The Alchemist’s Code (10 page)

“This is the right direction, Nat, though the city's in such a state that it isn't easy to follow it on paper.”

“All right, let's just try to get as close as possible and then find a safe place and go over the last part of the plan.”

“A safe place, sure. All
that
makes me think of is the pier at Santa Monica and a nice morning spent fishing.”

Nathan looked up at the sky. “Don't you start too, Kirk.”

The small group emerged into the main street just as a bomb struck a building full on, and the shock wave threw them to the ground as debris flew in all directions. They waited a few seconds to allow the dust to settle, then the commander raised his head and looked around, trying to figure out what had become of his men.

“Kirk, everything ok? Are you all alright?”

One by one they all sounded off and crawled towards the commander.

“That one nearly got us, Nathan,” said Sean Bruce, wiping his Scottish highlander's face.

Major Nathan Keller just nodded. He knew they were running a deadly risk and that it was not possible to postpone the bombing planned for that night nor their mission. It meant a lot to him and to the seven men with whom he was risking his life under their own bombs. Their goal, however, was not listed among the plans of any force in the field.

Not officially at least.

That was why they had been chosen for that undertaking.

Those eight men, almost all of them of different nationalities, were not just soldiers. They were not even fighters who had been regularly recruited for the mission, although they had already fought in the armies of their respective countries. Their selection had not taken into account any kind of military allegiance or merit in battle. They were sent to Berlin not because they were the best, but because they were pre-destined – united by an old bond. And since they had to recover something that was in the heartland of the moribund Reich, no army support was able to intervene to help and no order had been given to stop the bombing taking place. They had to act immediately, because they might not have another chance.

Nathan 'Naalnish' Keller thought for a while about his family in Arizona, his nightly tours of Antelope Canyon, when the tourists had long gone and he and his brothers lingered happily among the extraordinary million-year-old rock formations. He would willingly have returned to his life as a scholar of his people's culture, teaching and taking small groups on guided tours. He would even have gone back a couple of years to when he helped create the Navajo code that had proved decisive for the US military in the war. Nathan was the perfect American: faithful to the Navajo – for whom he was Naalnish, '
he who is effective
' – and at the same time to the US government. And it was for this reason that it unnerved him to be wearing the uniform of the SS: for someone with his view of life and of the world, it represented a reversal of his principles. He had accepted the discomfort, however, because apart from being Navajo and American, he had also inherited from his father the gift – or maybe it should be called the curse – of being part of that small group of the elect.

His deep black eyes, two slits in a young face already marked by events, came to rest on his comrades who, like vampires, slowly emerged from the cloud left by the bomb. “Come on, let's get going. Kirk, you lead the way. Lev, you close up the group and watch our backs with Aram.”

Kirk McCourt went back to Nathan, while the Ukrainian stood in line with the Armenian, their senses alert. The group had advanced only a few metres, sheltering under the buildings that still seemed in good condition, when several figures appeared at the end of the road. It was a group of ten soldiers of the Wehrmacht, they too were battered by the bomb which had just exploded. As soon as he saw them, Nathan made an imperceptible sign to his men, and in particular to Vladimir, who raised his arm so that it could be seen by the Germans.

“
Heil Hitler
! What are you doing out and about under this bombardment, sir?” asked the commander of the small group of soldiers.

“I would ask you the same question, Lieutenant,” said the Russian, whose captain's uniform was higher in rank than the curious lieutenant's, in perfect German. “We've just passed a group of civilians in distress behind that building. Please hurry.”

The lieutenant hesitated for a moment, then stood to attention and ordered his men to follow him.

Nathan motioned to the others to move before the soldiers had second thoughts and then, softly, whispered to the Russian, “Good work Vlad.”

The blonde interpreter from Sverdlovsk – which had been called Yekaterinburg before the October revolution – just nodded, while their tension at the latest hurdle began to dissipate.

Meanwhile Kirk McCourt had begun to lead the group with more conviction, and after ten minutes he stopped and turned to his companions.

“The road over there, perpendicular to this one, is Oranienburger Strasse”.

Nathan nodded, then called his men. “Well, here we are.”

*

An imposing figure appeared at the main door of the synagogue, emerging from the dust raised by the explosion of the bomb few moments before. Gingerly, it walked forward a few metres, but was halted by a voice coming from the opposite end of the aisle.

“Halt!”

The figure stopped abruptly, and Corporal Bauer walked towards him slowly, his gun pointed at the intruder.

“Lower your gun, soldier, you're aiming your weapon at an SS officer,” said the figure, without moving an inch.

“Your name and rank, sir – then I will lower it.”

There was a moment of tense silence. The Bavarian stood holding the strange official who had emerged from the dust at gunpoint. What the hell was he doing there? Never mind – von Tschoudy's orders were clear: no one was to enter the synagogue, unless they showed the seal.

“Captain Klaus Maria König,” said the intruder, interrupting Bauer's thoughts, “Outremer Special Squad. I'm here with my team for the recovery.”

This Captain König seemed to be in order, thought Bauer, and the fact that he had mentioned the Outremer Special Squad proved it, since so few people were aware of the mission and its code name. The plan, in fact, was that a team with the code name would have arrived to recover the idol and take it elsewhere.

Bauer relaxed, but not completely: Captain König would have to produce the seal first to definitively remove any doubt.

“Show me the seal, but move slowly,” said Bauer.

Captain König, who had held his hands up until then, slowly slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out a small, round metal object, like a medal.

“Throw it over,” said Bauer, still holding König at gunpoint. The metal object flew towards Bauer in a perfect parabola. The Bavarian examined the seal, then lowered his gun and stood to attention.

“Welcome, sir.”

“At ease soldier.”

König emerged from the darkness so Bauer could clearly see his features. König's small eyes, two slits embedded in a huge square face, stared at the Bavarian for a second.

