The Black Sun (15 page)

“Or perhaps tattooed another number over the top to disguise it . . . ?” Tom mused, recalling the difficulty Turn-bull’s forensic people had had in deciphering some of the numbers recovered from Weissman’s arm.

“Possibly.”

“Did the Order have any specific symbols or images that they used, apart from the regular SS ones?”

“Just one. A black disc surrounded by two concentric circles with twelve spokes radiating from its center in the form of SS lightning bolts. One for each member of the Order. They called it the Schwarze Sonne—the Black Sun.”

“Like this?” Tom asked, handing Lasche the cap recovered from Weissman’s house and pointing at its badge. Lasche grasped it unsteadily, a glimmer of recognition flickering across his face.

“Yes, yes. It is as I thought!” He looked up at Tom excitedly, straining to get the words out between breaths. “This is the symbol of the Order, a corruption of an Alamannian sun-wheel from the third century AD. It was intended as a reference to a time when the SS would shine down on the world as their racial masters.”

There was a pause as Tom let this new piece of information sink in. the black sun 127

“What happened to the Order in the end?”

“Ah,” said Lasche, “the, how you say, six-million-dollar question. The answer is simple: nobody knows.”

“Nobody?”

Lasche gave a smile, more gums than teeth. “Not for certain. Although . . . Well, let’s just say I have my own ideas.”

“Go on,” Tom urged him with a nod.

“Himmler, for all his failings, had a clearer view of the way the war was going than Hitler did. He even tried to negotiate a separate peace with the Allies in the final days of the war. And with the specter of defeat looming, he would never have been able to contemplate his precious knights being captured or imprisoned or otherwise humiliated by their enemies.”

“So what do you think he did?”

Lasche paused, as if to collect his strength. “Are you aware what happened to King Arthur when he lay dying?” he wheezed.

“He asked one of his knights to throw Excalibur into the lake.”

“Yes. Sir Bedivere—who refused three times, like Peter denying Christ. And then, when eventually he did comply, a ship with black sails appeared and carried Arthur to Avalon, from where it is said he will rise one day to save his people when they are next in mortal peril.”

Tom frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“Many cultures have a similar legend. In Denmark, it is believed that Holger the Dane sleeps beneath Kronborg Castle, from where he will emerge when the fatherland is in need. In Germany, Emperor Frederick II—Barbarossa— is said to sleep beneath the Kyffhäuser mountain, from where he will return at the end of time. In my opinion, Himmler wanted a fittingly epic end for his own knights. In December 1944 he summoned the Order for one last meeting. It’s not known what instructions he gave them, but not long afterwards they disappeared and were never seen again.”

“You think they escaped?”

“Who

knows?

Maybe

they

were

killed

by

the

advancing

128 james twining

Soviet army. Maybe they lived out their days on a banana plantation somewhere in Paraguay. Or maybe, as we speak, they are waiting beneath some mountain or castle for the time when they will be called upon to restore the German Reich.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HOTEL VIER JAHRESZEITEN KEMPINSKI, MUNICH,

January 7—3:32 p.m.

Finally, we get to the train.” Hecht sighed sarcastically. “It’s what was on the train that I want to know about!” came the voice from the speakerphone. “And you would be right,”

said Renwick. “Because that is where the story gets really interesting. You see—” Before he could continue, the door burst open and three uniformed men with shaved heads sprang into the room, machine guns slung around their necks. Renwick snapped his eyes to Hecht, but he seemed unperturbed.

“What is it, Konrad?” Hecht asked the first man, a square-set blond with a flat, stupid face. “
Fünf Männer
,” Konrad panted.
“Mehr draussen. Stellen unten
fragen
.
”

“Problem?” Renwick asked Hecht, setting aside his annoyance at Hecht’s breaking his promise that they would not be interrupted. The tension in Konrad’s voice suggested this was not the moment to raise it.

“We’ve got company.”

“Police?”

130 james twining

Hecht looked questioningly at Konrad, who responded,

“Ja. Ut Bundesnachrichtendienst.”

“The secret service?” It was Dmitri’s turn to speak. “How the hell did they get on to us so fast?”

“The concierge,” said Renwick slowly, recalling the man’s fingernails tapping nervously on the counter and the anxious look in his eyes. “I thought he was just tired, but he knew something. He was expecting me.”

“We’ll deal with him later,” Dmitri snarled. “Have you got a way out, Colonel?”

“Of course, sir.”

“
Gut.
Use it. We’ll continue this later.” He hung up and the line hummed noisily until Hecht leaned forward and punched the off button.

“How are we going to get past them?” Renwick asked casually, masking his concern. Normally he wouldn’t have been too worried. He had been in worse situations, much worse, and still slipped away unnoticed. But on those occasions he had been operating alone, able to think for himself, to react as he saw fit, to take whatever steps he deemed necessary. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was relying on others for his safe passage, people he didn’t know or trust. He didn’t like it.

“With these—” Konrad reappeared carrying several uniforms identical to the ones he and the other two men were wearing. He threw them to the floor and then indicated that Renwick should put one on.
“Schnell.”

Renwick picked up a thick blue jacket and examined it skeptically. “What is it?”

“Fireman’s uniform,” said Hecht, grabbing one and pulling it on.

“Where is the fire?” Renwick asked as he buttoned up the jacket, then stepped into a pair of trousers, pulling them up over his suit.

“Right where you’re standing. Karl, Florian—”

The two men disappeared into what Renwick assumed to be the bedroom, returning with a couple of large jerry cans. Rapidly and methodically they made their way around the

the black sun 131

room, sloshing gasoline over the carpet, sofa, and curtains. The smell, sweet and metallic, hit the back of Renwick’s throat.

