Knights of the Blood (19 page)

“No, thanks,” said Drummond.

Sacher lit his cigar and blew out a long stream of blue—gray smoke. “Anyhow, Stucke insisted that the man he’d seen was an SS officer by the name of Kluge, and every week he would come into my office and rant and rave that Kluge should be arrested.”

“Kluge? Was that his name?” Drummond asked.

“What? No. Kluge was the SS man. The man Stucke saw was named Hartmann. Why?”

Sacher’s discourse was interrupted by the arrival of two ambulance attendants with a stretcher, which they barely managed to maneuver around the bed and set down. A black plastic body bag lay on the stretcher, and one of the men deftly unzipped it and folded it open before glancing expectantly at Sacher, who spoke to them in German and gestured toward the bathroom door.

Drummond had no idea what the one attendant said in response, as they headed toward the door, but it elicited a guffaw from his partner. The partner’s laugh died in his throat as they pushed past the policemen and entered the bathroom. Out in the sitting room, Drummond and the others could hear the explosive sound of retching, followed immediately by the curses of several policemen.

A few minutes later, ashen—faced and silent, the two ambulance attendants emerged carrying Stucke’s body, which they carefully laid in the open body bag. The older of the two returned to the bathroom, to reemerge a moment later with a smaller black plastic bag that he set squeamishly between the corpse’s legs. Zipping the body bag closed over Stucke’s remains, they hoisted the stretcher up and carried him down to the waiting ambulance on the street below.

“No stomach for the work,” Sacher said, drawing heavily on his cigar. His face brightened. “Let’s go have a beer. The boys here can clean things up. Okay?”

THE TAXI
that collected Drummond from Palais Schwartzenberg the next morning moved through the heavy traffic of Vienna and turned to join the slowly moving parade of cars inching along the inner ring road. As they passed the office building of OPEC, the driver turned slightly toward Drummond and said, “There it is. In the most beautiful city in the world—the ugliest building in Europe!”

Looking out the taxi window, Drummond had to agree. The chrome—and—glass box, surrounded by the baroque splendors of the city, was as ugly as the inside of a barrel of crude oil.

The taxi slowly cruised past OPEC and headed toward the university, finally turning off on Schindler Allee and then threading through a maze of small streets and alleyways until it finally pulled up in front of a dusty yellow building with a faded blue “17” painted above its door.

Drummond paid the driver, got out of the cab, and thoughtfully watched it pull away and vanish down a side street before turning his attention to the building directory. A discreetly polished brass plaque, neatly engraved with a Maltese cross, quietly announced that “Ritterbuchs” was located on the second floor.

Drummond pressed the small button to the side of the plaque.

“Bitte?”
The voice was thin and metallic.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak German. I’m John Drummond. I have an appointment with Baron von Liebenfalz. “

“Ah, yes. Please come on up, Mr. Drummond.” The metallic voice was replaced by the thick buzz of the security lock. Drummond pushed against the door and entered the lobby of number seventeen. It was like stepping through the doorway of a time machine, instantly taking him back to the gilded age that was Europe before the First World War,

The lobby of the building was a temple to the Vienna school of art nouveau, with glittering mosaics by Muscha adorning the walls and a double staircase sweeping gracefully along two sides of the room, its intricate bronze railings a delicate shade of blue, replete with gold—leafed foliage. Rising out of the cream—and—green tiled floor between the wings of the staircase was the elaborately gilded dome of a baroque elevator, appropriately framed by a veritable forest of potted palms.

Drummond made his way under the crystal chandelier to the elevator and slid back the golden grill to step in. A large brass panel set at eye level housed a row of mother—of—pearl buttons, each engraved with a small portrait of Venus. Drummond paused for a moment before pressing the one next to a card marked “von Liebenfalz.”

From behind the panel he heard a muffled click, but nothing happened. He pressed the button again. Another click, but still the elevator remained earthbound. He was about to press the button a third time when a voice drifted down to him from somewhere up above.

“Herr Drummond. You will have to use the stairs; the lift is out of order.”

Stepping out of the elevator, Drummond headed up the stairs two at a time.

The only door on the second floor was painted a deep green, and before Drummond could even raise his hand to knock, it was opened by a tall, elderly gentleman with the same air of genteel breeding as the men he had met when he dined with the baroness.

