The Isis Covenant

XXI

The door of the van slammed back with a booming echo that told Jamie they were in some sort of barn or warehouse. It wasn’t much information, but enough to give him a glimmer of hope. Better to be wherever they were than in a field where the likelihood was that the inside of the hessian sack was the last thing he would ever see. He braced himself as two men manhandled him out and held him until he found his balance.

A shrill protest reached him through the material of the hood. ‘Get your fucking hands off me, you fucking pervert.’

Danny Fisher’s voice contained no hint of fear and despite their plight he felt a surge of pride. Whatever happened next, they were still together and that dramatically increased their chances if it came to a fight. It was a tactical error. Maybe Frederick wasn’t the mastermind he thought he was. Jamie held that thought as his captors guided him across what felt like a concrete floor and up two flights of wooden stairs. He heard a door open and rough hands propelled him through.

Inside, someone pushed him and he felt a moment of fear as he fell backwards, only to be brought up with a bump by some sort of chair. He heard a yelp that said Danny was still with him. It was followed by the sound of shuffling feet, until he calculated that at least six or seven men must be in the room.

‘Close the door. All right, remove the hoods.’

The light hit him like a train from a tunnel and it took a few seconds to become aware of his surroundings. He’d counted right. Seven of them, including Frederick. He instantly recognized the type. Regulation dark clothing that was a kind of uniform if you knew what to look for. Either leather jacket and jeans or an expensive suit, though one ugly customer was in a tight black T-shirt, showing off shoulders like a mastodon. Close-cropped hair apart from one with his long hair tied back in a pony-tail. From what he could see, every man had a weapon of some sort; pistols mainly, either to hand or, in the case of T-shirt Hulk, in a shoulder holster that looked suspiciously like a Special Forces’ pattern. And if that seemed like security overkill for two bound captives, pony-tail was toting a sub-machine gun, for Christ’s sake. Clearly, Frederick was keen to ensure there’d be no repeat of Jamie’s previous miracle escape.

Danny was to his left, closer to the door, and, like him, forced back into a cheap office chair. She had her head up and a dangerous look in her eyes. He met the look with one he hoped would be similarly reassuring. He’d never been in much doubt where this was going, but if he had, the plastic sheeting that covered the floor and the rubber padding that lined the walls would have clinched it. It was the kind of room you held noisy, messy sports like mud-wrestling in. Or alternatively, the kind where you killed people who had become a nuisance. On the one hand, the room gave him a shred of comfort, because if Frederick had been going to kill them immediately they’d already have been in a shallow grave. On the other, it meant that either Frederick wanted to know something and was going to have a little fun finding it out, or he was going to have a little fun anyway. The up side was it gave them more time, the down side that it was likely to be time bought at a painful price.

Oddly, he felt no fear at all, only the inner calm and a fine, growing, but contained rage, that was the familiar precursor to terrible violence.

‘You have no idea what joy it gave me to see you parading around Berlin’s sights with your whore, Mr Saintclair. It was, as I believe the English saying goes, like Christmas coming early.’ Frederick spoke in a distinctive Berlin accent Jamie remembered well — why was it he only remembered it now? — and the little joke raised a few grins among his men. The German words mostly meant nothing to Danny, but she understood whore well enough. She spat at her captors like a cornered wildcat, but Frederick only smiled. He was enjoying himself. ‘You are losing your touch. I preferred your previous girlfriend, the Jew, to this stick insect.’

Jamie felt like tearing the smile off the other man’s face, but he met the words with a shrug. ‘In that case why don’t you let her go. She’s nothing to you. She’s nothing to me. Whatever it is you want, I’m the one you need, not her.’

‘If you’re going to talk about me, Saintclair, talk in English. I assume this vulture can speak it.’

‘Oh yes, I speak it quite well, Miss … Please, the lady’s bag.’ One of the men handed him the voluminous handbag Danny had carried. He searched until he found her purse and rifled through it before giving a low whistle. ‘Detective Fisher.’ He shook his head. ‘I am afraid that New York’s finest must remain with us, Mr Saintclair. I am sure she will find it instructive, even entertaining. Perhaps she will see a new side to you?’