Meanwhile Hecht and Konrad were busy wiping the door handles, table, whiskey bottle, and anything else that any of them might have touched or used, even smashing Renwick’s glass against the wall. It was slick and professional, and within thirty seconds the room was clean. Renwick felt his concern easing.

“Take this.” Konrad handed him a pale yellow helmet, its surface chipped and covered in soot in a way that suggested its owner was a veteran of many years’ hard-fought firefighting experience. When on, the built-in respirator and goggles almost completely obscured the wearer’s face.

“Ready?” Hecht asked. They all nodded, put their helmets on, and followed him out into the hall. Hecht walked up to the fire alarm between the twin elevator shafts and smashed it with a jab of his right elbow.

The corridor was immediately filled with a piercing shriek as the alarm sounded, followed a few seconds later by the sound of doors opening and faces peeking out of rooms farther down the corridor. The sight of Renwick and the others standing there in full firefighting gear turned their expressions from concern, and in some cases annoyance, to undisguised fear and panic. Within seconds, guests in various states of undress were stampeding toward the fire escape and the safety of the ground floor.

“The alarm automatically shuts off all the lifts, making it impossible for our friends downstairs to get up here that way . . .”

“. . . And the crowd heading down the fire escapes should delay their progress if they try to use the stairs.” Renwick completed his sentence for him, admiring the simplicity of the tactic. “But how do we get out?”

“There’s a lift at the rear of the building that remains operational even in a fire, provided you have a key.” Hecht dangled a small key in front of Renwick’s face. “The fire

brigade

will

be

here

within

three

minutes.

As

soon

as

they

132 james twining

arrive, we’ll take the lift down to the basement and then go through the car park. In the confusion, no one will notice five more men in uniform.”

Hecht slipped a box of matches out of his pocket and shook to check it was full. He turned to face the suite’s open doorway.

“May I?” Renwick inquired.

“Of course.” Hecht handed over the matches with a small bow and an amused grin.

“You look like you’re going to enjoy this.”

Renwick took one last, disdainful look at the clumsy furniture, beige carpet, gold cushions, and brown curtains before striking the match and holding it in front of him.

“More

than

you

could

possibly

know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

KITZBÜHEL, AUSTRIA

January 7—3:52 p.m.

Given that it was the only stained-glass window in the entire church, Archie felt rather foolish for not having noticed it sooner. What made it special, though, was not its uniqueness but the fact that it was an identical copy of the painting of the castle in Weissman’s photograph.

“How long has this been here?” was his slightly bemused question.

“It was gift from my uncle. In memory of my aunt.”

“When did she die?”

Maria shook her head. “Before I was born. In fifty-five, fifty-six. Cancer. He used to come here to pray for her . . .” “Do you mind if I take a picture?” She looked nervously over her shoulder, saw that the church was empty, and shrugged her consent.

“
Ja
, okay. No problem.”

Archie slipped the digital camera Tom had loaned him out of his pocket and took several shots of the window and the plaque underneath it, the flash spitting its incongruous white light into the church’s gloom.

The window was unmistakably modern, the glass smooth, the lead fittings crisp, with none

of

the

rippled

imperfections

134 james twining

or sagging geometry typical of older church windows. Yet, for all that, it had been classically executed, depicting a castle on a hill, a couple of birds wheeling overhead and, in the foreground, a few trees clustered around a bubbling spring. When he was satisfied that he had enough shots, he turned to face Maria again.

“What did he do, your uncle? You know, for a job.”

“He was professor at Universität Wien,” she said proudly. “The oldest Germanspeaking university in the world.”

“Teaching . . . ?”

“Physics.”

“And before that? In the war?”

She snorted, half in frustration, half in amusement. “Pah. Always the war with you English. It is obsession for you,
ja
?”

“No, it’s just that—”

“Uncle Manfred didn’t fight,” she said. “He told me. He was too young.”

They had begun to walk back toward the entrance as they were speaking and were now standing by the door. Archie pulled his collar up in anticipation of the sharp slap of cold air when they stepped outside.

“Just one last thing”—Archie had almost forgotten to mention it—“Would you take a look at this for me? Tell me if you recognize anyone.”

He handed over a copy of the photograph of three men in SS uniform that they had found at Weissman’s house. She took it from him and studied it carefully. When she looked up her eyes were angry and her voice hard.

“Is this English sense of humor?”

“No, why?”

“You have made this as a joke, yes? To make fun of me?”

“No, of course not.”

“I not believe you. This picture is a lie.” She was almost shouting now, her voice resonating off the whitewashed stone walls. “Why you come here? To trick me?”

“Is one of those men your uncle?” Archie guessed.

“You know this. Why else are you here?”

“We

found

this

picture

yesterday

in

London,

together

the black sun 135

with the envelope I showed you,” Archie explained. “I swear, until just now I had no idea your uncle was in it. Which one is he?”

She looked down at the photo again, gripping it tightly. “The man on the left. That was Uncle Manfred.”

“I’m sorry.” Archie sighed.

“Sorry? Why?” Her tone switched from anger to indifference. “This is mistake. Simple mistake. He was too young to fight. He told me.”

“I’d love to believe you,” said Archie. “But you see the man in the middle? His daughter didn’t think he had fought either. She was wrong. He’d lied to her. He’d lied to everyone.”

“He had a daughter?” She sounded less sure of herself now.

“Older than you, but not by much. She was the one who discovered this photo, not me.”

“And she thinks . . . she thinks this is real?” Maria seemed to have shrunk before his eyes, her voice fading to a whisper, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Oh yeah,” Archie said gently, trying to erase the image of Elena Weissman’s bloody corpse that had been burned into his mind. “You see, she discovered a room, a secret room where her father had kept all his wartime mementos hidden from her. Uniforms, flags, guns, medals.”