The Avenger- Thomas Bennet and a Father's Lament

by Don Jacobson

All the while his brain was spinning and processing what had happened.

  What he could not do was attack the SS-er in front of the future Queen of England. What if he was armed? What if a pitched battle ensued with bullets flying through the crowd? Their deaths would be compounded by more in the stampede sure to follow.

  Once again, he would have to wait.

  Chapter XXVIII

  The opening ceremonies concluded with the royal party and the Families’ representatives climbing upstairs into the galleries lined with the collection. An announcement was made that a fifteen-minute pause would be required before the audience in general was allowed into the exhibition.

  Liebermann had surreptitiously kept a weather eye out on the criminal. When the delay was called out, the murderer paused and then put on a grey-felt Borsalino and turned to leave the precincts of the Tate.

  The Sergeant’s pulse surged, and adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream.

  As Mr. Holmes would have said, according to the Countess, ‘the game is afoot!’

  Liebermann bent to give his wife a quick peck on the cheek and softly told her he would meet her back at Matlock House. Then he, too, departed the great hall, intent on following his prey before the monster went to ground.

  As Liebermann descended to street level, he cast his eyes in either direction seeking to pick out the distinctive headgear. His vigilance paid off as he sighted the blue felt topper and same-colored blazer off to his right moving at a gentle pace across the plaza before turning away from the river onto Atterbury Street. Liebermann trailed him, some 25 yards back, shielded by intervening passersby, their paths ebbing and flowing without any apparent rhyme or reason.

  As the former Standartenführer slowed to avoid traffic on John Islip Street, Liebermann stopped in his tracks and turned away to examine the high walls of the back reaches of the Tate lest he be caught out tailing the German. The target then crossed the street and passed into Millbank Gardens, strolling along, seemingly without a care in the world. Liebermann continued to hang back, delayed as a red double-decker bus sped past which obscured his view for a moment.

  By the time Liebermann was able to step onto John Islip Street, he perceived that his target had suddenly pulled away. His path now was headed straight toward a pretty little wood at the far end of the garden. The Sergeant picked up his pace, although he kept to the cobbled walks meandering through ornamental shrubbery and lawns. He wished to close the gap, fearing that he would lose his quarry in the shadows cast by the canopy of oaks and maples.

  Liebermann was seconds behind the animal when he passed from the brilliant late morning sunshine into the coolness thrown by the overarching branches. T’was as if a curtain had been drawn, so effectively had the dapper man vanished from Liebermann’s ken.

  Then, he, too, crossed that horizon, moving ahead on the footpath which guided him toward the brilliant arch on the far side of the small forest. So intense was the light shining down that invisible tunnel that he could perceive nothing in the flood of energy: no shimmering mirage that would have confirmed that he was still behind his man.

  He never allowed his eyes to adjust to the deep grey umbra pervading the grove.

  He lost situational awareness in his excited conviction that his subject had proceeded as he himself was—crossing the copse by the shortest manner possible.

  Liebermann’s mistake was concentrating on the light and not the dark.

  He did not perceive the intersecting trail that sliced across first in front of him and then, inevitably, behind him as he moved ever closer to the other side.

  And, thus, Liebermann never apprehended the shadowy figure emerge from that tributary, inaudibly padding along in his wake.

  Mirrored steps brought the double star system—one brilliant in his desire to avenge the martyrs, the other, inky darkness, exuding a malevolence that had been as mother’s milk for over 130 years—ever closer to the exit from Millbank Wood.

  Yet, only one could leave.

  The grappling, when it came, was sudden. The darker form swiftly closed the gap with the larger, unsuspecting soul. Even in the darkness, the faint sunlight glinted off the milled gutters of the Ehrendolch.

  This sort of close work was never bloodless, but the killer, knowing his craft, recognized that, for him to escape in a daylight-filled city, his clothing needed to be free from carmine stains. The months of training at die SS-Junkerschule Bad Tölz[lxxxi] returned in his moment of need.

