usual swiftness, but they had only delayed death.
The prisoner’s body contorted into one last spasm of agony, his face hideous in its torment, then his body slumped into stillness.
Two days later, Sergeant-Major Austin wrapped the corpse in army blankets, wound camouflage netting tied with telephone wire around it, and buried the body in an unmarked grave near Lüneburg. The final resting place of Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler was never recorded.
1
‘The struggle for world domination will be fought entirely between us, between German and Jew. All else is façade and illusion. Behind England stands Israel, and behind France, and behind the United States. Even when we have driven the Jew out of Germany, he remains our world enemy.’
Adolf Hitler
Harry Steadman locked the door of his grey Celica and glanced around the wide, grass-middled square. The majority of other parking spaces were filled, forming a many-coloured, machine fringe around the green lawns. Most of the square’s working inhabitants of solicitors and accountants had arrived, and were already easing their mental gears into the Monday morning pace. He’d noticed the couple sitting in their Cortina when he had driven towards his
allocated parking space and would have paid them no mind had not the man’s eyes snapped to attention on seeing Steadman; the forced casualness as the eyes glanced away again had not deceived the investigator. The man had recognized him, but Steadman had not recognized the man. Nor his female companion.
Both appeared to be in deep conversation as he looked across the roof of his car towards them. It was a small thing, for there was nothing unusual about clients waiting in their cars until their appointment with solicitor, accountant – or even private investigator – in Gray’s Inn Square, but Steadman felt an unease he hadn’t experienced for a long time. A throwback from the time he’d lived with that unease for weeks, sometimes months, on end. And it had been triggered off just by the meeting of eyes.
He crossed the smooth roadway and entered the gloomy interior of the red-bricked terraced building that contained his small agency, along with three company accountants’ offices. It was a prime position for an enquiry agency, in the midst of the legal ‘ghetto’, Lincoln’s Inn and Bloomsbury on the doorstep, the law courts and the Old Bailey ten minutes away. The address gave respectability to a profession that was often looked upon as seedy, even sordid. Harry Steadman, along with his partner, Maggie Wyeth, had worked long and hard to establish an agency of high repute, beginning with the principle that no case, provided there were no illegalities involved, was too big or too small. Fortunately, over the past two years, because of their growing reputation, most of their cases were for big companies, involving anything from industrial espionage to fraud or embezzlement within a company, though they still handled matrimonial enquiries, traced missing persons and carried out the service of legal process, delivering writs or warnings of prosecution to debtors. Their staff consisted of three: a retired police officer named Blake, whom they naturally called Sexton; a young trainee detective, Steve, who would leave them soon to set up on his own; and Sue, their receptionist/typist and general runaround, twenty-nine, plump, unmarried and an absolute godsend.
Steadman ignored the small and generally unreliable lift, and climbed the three flights of stairs to the agency, his breathing becoming sharper and his strides less agile as he neared the top. At thirty-eight, his condition could be described as ‘fair but wearing’.
The clatter of Sue’s typing met him in the hallway, and her smile greeted him when he pushed open the office door.
‘Hello, Sue,’ he said, returning her smile.
‘Morning, Mr Steadman. Good trip?’
‘Good enough. One more week should cover it.’
Steadman had spent the previous week in the North, setting up a complete security system for a manufacturer of electrical goods. The company’s innovations in refining communications systems had a nasty habit of being ‘innovated’ by a rival company just weeks ahead of their own; coincidence was one thing, but almost identical patents over a period of eighteen months stretched credibility too far.
‘Is Maggie in yet?’ Steadman asked, taking the letters Sue slid towards him.
‘Yes, she’s got someone with her at the moment. I’ll let her know you’re back as soon as she’s free.’
‘Fine. I’ll have to leave again about eleven so we’ll need to talk soon.’ He headed towards his office, waving a hand towards Steve who was frowning over a booklet outlining the Laws of Evidence and Procedure.
‘Stick with it, Steve,’ Steadman grinned. ‘In ten years it will all be crystal clear.’
Steve smiled weakly back.
Steadman paused in the doorway of his office. ‘Is Sexton around?’ he asked Sue. ‘I may need him this week to help find me some good security people.’ As an ex-policeman, his employee still had good connections with the Force and knew who was soon to retire, or sick of the job and considering leaving. These men usually made excellent security staff.
‘He’s Process Server for Collins and Tullis this morning,’ Sue replied.
‘Okay, I’ll ring him from Salford if I miss him.’ Before he could close the door, Sue stopped him by waving a piece of paper in her hand.
‘This gentleman wants to see you this morning, Mr Steadman,’ she said apologetically.
‘Oh, come on, Sue. You know I won’t have time,’ Steadman said in an exasperated tone. ‘Can’t he see Maggie?’
‘I tried to get him to, but he insisted on seeing you. He rang last week and wanted to get in touch with you up North when I told him you were away. I didn’t let him know where you were, of course, but he said it was very important that he saw you personally the moment you got back. He wouldn’t even talk to Mrs Wyeth.’