“Please come in, Mr. Drummond. I’m Baron von Liebenfalz. “

The baron’s apartment was as aristocratic as his accent. The first thing Drummond saw as he followed his host inside was a silver—framed photograph of Dr. Otto Habsburg, occupying a place of honor on a small giltwood table opposite the door. Next to it was a silver box bearing the arms of Imperial Austria and the cypher of King Carl, last of the Austro—Hungarian emperors. A large parchment document hung above the table, in a severe gold frame, boasting several coats of arms and with the signature of the Emperor Franz—Josef at the bottom.

Von Liebenfalz led Drummond past all of this and through a tiny formal sitting room, ushering him into a larger study—cum—library, where the aroma of Viennese coffee mingled with the dusty smell of old leather—bound books, tinged with the subtle bouquet of fine pipes and heady tobacco. Above the pale marble fireplace, a beautiful woman in an equally pale blue silk ballgown of an earlier century gazed down serenely on two worn leather club chairs and a small fruitwood table groaning under the weight of a silver coffee service.

“Please, sit down,” von Liebenfalz said, indicating one of the chairs with a graceful gesture. “I hope you like coffee.”

“Certainly.” Drummond took the delicate cup and saucer the baron offered him. “Thank you.”

“Austrian society–that is to say, Viennese society, which
is
Austrian society–runs on coffee,” von Liebenfalz explained, “just as Rolls—Royce cars run on petrol.” The baron took a sip from his own cup. “Ah, excellent.” He smiled, obviously pleased not only with his coffee, but with himself as well.

“Now, Mr. Drummond. In his letter of introduction, Mr. Keating indicated that you had expressed interest in the Order of the Sword.” He set down his cup and saucer on the table. “Do you mind if I ask why you would wish to enter this ancient order of knighthood?”

An order of knighthood?
It took Drummond several seconds to reorient his thoughts.

“I wasn’t sure that the Order of the Sword was an order of the knighthood, sir. I thought that it was a religious order of some sort, something like the Trappists.”

Von Liebenfalz refilled the two cups from the silver coffee pot.

“Oh, it
is
a religious order–but a religious order of chivalry, not monks.” He handed Drummond his cup. “I am afraid that I must have misinterpreted Mr. Keating’s letter. I thought you wanted to be admitted to its ranks.”

Drummond balanced the ridiculously small cup and saucer between his hands. “No, I’m not interested in becoming a knight, or whatever you’d call it. I’m interested in finding out about the Order of the Sword for a research paper I’m working on, back home in California.”

“Ah.” Von Liebenfalz set down his coffee and stared at the ceiling. “Normally, Mr. Drummond, I receive a small honorarium for providing–how shall I put it?–an introduction to the various orders of chivalry, once a person has been admitted ... . “

Drummond was quick on the uptake. “Naturally, sir, I would expect to pay a research fee to reimburse you for your efforts on my behalf.”

Von Liebenfalz smiled at Drummond. “That’s very thoughtful. As it happens, I have already prepared a brief history of the Order of the Sword.” He stood and walked across the room to a wellpolished oak desk, where he picked up a file folder and removed several neatly typed pages. He brought these to Drummond and handed them to him, but he did not sit down.

“This should answer most of your questions, I think. If not, then please telephone me and we’ll discuss the matter in greater detail.” Von Liebenfalz’ manner indicated that their meeting was over, and Drummond got to his feet, folding the pages and slipping them into an inside pocket.

“Thank you,” Drummond said. “What about your fee?”

“I have your address in America. I’ll send you a fee note–or, if you’d prefer, I shall send it to your hotel. “

“The hotel will be just fine. I’m staying at Palais Schwartzenberg. “

Von Liebenfalz arched one eyebrow slightly. “I know it well. Unless I hear from you in the next day or so, then, I shall send the bill to the Palais.” The baron shook Drummond’s hand. “Now, if there are no more questions?”

“Only one, sir.”

Von Liebenfalz looked puzzled. “What is that?”

“The woman in the painting–“ Drummond gestured toward the pale vision still gazing down at them. “Do you mind if I ask who she is?”

Cocking his head to one side, von Liebenfalz gazed up fondly at the portrait.

“That,” he said, “is Carlotta, Empress of Mexico. She was a distant cousin of mine.” He smiled slightly at the lovely face of the woman in the painting. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir, she is.”

Von Liebenfalz walked Drummond to the door then, shaking hands again before bidding him a final good—bye. When the American had disappeared down the stairwell, von Liebenfalz closed the door softly and returned to his study, where he went quickly to the telephone and dialed a number. He waited nervously for what seemed like an interminable number of rings, until a hollow series of clicks indicated that the line had been picked up.