  Rather than gripping the larger man from behind and driving the weapon into his kidneys, ensuring a quick kill, but also a gusher of blood pouring onto his own clothing, he would still attack from behind, but opt for the more challenging reach around stroke, thrusting upward beneath the sternum. A more difficult cut, to be sure, but one which would use the victim’s own body as an apron.

  Timing was everything for this dance step. Hit the back too soon, and the target would have a split second to shift and spoil the aim.

  The Weapons Scharführer had screamed the cadence.

  Eins…Approach

  Zwei…Blade arm arc around the side to the front

  Drei…Drive your body into the back, push forward

  Vier…Impale on the thorn, using body weight to improve the stroke

  Und Fünf…Clutch das fiend tightly and drive upward

  T’was over in seconds in the darkling precincts of Millbank Wood.

  The tip, though, missed Liebermann’s great heart, a mistake that would cost dearly—not now, but in the coming years—which gave the Sergeant enough time to perform one last service to the Five Families and the House of Schiller.

  As the blade seared through the great muscles cording around his torso, puncturing his body’s aorta, Liebermann’s legs crumpled as the strength left them. In response, his shoulders began sliding down his assailant’s chest. While his right arm was pinned to his body by the hand and arm tied to the knife, his left arched upwards in an instinctive motion; taloned fingers clawing at his murderer’s face. When that countenance twisted away to avoid the grasping fingers, Liebermann’s hand unconsciously slid downward as he weakened.

  To hook around the silken cravat which was pulled from the killer’s neck as gravity had its way with the dying man’s now-flabby triceps. The arm dropped, dragging the ascot from its station. Again, more in reflex than from intent, Manfred’s hand released the cloth as he sought to dislodge the blade around which great gouts of his life’s blood spurted with every beat of his heart, although the time between one and the next increased every moment. The rag, soaked in copper-scented ooze, draped itself over the dagger.

  At this point, the killer was still holding his victim, but as life ebbed, so, too did the dead weight increase. Liebermann was never a small man, and his executioner, while athletic, could not, would not, continue to support him.

  He yanked the dagger free from Manfred’s weakened grip and pushed him away. The giant collapsed forward onto his face, a great sigh escaping from his weakening lungs as his body settled onto the pavement, securing the errant scarf beneath his 200-pound bulk.

  The killer wiped the blade on the fallen man’s jacket and slid its length into the scabbard strapped to his left forearm beneath his flowing silk shirt. Then he stepped over the dying man, gasping his last breaths, and strode out into the bright sunshine to make good his escape.

  As his blood puddled beneath his frame, Liebermann had but moments before the rising waters carried him off…and those eternal ticks were devoted to

  Claudia? I am sorry. You were too good for the likes of me.

  Then the darkness gathered to be washed away by ineffable peace as ethereal hands lifted him from the mire.

  Martha? Mein Herr?

  

  The bobby stood sentinel at the edge of the wood. He ran his eyes up and down and finally across the trio of men hurrying down the path toward his station. One was clearly of the highest Quality. The rise of his chin and his perfect bearing passed down through generati
ons shined through. Another had the distinctive carriage of a soldier, and not just any ordinary Tommy at that, but rather featuring the unusually compact movements of a leopard crouched upon a branch above a succulent pig. The third was clearly a gentleman of means, but one of those who, wearing his sensible grey woolens and gold-rimmed spectacles beneath a thinning, greying thatch, blended comfortably into the woodwork, preferring to allow other, more loudly plumed birds to attract the attention of predators. Clearly, though, these were the ones he had been told to expect. He waved them past and into the wood.

  Bennet stopped the moment they had entered, forcing both Matlock and Schiller to halt and turn to face the Founder.

  The young Graf, already agitated by grief, impatiently demanded of his elder, “Why are you stopping. Manfred lies just steps away!”

  Understanding the Hauptmann’s pain, Bennet did not chide him, genially explaining, “I was trying to imagine what would have caused our normally sensible friend to charge ahead into a kill zone.

  “Look, Schiller; the light in our eyes is still nearly disabling and would have been even more so around noon—given when Madame Liebermann suggested that he left the gallery.