‘This is just wasting time. What do you want?’

‘Want? I want what I am owed. You owe me a life, Mr Saintclair. You remember Erik, from Paderborn, whose skull you smashed in? I never forget debts, or the people who owe them.’ The name wasn’t familiar, but Jamie remembered a tall man who didn’t look in great shape after thirteen and a half stones of Clan Sinclair landed on top of him. The good news, if there was any, was that Frederick didn’t appear to know that he was also responsible for the timely and well-deserved end of Gustav, the Vril Society’s pet torturer.

‘Erik was just one of your foot soldiers, Frederick. Cannon-fodder. How much can he be worth?’

‘A life for a life, Mr Saintclair.’ The German oozed reason like a bank manager turning down a loan for a kidney transplant. ‘Your life for his.’

‘That would be a pity, because I have something to trade.’ An eyebrow rose and he knew he’d hit the mark. ‘How is all your Nazi mumbo-jumbo going? I recall you put a lot of faith in the Sun Stone.’

‘The Sun Stone no longer exists, Mr Saintclair, I seem to remember you proving that most conclusively.’

Jamie nodded at what amounted to a compliment. ‘But you Nazis had also mislaid something just as important. What if I could find you the gold centrepiece to the Wewelsburg Sun. The centrepiece that would allow you to translate all the rune symbols carved into the marble. Whatever that leads you to has got to be worth a couple of lives.’

Frederick’s eyes glittered. The Black Sun at Himmler’s Wewelsburg Castle had been one of the clues that led Jamie to the hiding place of the Sun Stone, but the golden centrepiece, which was the key to all the information on the Sun, hadn’t been seen since the final days of the war. For a moment it seemed the German would take the bait, then he laughed.

‘How can you find something that no longer exists?’

‘That’s what I do, old chap,’ Jamie said patiently. ‘I found the Sun Stone, didn’t I?’

Frederick shook his head slowly. ‘Not possible.’

‘Walter Schellenberg.’ He could almost see the Nazi’s ears prick up. The charismatic Schellenberg had been Himmler’s counter-intelligence chief, a will-o’-the-wisp character perfectly at home in a world of shadows. ‘Walter Schellenberg holds the key. I’m willing to bet that Schellenberg was the last man out of Wewelsburg Castle before the demolition charges were set.’

Frederick was tempted. Jamie could see it in the storm-grey eyes, but eventually he shook his head again, emphatically this time. ‘Ah, Mr Saintclair, if it was only me …’ He stepped aside to reveal the big man with the muscles pulling his T-shirt over his head. ‘You remember Gustav, of course. How we all miss Gustav. Let me introduce Jurgen, Gustav’s brother. Jurgen was most upset at his brother’s death. If I remember rightly he promised to rain all manner of biblical punishments on the perpetrator. And now,’ Jurgen’s smile resembled the grinning skull on an SS death’s head ring, ‘thanks to your timely arrival in this fair city, he has his opportunity.’

Jurgen pushed himself forward into the centre of the room and drew what looked like a butcher’s skinning knife from his belt. Danny Fisher gave a little cry and for the first time Jamie’s body told him it was time to be scared. Very scared. He could see the rippling blue sheen where the blade had been sharpened to a razor edge. He tried to push himself back, away from the advancing German, but the men behind him laughed and held him in place. Jurgen bent low over him, eyes bright and the flat, moon face inches from Jamie’s, so he could smell the other man’s sewer breath. Very slowly, the knife came up to his waist and his body cringed away from the awful curved blade. With a sharp snick Jamie felt the plastic ties falling away from his wrists and Jurgen backed away, grinning.

The Englishman let out a long, slow breath and felt something ready to explode inside him.

Frederick laughed. ‘Jurgen has always planned to take you apart, one piece at a time and with infinite patience, but he is a warrior, as well as an artist. He wants to see how well you can fight.’ Casually, he threw a knife, the twin of the one in Jurgen’s hand, at Jamie’s feet, as the others made a ring with the two men at the centre.