“Your Eminence, this is Liebenfalz,” the baron said. “I have just spoken with the man inquiring about the Order of the Sword–“

A voice on the other end of the line said something, interrupting von Liebenfalz before he could finish his sentence.

“Certainly, Your Eminence. I will attend to it immediately. “

The line went dead, and von Liebenfalz carefully replaced the handset on the cradle. Then, opening the center drawer of his desk, he removed a small screwdriver and, without bothering to close the drawer, left his apartment and trotted down the stairs to the lobby below.

There was no sign of the American. Entering the elevator, von Liebenfalz undid the four screws that held the elevator control panel in place and pulled it away from the wall. A small Leica camera was mounted behind, and he removed it and rewound the film before opening the back. When he had removed the exposed film, he dropped it in his pocket, replacing it with a fresh roll from a niche behind the panel before carefully setting the camera back in place. He replaced the control panel and snugged down the four screws quickly. Then, fingering the roll of film in his pocket, he returned to his apartment, and the small darkroom set up adjoining his kitchen.

Drummond, meanwhile, had found himself obliged to walk several blocks before he could find a taxi stand after leaving von Liebenfalz’ apartment. When he climbed into the dark blue Mercedes, however, he handed the driver a slip of paper with an address written on it. He tried to look at von Liebenfalz’ report as he settled back for the ride across town, but he had hardly gotten past the first page when the cab pulled up to the curb in front of a nondescript office building on the edge of the business district.

He paid the driver and got out of the car, glancing around him with the automatic assessment of a cop as he walked toward the entrance. Sunlight reflected off the small brass plate that identified the offices of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, and he opened the door and went in. Inside, a pert, dark—haired receptionist at a large circular desk looked up as Drummond approached. He was surprised to be greeted in English.

“Can I help you, sir?” The receptionist looked and sounded like a typical Valley girl.

“Well, I hope so. I’m looking for some information on a former SS officer by the name of Kluge.”

“You’d need to see one of our researchers.” She pouted slightly. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” said Drummond, “I don’t. Do I need one?”

“Well, yeah, sort of. I mean, we’re really busy and kinda short—handed, so it’s always best if you write to us and ask for an appointment.” She gave Drummond a room—temperature smile.

Drummond reached into his jacket pocket and brought out his ID case.

“I’m a police officer,” he said showing her his badge, “and I need this information for a case I’m investigating.” He gave the girl his most ingratiating smile. “Do you think you could find a researcher for me?”

“Wow, an American cop! For sure.” She picked up the telephone next to her and pressed some buttons. Someone on the other end of the line answered, and in halting German the receptionist made an inquiry. Replacing the receiver, she turned her full attention to Drummond.

“So, where’re you from in the States?” she asked.

“L.A. How about yourself?” Drummond could have guessed.

“Encino. I’m Button Horowitz.” She held out her hand. “What’s your name?”

“John Drummond, ma’am. LAPD.” Drummond did his best to sound like Jack Webb.

“Oh, that’s neat! You sounded just like Dan Akroyd in the movie,
Dragnet.”

Drummond decided that her room—temperature smile probably masked a room—temperature IQ.

“So tell me, Button–“ he couldn’t believe the name; her parents ought to be shot “–what are you doing here?”

“My parents wanted me to get in touch with my heritage–you know, work on a kibbutz or something. Anyhow, that sounded like a real bummer, so I wrote to the center here, and they offered me a job for the summer. I mean, if you had a choice between some yucky farm or Vienna, which would you choose?”

Before Drummond could agree with her, he was saved–if that was the word for it–by the arrival of a woman he assumed was the researcher. Whereas Button was tall and full of life, this woman was short, dumpy, and looked at him over her glasses with the zeal of the totally committed.

Drummond wondered what she would do in another fifteen years, when the youngest of the men she was dedicated to tracking down would be over ninety. He felt sorry for her, because time was now her enemy. With each passing day, another decrepit war criminal slipped silently into his grave, having eluded the dogged pursuit of the researchers there at the center. Eventually the last of them would die off, and the center would have no real purpose. It might remain as a memorial to its founder, or perhaps be converted into a museum, but its real purpose would be gone forever. And its employees, like the mousy woman from research, would be nothing more than hollow ghosts whose lives had been spent in the pursuit of old, old men whom most of the world no longer really cared about.