Steadman walked back to the reception desk and took the folded piece of paper from the girl’s fleshy hand. His stomach muscles tightened when he unfolded the paper and read the message. His earlier unease had been instinctively correct.
‘Dark hair, dark complexion? In his early thirties?’ he asked, still looking at the handwritten message.
‘Yes,’ Sue replied, puzzled by her employer’s reaction. ‘Goldblatt, he said his name was. I can put him off when he arrives, if you like. He did make it sound important, though, so I thought you might just fit him in before you went back to Salford.’
‘No, it’s all right, Sue. He’s already downstairs sitting in his car. I’ll give him ten minutes.’
As Steadman went into his office Sue stared across at Steve, who had been watching the brief exchange with interest. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to the intricacies of the Law.
Steadman sat at his desk and reread the message on the piece of paper. ‘Zwi sends his regards’ was all it said, but it stirred up memories of emotions and actions governed by a passionate vengeance. ‘Zwi Zamir,’ he said softly, then screwed the paper into a tight ball on his desk. He swivelled his chair and gazed at the grey autumn sky outside his window, the image of Zwi Zamir, ex-Director of Mossad Aliyah Beth, the Israeli Secret Service, clear in his mind.
Ten minutes later, Sue buzzed him on the intercom. ‘Mr Goldblatt for you, Mr Steadman.’
With a weary sigh, Steadman said, ‘Send him in.’
He reached forward and picked up the crinkled ball of paper still lying on his desk and tossed it into the waste-bin, just as the door opened and Sue ushered in the man he had spotted earlier in the car. Goldblatt was alone, his companion presumably still waiting below.
‘Mr Goldblatt,’ Steadman acknowledged, standing and stretching his hand forward across the desk.
Goldblatt shook it, his grip hard and dry. He was a short, stocky man, his hair black and crinkly, cut short, his features not as dark as Steadman had at first thought. It must have been the darkness of the car deepening the man’s natural swarthiness.
‘David Goldblatt, Mr Steadman. Thank you for seeing me.’ There was barely a trace of accent, except for a slight American inflection on certain words. His eyes searched Steadman’s as though looking for some sign of recognition, not personal; perhaps a recognition of shared beliefs.
Steadman’s eyes remained cold.
‘I’ll bring you some coffee.’ Sue’s words interrupted the awkward silence. She closed the door, nervous of the coldness she felt emanating from her employer. He seemed angry at this little Jewish man.
‘You saw the note?’ Goldblatt asked, taking the seat the investigator had indicated.
Steadman nodded, sitting himself and lounging back in his chair to study the other man. ‘How is Zwi?’
Goldblatt smiled across at him. ‘He’s well. He retired from the Service, you know. He’s Chairman of a big construction company now. It’s owned by the Israeli confederation of trade unions, so his interests are still for the good of our country – as are the interests of all of us. They used to be yours too, even though you’re not a Jew.’
Steadman dropped his gaze. ‘Things change,’ he said.
There was a silence between them. Goldblatt broke it by saying softly, ‘We need your help again.’
‘Forget it,’ Steadman snapped. ‘I told you, things change. Mossa
d changed. Ideals were replaced by vengeance.’
‘Only by revenge can we achieve our ideals!’ Goldblatt’s voice was angry now. ‘We have to avenge the persecution of our people. There must be retaliation for every man, woman and child killed by terrorists! Only then can they respect our strength. Only then will they realize we will never be beaten. You know that!’
‘And I know you’ve murdered innocent people.’ Steadman’s anger matched the Jew’s, but his voice was quieter, more steady.
‘Innocent people? And the massacre at Lod Airport? Munich? Entebbe? Every time the PFLP or PLO guerrillas strike, innocent people are murdered.’
‘Does that give you cause to act in the same way?’
‘We have made mistakes, Mr Steadman. But they were mistakes, not deliberate acts of aggression against innocent bystanders! We have never hijacked a plane, nor planted bombs in crowded airports. How can you compare us with these animals?’
Steadman’s voice had lost its anger now. ‘I don’t, Mr Goldblatt,’ he said wearily. ‘But I’d had enough of The Institute. I had to get out or be tainted by what we were doing. As you said, we made mistakes.’
A gentle tapping at the door brought a brief halt to their exchange. Sue entered bearing a tray containing two cups of coffee. She smiled nervously at Goldblatt and placed the coffee and sugar on the table between them. The two men were quiet until she’d left the room again. Goldblatt sipped his coffee and, as an afterthought, added sugar. Steadman ignored his.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Steadman,’ Goldblatt began again. ‘I did not come here to argue with you. Israeli feelings run high, but then you understand that. Mossad needs your help again, and so far I have only succeeded in making you angry. Please accept my apology.’
‘Accept mine too, Mr Goldblatt. I meant no disrespect to you, or your cause, but Zwi Zamir must have explained why I left the Israeli Intelligence Organization.’
The Spear Page 1
