The Excalibur Codex

PROLOGUE

‘Are we lost again, Neumann?’

‘This is it, Wulf, I’m sure this time.’

‘And the last three times.’

Neumann blushed. ‘No, this time I’m certain,’ he insisted. ‘Look at the hills.’ The younger boy pointed to a distinctive shape dominating the horizon and Wulf Ziegler’s pulse quickened. He pulled a folded square of paper from the inside pocket of his brown uniform and opened it, comparing the silhouette to the one in front of his eyes. They were exactly as he’d been told they’d be and marked the place he sought as clearly as any signpost.

Wulf patted Neumann on the shoulder and remounted his bicycle. ‘We’ll ride for another hour and find somewhere to camp.’ As the others set off, he looked again at the hills and let out a prolonged sigh. The most difficult part of the mission remained, but even so he experienced nothing but exhilaration. They were here.

Eight boys, aged between fourteen and sixteen, they’d set out from Dortmund on their bikes a month earlier with a hundred comrades. Wulf was the eldest, and the leader — gefolgschaftsführer — of the Hitler Jugend unit. At sixteen he was a six-year veteran of the organization, respected for his command ability and already marked for the SS-Junkerschule at Bad Tölz. He’d helped organize the ‘cultural exchange’ with members of a Boy Scout troop in Birmingham, but the Dortmunders had told their hosts they were keen to experience more of this fascinating country. With Baedeker guides in hand, the sub-units fanned out across Britain, through the industrial Midlands, and as far south as the hop fields of Kent, seeking out sights of interest. Wulf Ziegler’s allotted region had been the north and he’d led his party first to the soot-stained factories and belching chimneys of Manchester, before crossing the mountainous spine of the country to Leeds and joining the road to Newcastle. The journey taxed even fit young men at home in the saddle, like his comrades, but they’d been welcomed wherever they went, offered campsites by ruddy-faced northern farmers, and cloudy lemonade and dry cake by the farmers’ cheerful wives. On the way, they had seen many interesting historical sights, but, perhaps more important, great sprawling industrial plants, mills and vast dockyards, each carefully marked on the map Wulf carried. The previous day they’d camped on a windswept moor and been visited by soldiers from the armoured unit training there, eager to meet these unlikely exotic visitors and share their stories.

Today the chosen campsite was on the heather-clad shoulder of the northernmost hill, overlooking the broad loop of a river that twinkled like a silver ribbon two hundred metres below. As the other boys unpacked the tents and bedding and dug the latrine, Wulf climbed swiftly over treacherous pink-veined scree and through patches of green and gold gorse bushes to the summit of the peak. Here, he had a panoramic view of the entire valley through the twin lenses of the Zeiss birdwatching binoculars that had served him so well. He felt an uncharacteristic thrill of fear as he studied the curve of the river and the large house with the grey chimneys exactly where the aerial photographs said it would be. Fear of failure and fear of the consequences of failure. He went over it in his mind, as he’d done a hundred times since the endless rehearsals at the training range. Compared to this, the rest had just been little boys’ games.

Tonight.

They would do it tonight.