A cork board had been fixed to the stone wall. It was covered with paper: handwritten notes, typed reports, drawings and maps. There was an order to it all, Hoffman saw. The papers were arranged in clusters, grouped together. Lines drawn across the board, from one cluster to another, or sometimes to several others.
Hoffman’s eyes were immediately drawn to a pencil sketch – a drawing of the artefact he saw in his dreams and whenever he closed his eyes. He made an effort not to react.
‘You have been busy in the last few days,’ Heinrich Himmler said. He waved his hand at the cluttered board. ‘All this comes from Streicher’s notes and files?’
The third man in the room was tall and lean, with thinning grey hair. He was older than Himmler, probably in his fifties, Hoffman thought. His voice, like his manner, was confident and assured.
‘Much of it, Reichsfuhrer,’ SS Standartenfuhrer Ritter Nachten said. ‘But a lot I have also gleaned from other sources.’ He stepped forward, standing in front of the board, like the university lecturer he had been before the war. ‘I see connections. That is how I operate.’
Himmler nodded. ‘And what connections have you seen that you believe warrant my attention?’
‘Isolated incidents. Reports and information that on their own mean nothing, but when connected and taken together…’ Nachten turned to examine the board.
Hoffman sensed that the man might circumnavigate the subject for a while if left to his own devices. For all their sakes, and spurred by his own impatient curiosity, he walked up to the board and tapped the drawing that interested him most.
‘This would appear to be the centre of your web of connections,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could explain to the Reichsfuhrer and to myself its significance?’
‘Of course.’ Nachten cleared his throat.
Hoffman glanced at Himmler, and was rewarded with a thin smile and raised eyebrows. ‘Proceed, Standartenfuhrer,’ Himmler murmured.
‘The drawing was part of a report forwarded to Berlin by our embassy in Lisbon. The drawing is apparently of an ancient axe-head, and was provided by an Englishman who gave his name as…’ Nachten crossed quickly to his desk on the opposite side of the office and leafed through papers until he found the report he sought. ‘Here we are – Rutherford. He now has the codename “Thor”.’
‘And it is significant for what reason?’ Hoffman prompted.
‘Rutherford did not know. Or he did not say. The Abwehr’s people in Lisbon clearly felt it was irrelevant. The covering letter that accompanied the report of Rutherford’s visit to the embassy was apologetic. But it is clear from what Rutherford did say that the British are extremely interested in this artefact.’
‘Why?’ Himmler asked sharply. The light glinted on his glasses as he stepped forward to examine the drawing.
‘We don’t know,’ Nachten admitted. ‘But they clearly see it as important. According to Rutherford, they dispatched personnel to the United States, to Los Angeles, to recover this axe-head.’
‘Los Angeles?’ Hoffman said.
Nachten traced his finger along one of the lines from the drawing to a news clipping pinned further along.
‘Los Angeles, where a rare and ancient native artefact was stolen from a private collection on the day it was opened to the public. It made the newspaper as one of their own reporters was apparently killed in the incident.’
‘Stolen by whom?’ Hoffman asked.
‘The report is vague. But from my own researches, it seems this axe-head is a close match to two others described in antiquity.’
‘And where are they?’ Himmler asked.
‘One was thought to be connected to the Black Forest region. I am not sure about the other.’ Nachten traced another line, to a set of papers fanned out at one side of the board. ‘I thought this might provide the answer…’
‘And what is that?’ Hoffman asked.
‘Reports from the Gestapo, of an enemy incursion into a monastery outside Paris. It seems the spies who went there were interested in the monastery library, which is noted for its collection of ancient texts.’
‘You think the texts mention these axe-heads?’
‘That was my first supposition. I sent one of my best men to obtain further information. He came back with this.’
Nachten gestured to a side table standing in an alcove. Three leather-bound books lay on it. They were all clearly old, with thick parchment pages. The leather was as scuffed and faded as the pages were curled and yellowed. Nachten opened the top book. It creaked as he turned the pages.
‘This was the book that the spies examined. The others were next to it in the library, but are unrelated.’
‘And this book describes the provenance or history of one or more of these axe-heads?’ Hoffman asked.
‘So I thought. But no. There is nothing.’
‘You are saying there is no connection after all?’ Himmler said.