Jamie’s brain screamed that there had to be a way out, but the warrior inside told him that was just the fear talking and he buried it deep. He studied his opponent. If Frederick was giving him a knife, it was because he knew Jurgen was better with it. And that was only the half of it. Stripped to the waist, the German was massively muscled and his height gave him a longer reach. Something told Jamie that, despite his size, Jurgen would be quick, too. His brother had fought in Afghanistan and enjoyed inflicting pain. It looked as if it ran in the family. He ignored the thrown knife and the ring of bright expectant eyes and slowly removed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off so he was Jurgen’s smaller, leaner twin. He also removed his shoes and socks, which brought a sneer from the other man.

When he was ready, he stood for a few moments allowing his mind to clear. It wasn’t anger or hate he needed now, but ice-cold calculation. The man who tried to match Jurgen blow for blow was a dead man, but if he couldn’t outfight him, at least he could try to outthink him. In many ways it made it simpler that this was a fight to the death. Black and white. He had no illusions what would happen if he won, but he was certain of one thing. Before he died, Jurgen was going to be saying hello to his brother. He bent to pick up the knife, his eyes never leaving the other man’s.

The trick in knife fighting is not to be mesmerized by your opponent’s hands. He’ll posture with his left to draw you, while lunging with the blade. He’ll hypnotize you with his knife hand until you see every move but the one that kills you. Don’t watch his hands; watch his eyes — that was what the unarmed combat instructors at the OTC had always said. The problem was that Jurgen was too good for that. Jamie knew it the moment they faced up to one another, each man circling to get the measure of his opponent’s reach, and his balance. Searching out any weakness. Jurgen’s knife hand swayed, jinked and darted, but his eyes never left Jamie’s face, nor betrayed any of those swift, graceful movements. The grin had gone, replaced by the sardonic smile of a professional at work. He had patience, too. After the initial ritual dance, like two cobras swaying in a deadly courtship, Jamie expected a first rush to test his defences. It never came. Gradually, he realized what was happening. To test his theory, he offered Jurgen a potential opening, but the German’s smile broadened and he continued to circle. Now Jamie was certain. His opponent had a plan. He had made his promise to Gustav. In Jurgen’s tiny mind, Jamie had already been turned into a bloody obscenity, taken apart piece by piece; all that was required was to execute that plan. And that gave Jamie confidence. Jurgen was good. But was he that good?

A flash of exquisite agony gave him his answer.

‘Shit!’ The jeers of Jurgen’s Nazi comrades filled the room. First blood. Where had that come from? Jamie glanced at his shoulder. An inch of skin was missing and blood trickled wine red down his right arm. Jurgen raised his arms in a victory salute. The gesture was arrogant and contemptuous and it almost killed him. Jamie feinted right and lunged, the point of the skinning knife aimed at the German’s protruding belly-button, the strike so fast and so precise he could almost feel it enter the flesh. Jurgen had been expecting it, but even so he was almost too slow. He abandoned the counter-stroke he had planned and danced clear, but the wind of the blade whispered on his flesh like a child’s kiss and he realized he had been a millimetre from being disembowelled. The eyes hardened and Jamie knew there would be no more salutes. Still, he reasoned, Jurgen wouldn’t abandon his plan so lightly. That was Jamie’s edge. Jurgen was like a gladiator performing a piece of theatre for the Emperor, and the longer it took, the more exquisite the end would be. Jamie only wanted to kill. Jurgen wanted him to attack, because that would make it easier. But that was all right, because now Jamie understood that Jurgen’s vanity was his weakness, he was happy to give him what he wanted. Jurgen needed many openings to make his plan work. Jamie only needed one.