  “While the dazzling effect would explain why he did not notice either the intersecting path or the somewhat impenetrable bay laurel bushes to either side of the walk, there is no plausible reason why Manfred abandoned his decades of training and did not reconnoiter, how do you boys in the Paras say it, his six.

  “What would have driven him to act in so foolhardy a manner?”

  Matlock answered, “There could be only one reason. We saw the photo yesterday. He must have seen the man today. I cannot imagine anything less would have caused him to dash off without backup.”

  Bennet grimly smiled, “Indeed, young fellow. I cannot find anything to suggest another conclusion.

  “Yet, if we accept that deduction, we must now ask ourselves, what drew a man we know to have been the instrument of our family’s destruction into the very midst of all those he has sworn to destroy?

  “What attracted him to the gallery on this day of all days? Could he not have laid siege to us in Deauville or on the street in front of Matlock House?

  “Clearly the opening of the exhibition might have piqued his interest, but that does not seem enough to entice a man dedicated to invisibility to risk discovery.

  “There has to be something more…and something more about the exhibit itself…which pulled him from his bolt-hole.”

  Bennet shrugged at the end of this soliloquy, indicating that more thought would have to be given to the problem. Now, though, they needed to tend to their friend.

  Ahead of them, lying in the path, was a shroud, bulking up from the surrounding flatness. A few men, inspectors perhaps, looked up as the trio approached. Offering desultory introductions, they moved off. Another, though, stepped from the deeper shadows and remained to stand above the crime scene. He approached Matlock, hand outstretched. He was unfamiliar to either Bennet or Schiller.

  Now assuming his alter ego, M greeted the trim, handsome interloper, “Ah, Fleming. Surprised to see you here. Thought we were done-and-dusted. Aren’t you with The Sunday Times? Figured you to be above normal police beat stories.”

  Ian Fleming (Commander, RN, Ret.) chuckled, “And, I imagine you are simply offering up your aristocratic know-how to help solve a common mugging?

  “No, my dear Earl, I am here for the same reason that you and your friends find yourselves in Millbank Gardens this sad afternoon. You see, one of our boys from T-Force days is a photog sniffing out particularly nasty scenes. Some of the tabloids in our group love to run with dead bodies, especially those discovered behind the Tate!

  “If it bleeds, it leads…and, the more sensational, the more papers they can sell. So, they send out shooters to catch the bloody aftermath. Imagine the excitement of an older gentleman, not some weary gaffer, meeting his end behind a palace of culture!

  “However, as they are wont to do, they chat up the bobbies and inspectors. In this case, Tomkins got a look at the poor man’s identification. Knowing me from the war, he called me first. Then I called you.

  “An interesting question, one which has inspired my curiosity, Lord Fitzwilliam, is why a gentleman of mature years, clearly a former German soldier if the old Wehrmacht papers in his wallet are to be believed, possesses a second set of documents suggesting that he is employed presently by the Office of Statistical Information?

  “If I recollect correctly, that was a cover organization I invented to allow our people the freedom of Whitehall’s corridors without having to deal with the usual reaction of the stuffed shirts loath to countenance our colleagues.”

  Fleming glanced over Matlock’s shoulder, lifting an inquiring eyebrow at Bennet and Schiller, both of whom squatted next to Liebermann’s corpse. They had gingerly pulled back the sheet, carefully avoiding planting their feet in the congealed gore. Now they studied his remains.

  Matlock answered Fleming’s spoken and unvoiced interrogatories, “Sorry Fleming, you are out of the game, and, in any event, this operation is protected by Signet Seal. Despite your work with Godfrey and me, I cannot read you in.[lxxxii]

  “I fear that these two gentlemen may only be known to you as Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith.

  “Suffice to say that your instincts are correct; that we are involved in the Great Game, although with an enemy even darker than the Russians…either ancient or current…and have lost a valued team member this day.

  “I would ask on behalf of both His Majesty’s Government and my family if you could undertake to minimize this story. Perhaps something about an unfortunate foreigner running afoul of the more criminal elements in our society. Then you could express the appropriate level of editorial outrage about whichever side of the political dogfight best suits your fancy.