‘Yet without a connection, the British interest in the monastery library makes no sense. The library itself is in the building which the local Gestapo use as their headquarters. Clearly to risk an operation there it must have been vitally important.’
‘And the spies told the Gestapo nothing of their intentions?’ Himmler demanded. ‘Where are they now?’
‘It seems they escaped, killing the Gestapo chief and perhaps the Abbot of the monastery in the process.’ Nachten shrugged an apology. ‘There is some confusion about what actually happened.’
‘Some anxiety to avoid blame, most likely,’ Hoffman said.
‘Most likely,’ Himmler echoed. ‘How do we know that is the book they were after?’
‘One of the arresting officers identified it as the volume they were consulting when they were taken.’
‘Identified it how?’ Hoffman asked. ‘Did he recognise a particular page or the title?’
‘No, but he remembered where it was on the shelf. Hauptsturmfuhrer Grebben took the books either side as well, in case the man was mistaken. I have examined them too.’ He sighed. ‘Nothing.’
‘What is the connection between the three books?’ Hoffman wondered.
‘The other two are Latin translations of older texts. This one is an account of a journey through the Holy Land made in the eighth century by a French monk. There is no connection.’
Hoffman looked at Himmler. ‘There are three possibilities that I see here.’
Himmler nodded for him to go on.
‘First, there is some relevance to one or all of these volumes that has so far escaped us. I assume that is unlikely?’
Nachten nodded. ‘I would have found it.’
‘Then the second possibility is that the information the British spies were seeking has nothing to do with these axes at all.’
‘Possible,’ Nachten conceded.
‘And the third possibility?’ Himmler prompted.
‘The most likely in my opinion,’ Hoffman said. ‘Simply that the British did not find what they were hoping to, any more than the Standartenfuhrer did. They were searching in the wrong book, or more likely it was not there to find. Their information, whatever it was, was wrong.’
Himmler nodded slowly. ‘The monastery is a dead end,’ he decided. ‘Leave it. Concentrate on other leads. Find out about these ancient axes and why they interest the British.’
Nachten clicked his heels. ‘Of course, Herr Reichsfuhrer.’
‘With your permission,’ Hoffman said to Himmler, ‘I shall do some research into the axe supposed to be associated with the Black Forest.’
‘An excellent idea, provided it does not interfere with your other duties. Nachten,’ Himmler ordered, ‘you will provide Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman with all the information you have. Then on your return we shall see what collectively we have discovered.’
‘One other thing,’ Hoffman said. ‘The Englishman, Rutherford…?’
‘He is keen to help the Reich all he can,’ Nachten said. He hurried back to his desk to retrieve the full report.
‘Of course.’
‘Lisbon put him in touch with an agent in London. I have arranged with Admiral Canaris’s office for any information he provides to be forwarded immediately to me…’ He leafed through the typewritten pages. ‘Here we are. He is to make contact with one of the Abwehr’s best agents, apparently. Her codename is Magda.’
* * *
It was a disappointment but not a surprise that Sarah was not permitted to sit in on the meeting. Brinkman apologised, and promised to brief her immediately afterwards.
‘It’s a good idea,’ he told her. ‘But to be honest, I doubt if anything will come of it. I was there when they interrogated Hess last year, and he clammed up like a corpse.’
‘Was that at the Tower of London?’ Sarah wondered.
‘No, this was before they took him to the Tower. It was in a place on the Brompton Road, used by the Royal Artillery as a base for all their anti-aircraft operations. It’s above a disused tube station, so I assume it’s easy to evacuate. But Alban’s spent time with Hess since he was moved, and got precious little out of him. For all his schoolboy humour and looks that man could get blood out of the proverbial stone, believe me.’
Brinkman’s reservations turned out to be justified. He called Sarah in to his office when he returned from the meeting and gestured for her to sit down.
‘I’ll brief everyone properly later, though there’s not much to tell.’
‘But something?’ Sarah asked hopefully.
‘Hess was his usual helpful self. He’s worried, but how much of that is because of his knowledge of the Vril, and how much is just down to being a prisoner of war and the way the tide is turning against Germany…’ Brinkman shrugged. ‘There were just the three of us, I insisted on that. I translated, as Mr Wells doesn’t speak German.’