“Oh shit—!” Bauer managed to exclaim before a bullet fired from a silenced pistol hit him square in the forehead.

König approached the lifeless body of Bauer and sighed. “I'm sorry, my friend – you were born in the wrong country.”

He retrieved the seal and ran quickly towards the entrance of the synagogue, where he waved his hand. Nathan emerged from the darkness with his team and, stealthy as cats, they rushed into the building.

“Well done again, Vlad,” said Major Keller.

“Hey, I've already earned a couple of bottles of vodka if I'm not mistaken,” said Vladimir, raising an eyebrow as he led his companions towards the entrance of the hall.

“Well, 'Captain König',” Nathan said wryly,“ it's not our fault that you studied in Germany and speak German like a fucking Nazi. But yes, you have definitely earned your two bottles.”

The Russian nodded with a smile, then walked over to the body of Bauer and, with the assistance of François and Sean, hid him behind a pillar. The three of them then rejoined the rest of the group, which in the meantime had gathered in the cold, dark hallway.

“Well fellers, now comes the hard part,” said Nathan turning to his men, “even though getting here was no joke itself. Try to stay alive, please, otherwise I'll have to do this on my own.” He paused, and the men smiled, then, with a hard stare, he continued.

“There's no need to remind you what our orders are. If necessary, have no mercy. The important thing is to recover the idol and the traitor's key.”

Everyone nodded, their faces serious: they must not forget that they were still at war. However, the bond between them and the fraternity to which they belonged had impressed upon their code of principles the respect for all human beings and the repudiation of violence. They had accepted this latest mission, one which included the possibility of having to eliminate the enemy, in the name of the oath that bound them, in a mystical association.

When Nathan saw the determination in their eyes, he softly uttered just three words.

“Well brothers,
nakam!
”

“
Nakam
!” They all replied, quietly.

The eight men entered the corridor without uttering a sound, their steps drowned out by the bombing that continued outside. They knew exactly where to go and what to expect. Once the recovery had taken place, a US government agency that secretly handled out of the ordinary investigations would pay very well for the information. Any unpleasant surprises that the recovery team found would be evidence of bad faith in the informant. And there would be no reward.

The corridor they were walking down veered to the left. Fifteen steps away was a door that led into the basement, where the German soldiers were guarding the idol. Nathan and his men stood just a yard away from the door and flattened themselves against the wall. It was important at this point not to be discovered. There would certainly be another soldier on guard, and he had to be eliminated.

Nathan gave Vladimir a knowing look, and he nodded in reply. The captain threw a stone at the door, and the reaction was not slow in coming.

“Who's there?” said a voice. “Bauer, is that you?”

“Yes, I need a hand – can you come?” said Vladimir enigmatically, keeping his voice low to avoid being discovered.

“What the hell—?” said the sentry.

The few seconds that it took the soldier to reach the eight men seemed interminable. Aware of the need to keep absolutely still, they held their breath, their muscles and their nerves stretched to breaking point.

In the semi-darkness of the corridor, Nathan, who was crouching, saw the barrel of the rifle poking out of the sentry post. He knew he would have to act rapidly and with precision to prevent the man from pulling the trigger first.

The soldier stepped forward a few centimetres and had just noticed a presence against the wall when two hands grabbed his rifle and tugged at it violently. Simultaneously, Nathan's dagger pierced his heart from below while a hand was clamped over his mouth to prevent him from screaming.

It was a quick and silent death. The group had managed once again to avoid being discovered. They moved towards the entrance of the underground basement, where Sean Bruce and François David were loading their guns with a powerful sleeping gas.

“Now we can put the lucky ones to sleep,” Nathan hissed.

The eight men poured down the narrow staircase leading to the basement, as silent as wild beasts stalking their unsuspecting prey, and continued to descend until a faint light from the lower level gave them to understand that the basement was nearby. They stopped a few steps before the bottom of the narrow staircase and stood there motionless for a few seconds – just long enough to understand that the men below were sleeping, completely unaware of them.

When everyone had put on their gas masks, Nathan motioned for Sean and François to proceed. They arranged themselves in the best positions for firing their gas cannisters into the room, exchanged a glance of understanding, and fired.

The sound of the shots aroused some of the soldiers who woke their companions. “Alarm, Alarm!” they screamed, “we're under attack, wake up!”

But thanks to the gas and its sedative effects, their reaction was limited. One attempted, coughing and stumbling, to climb to the top floor, but as soon as his nose appeared on the stairs he was shot down with devastating accuracy by Vladimir's silenced pistol, which spared no one.

The reaction lasted only a few seconds, and then silence reigned once more in the basement. Before anyone could continue, Sean and François fired two more cannisters of sleeping gas. A few more seconds passed, then they all entered the narrow room, covering each other's backs.

All the men guarding the idol had been put out of action, some temporarily by the gas, some permanently by the bullets.

While the others tied up the stunned soldiers, Nathan walked about the room in search of the man who had obliged them to come to Berlin, and to his surprise found him embracing the object which they had come to get, having been knocked out by the gas within seconds of approaching the idol. He had even pulled out his pistol, which was still clutched in his right hand.

“We're done, Nathan,” said McCourt, approaching him. Nathan nodded while still gazing at the ground.

“Ah, good,” Kirk said, “it seems that you found him. The lousy traitor.”

“Yeah,” said Nathan, his voice muted by the gas mask.

“So, shall we proceed?” McCourt asked.

“Yup.”

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Naples, January, 2013

The scooter splashed hazardously through the downtown streets, snaking its way between the cars on the road. It was almost as though Anna had been born in Naples and not in some Russian city, such was the familiarity with which she navigated each street, cut across the main roads, slipped through tight spaces and often ignored the rules of the road.