  “I will promise you this, Fleming, we will turn to you first if we are in need. In exchange, when we can reveal our purpose, you will be the first to know.”

  Accepting the inevitable, the former naval commander made his farewells and walked away, sending Scotland Yard’s minions back to the crime scene.

  Facts were quickly established.

  The victim was attacked from behind and only struggled for a few moments before collapsing to the path’s surface.

  No, the body had not been moved. No evidence had been collected beyond an examination of the deceased’s identification.

  No, neither the Detective Sergeant nor the Detective Inspector found anything unusual about a former German soldier working for a British government agency. There had been many ex-POWs who had offered special services during the war. They were rewarded with citizenship and livelihoods.

  The Earl shortcut any further report by waving a small black folder beneath the gumshoes noses. The signature of the Home Secretary on the small card, followed by the Earl’s statement that ‘my people will take it from here,’ helped quell any objections and induce a sudden case of amnesia.

  Once the shepherds had moved on, the bobbies on the fringe of the grove were replaced by two of the Nursery’s healthier graduates.

  Secure in their privacy, the three men gently levered Liebermann’s body onto its back.

  The poor man’s face, frozen into a rictus of intense pain, unsettled each in their own way.

  Bennet quickly looked away. Nothing in his life as Master of Longbourn had prepared him for such a grisly scene.

  Matlock scanned the blood-soaked shirt as he sought to understand the last moments of a man’s existence on this earth. He instantly focused upon the silk scarf incongruously stuck between Liebermann’s left arm and chest.

  Schiller wept, not only for Manfred, but also for his own loss of the last link to his father and mother.

  The Earl removed his Waterman pen—green enamel and gold it was—and carefully slid it beneath a fold in the trapped neckwear. Pulling at it, Matlock sought to remove it. Begrudgingly, as if Sergeant Liebermann refused to relinquish his
prize, first an inch and then a several slid free. Once the entire piece was clear, the Earl walked into the single patch of sunlight alleviating the gloom, some ten feet away.

  There in the rays of London’s golden May sunshine, first M and then Anubis Prime and finally Anubis Beta beheld the unique boar’s head pattern that offered another puzzle piece to join Manfred’s sketch and Himmler’s Flash Card on the wall of the conference room beneath Lincoln’s Inn.

  

  The Beach House, Deauville, May 29, 1948

  Der alte Flugbegleiter des Grafs von Schiller, retired Sergeant Manfred Liebermann, was laid to rest in the smallish cemetery in the dunes. His ravaged body had been treated with great tenderness by the undertakers long used by the Five Families to prepare their dead for the final voyage.

  After the great masters had relaxed his features for public viewing, Liebermann had been laid out in the full-dress uniform of a subaltern in the army of the Kaiserreich, that long dead empire no longer a bone of contention at the hearths or in the hearts of its former adversaries. His resurrected war records revealed that which few had known; Liebermann, who had died on what turned out to be a suicide mission, was a hero in two great conflicts. His service medals included the Blauer Max and the Iron Cross, First Class. The Imperial War Museum found two New-In-Box examples and donated them to be pinned on his broad chest, stilled forever.

  Liebermann began his final journey from the parlor at the Beach House where his wife and her daughter had solemnly kept vigil over the casket throughout the long night into the lifting twilight of the new day. The two women were reassured by the presence of all those who had known and loved Liebermann in the years since the war. Those souls, mostly the women of the Five Families, but also a fair representation of the researchers at the warehouse in Frankfurt, drifted through the room, paying their respects, some leaving talismans in the open coffin.

  Of these, the most poignant—a black and white photograph—had been left by an historian, himself no longer a youth. As Richard Leopold later explained to Matlock, “The Sergeant had let slip that he was working for an organization called Anubis. I recall his excitement when we uncovered Himmler’s Flash Cards. I know nothing more about his overall mission, but I believe that we all have seen his killer’s face. Who he is will be a project to which I will devote some of my future efforts at uncovering.