‘And did Hess appreciate speaking to him?’
‘Hard to tell. He’d read some of Wells’s books, which was a help. They discussed colonialism as much as anything. Hess believes, if what he says is true, that the Vril are essentially imperialists.’
‘That all makes sense,’ Sarah said. ‘In fact it’s pretty much what we’d concluded already. But did he give any reason why they have been here for so long?’
Brinkman shook his head. ‘I had Wells suggest to him Elizabeth Archer’s theory that they have been waiting for civilisation to reach a stage where it’s useful to them. But Hess didn’t seem to have any thoughts on that. He sees the Vril as creatures of darkness, lurking underground, and interested in causing death and destruction for its own sake. Conquest as a means in itself.’
‘Maybe it’s not the Vril he’s describing there,’ Sarah said.
Brinkman nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Guilt and regret can take many forms.’
‘So we’ve learned nothing new, really, have we?’ She shook her head, disappointed.
‘It was a good idea,’ Brinkman told her. ‘And to be honest, the relevance and value of what we have discovered may not become apparent for a while. Maybe we’ve gleaned some nugget of information that will be important later. We’ll just have to see. And Mr Wells himself may yet come up with some useful insights.’
* * *
The instructions were precise, and imprinted indelibly on Ralph Rutherford’s memory. He found the house easily enough, in a leafy suburb that seemed largely unaffected by the bombing. Exactly seven o’clock, the instructions had said. He waited in the street, smoking to calm his nerves.
He was excited as well as nervous. Finally, he was doing something. He was making decisions that were not dictated by others – by Crowley. He wouldn’t tell the Germans much, he decided. Just enough to get well paid for his services. To get enough money to be able to do what he liked. Maybe he’d buy a house like this one. Maybe he’d take over from Crowley – the man was old, he couldn’t go on for ever.
There had been a time when Rutherford believed Crowley saw him as his successor. But increasingly he felt side-lined and insulted. And now that Crowley was pandering to MI5 or whoever they were …
He checked his watch, and made his way up the drive. The revolver was a reassuring weight in his jacket pocket. There were four doorbell buttons beside the door. Each had a name against it, apart from the top button. That was the one he pressed. Two short presses and one long one. He listened, but could hear no response from inside the house.
After what seemed an age, the door was opened by a young woman wearing a dressing gown. Her auburn hair was a mess and there were dark rings under her eyes. She looked at Rutherford warily.
‘I don’t know you,’ she said.
‘I don’t know you either,’ he told her.
She started to close the door.
‘No, wait! I’m here to see…’ For a moment, the name escaped him.
The door paused. ‘Here to see who?’
‘Lucy.’ Yes, that was it. ‘Lucy White.’
The door swung open again. ‘Then you’d better come in. Top floor, second door on the left. Knock the same way as you rang the bell.’
The woman disappeared down the hallway, leaving Rutherford to make his own way up the stairs. There were four floors, the top being almost an attic. The carpet was threadbare, and the walls a plain white that was fading to a dull ivory colour. Rutherford knocked on the second door on the left as she had said – two knocks, a pause, then another.
‘It’s open,’ a woman’s voice called.
It was like entering another world. Soft carpet under Rutherford’s feet, and deep red wallpaper patterned with black swirls. Matching velvet curtains were drawn although it wasn’t yet dark outside. The light came from a central chandelier and several lamps on tables round the walls. The room was dominated by a large bed. Rutherford saw that there was another door on the other side of it.
The woman was lying on the bed. She glanced at Rutherford, then put down the book she had been reading. ‘You looking for me?’ Her voice was soft as the carpet.
‘I am looking for Magda,’ he replied, just as the instructions had said.
‘Then you’ve found her.’
Magda, or Lucy, or whatever her name really was, sat up and swung her feet off the bed. She went over to a side table and helped herself to a cigarette from a wooden box. She didn’t offer Rutherford one, but lit it and stood regarding him with dispassionate interest.
His own interest was anything but dispassionate. Magda had flame-red hair curling over her shoulders, and dark, smouldering eyes. She was wearing a red satin corset, black silk stockings, and very little else.
‘Well, at least you’re punctual,’ she said. ‘Our mutual friends said you’d be dropping by. So, what can you do for me?’