He built up the speed of his movements, circling and dancing, first in, then out, the knife weaving glistening patterns in the artificial light. Inside the circle, Jurgen turned, always facing his opponent, but Jamie saw a faint hint of concern in the close-set eyes, because he was only barely moving fast enough, and he knew it. Jamie’s bare feet allowed him to dance over the plastic sheeting, where Jurgen’s trainers, with their notched soles, moved it with them. Jurgen glanced at his feet and Jamie struck. He darted inside, at the same time bringing the blade round in a slashing arc designed to sever the German’s carotid artery. Jurgen, and every man in the room, thought he had reacted too late. He swayed away from the blade, but it pursued him like a hawk diving on a sparrow. A splash of bright scarlet signalled the hit and Jurgen screamed in fright. Jamie heard Danny’s cry of triumph and felt the volcanic surge of victory deep in his loins. But it was only momentary. A man with his throat cut doesn’t keep moving. A man with his throat cut sways and bleeds and falls and dies. Jurgen raised a hand to his left ear, which had been sliced diagonally, with the lower piece flapping against his neck held by a thin strip of skin. A line of blood appeared where the knife point had traced the flesh of his cheek.

Jurgen was hurt, but like a wounded big cat it made him more cautious, but no less dangerous. Jamie was unaware of the savage delight that etched his face and sent a shudder of concern through his enemy. He had tasted blood and he wanted more. He darted in a second time, hoping to take advantage of Jurgen’s shock, but the big man knew how close he had come and retreated into a defensive crouch. They fell into a rhythm of move and counter-move, thrust and counter-thrust. The minutes passed and Jamie felt his arm beginning to tire. Once more, he created what he thought was the killer opening, but this time Jurgen was ready and as Jamie swerved away his hand flicked out like a striking viper. The knife point scored Jamie’s left cheekbone and his vision disintegrated into a fiery cauldron. He knew Jurgen would be coming for him and he slashed blindly with his blade. But when his sight cleared Jurgen was standing back with the grin restored to his face. He reached up to touch the scar on his own cheek.

‘Schlager,’ he laughed.

Jamie knew a schlager was the heavy sword used in years past by German students to inflict scars of honour during fencing contests. But those were tests of skill, not fights to the death. That was when he understood this was a battle he could never win.

Frederick barked an order to continue, and Jurgen moved in for the kill. They resumed their circling, Jamie reduced to trying to stay alive and seeking an opening that seemed increasingly less likely to come, and Jurgen, his confidence restored, now doing the probing and dancing. Another near miss opened Jamie’s left breast just above the nipple and that galvanized him into a new attack, but he could feel the fatigue eating at him. He had to finish it now. Or die.

Feigning a slip, he allowed his feet to go out from under him at the same time praying that Jurgen would see his opening and go for the kill. It was a risk, but a calculated one, because if he was quick, the way he had fallen would carry him under the knife and into the killing zone. The downside was that if Jurgen was quicker, Jamie would be at his mercy for the vital split second it would take to plunge the blade into his body. As he hit the plastic he heard a crash as the door slammed back and a shrill voice that shouted, ‘Hande hoch.’ Inexplicably, Jurgen froze and his knife arm dropped. Jamie was already rolling beneath his opponent’s guard and he came up in a fluid movement that brought the skinning knife in below Jurgen’s breastbone. He sensed the moment it broke the skin and entered the sucking embrace of the flesh, and the instant it pierced the frantically beating heart. Jurgen screamed and screamed again, but Jamie kept forcing the blade up and up, deeper and deeper. He felt an elemental, visceral joy that men in battle must have shared through the ages. Death-bringer. Survivor. Victor. More alive than he’d ever felt before. Until the next war, the next battle or the next fight. The German’s mouth opened and closed and his eyes bulged. Blood sprayed from his nostrils into Jamie’s face and a flood of warmth covered his knife arm. As he twisted the knife and pulled it free he heard the sharp chatter of a machine gun and the thud of a body falling. Jurgen’s shuddering body crumpled into the widening pool of blood at his feet. When Jamie looked up, the men who had made up the circle behind Jurgen stood with their mouths open and their hands above their shoulders. He turned with the knife still in a death grip ready to kill and kill again. It was puzzling that the audience had been increased by four figures dressed in ski masks and black overalls who now stood inside the doorway covering the room with cocked Heckler & Koch machine pistols. Against one wall, eyes wide open and a string of ragged holes stitching his chest, lay the pony-tailed stormtrooper with the sub-machine gun. Frederick stood beside him, his face a mask of fury.

Jamie advanced on the Vril’s paramilitary leader until a soft hand touched his shoulder.

‘It’s all right, Jamie, we’re safe now.’