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SS. Drummond wondered what it meant.
The last page in the file was a copy of a document in English, prepared by
the U.S. forces occupying Vienna at the end of the war. After the usual military
headings and codes there followed three very short paragraphs.
1. This department has conducted a thorough investigation into the execution
of twelve civilians on 15 March 1938 in the alley adjacent to SS HQ at 17 Dietrich
Eckart Strasse.
2. All evidence indicates that the victims were arrested and executed on the
direct order of SS Hauptsturmführer (Captain) Wilhelm Kluge.
3. This department therefore requests the Judge-Advocate General to
prepare an indictment citing the above-named German officer as having committed
war crimes on the date first set out in this document.
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Wm. Logsdon, Major A US
Drummond stared at the document for several minutes, slowly gathering his
thoughts. The scenario that confronted him seemed impossible, but just as Sherlock
Holmes said to Dr. Watson, "Once you have eliminated the possible, what remains,
no matter how impossible it may seem, is the truth."
Drummond had several impossibles to deal with. He had a priest who
admitted killing half a dozen "Nazis," as well as a Mexican gardener, in Los
Angeles back in the early seventies, because they were vampires. The priest had
vaguely connected the vampire notion with an obscure order of knights supposedly
living in a castle in Luxembourg.
His only lead for more information on the knights had brought him into
contract with an eccentric Austrian aristocrat whose home was the former
headquarters of some strange branch of the SS dedicated or so it would seem to
the eradication of Freemasonry.
Then there was Stucke some pitiable survivor of Hitler's holocaust who
turns up dead in a bathtub within a month of telling the police he's spotted Wilhelm
Kluge, the man the U.S. Army said was responsible for the execution of the twelve
Freemasons at von Liebenfalz's home.
The room was getting chilly, and Drummond decided to close the doors to
the terrace. Neatly stacking the papers to one side of the desk, he stood up and
turned toward the open doors.
The intruder froze where he was for just an instant, and then, as Drummond
turned to face him, sprang forward with all his might.
In his surprise, Drummond was taken totally unawares, and crashed to the
floor as his assailant slammed into him. Reflexively, Drummond tried to roll away
from his attacker, but found himself tangled in the broken legs of the writing desk.
Struggling to distance himself from man who had leaped on him, Drummond saw
the glint of something bright in his adversary's right hand.
Lashing out with both feet, Drummond kicked himself free, and struggling to
his knees threw a roundhouse punch that landed square on the side of his assailant's
head. Reeling under the blow, the punk sagged slightly, and Drummond was able to
scramble to his feet.
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r r
In an instant, the punk was after him, taking a vicious swipe with his knife
that came within inches of laying open Drummond's belly. Drummond jumped
back, and instantly dropped forward into a crouching position, well-balanced on the
balls of his feet.
The punk lunged again, and Drummond caught his wrist in both hands,
twisting and pressing down as he pulled his attacker closer. Shifting his weight,
Drummond suddenly lifted straight up and heard a loud pop as the arm was
dislocated from the shoulder.
The punk sagged slightly, then delivered a vicious kick aimed at
Drummond's groin. Letting go of the punker's wrist, Drummond jumped back, the
kick glancing painfully off the point of his hip.
Eyes blazing, the punk stepped away from Drummond and put his back
against the wall. Crazily, Drummond noticed that he had a tattoo on his right
cheek the tattoo of a rose. Slowly lifting his dislocated arm, the knife still
clutched in his hand, the punker suddenly gave an almighty jerk and the arm
snapped back into the shoulder socket.
Drummond watched in utter amazement, his only thought that the skinhead
had to be on drugs in order to withstand that much pain. The punk slowly circled
around towards Drummond, who now stood with his back to the wall. Drummond
took advantage of his position and moved closer to the open French doors,
determined to make a dash for it if he had the chance. The chance came.
There was a heavy pounding on his door as the concierge shouted, "Kapitän
Drummond, Kapitän Drummond, are you all right?"
For an instant the punk hesitated, and Drummond made his dash for the open
doors. The punk leaped at Drummond but missed. Crashing to the floor, he grabbed
Drummond's ankle, causing him to trip. Drummond recovered his balance and
turned to face his attacker, just in time to see the knife coming arching down
toward his chest.
Somehow Drummond was detached from what was happening, almost as if
he were watching someone else fighting for his life. It was as if everything in the
world was happening in slow motion, and he had a ringside seat. He watched the
fist clenching the knife as it came bearing down on him, and saw his hand come up
and catch it just behind the wrist. He turned slightly and, bracing his body, felt a
slight bump as his hip connected with his assailant's body. Bowing slightly, he
could hear the rustle of the punk's clothes as he slowly sailed past his head. Turning
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r r
his neck slightly, Drummond watched as his would-be killer drifted past and
vanished over the edge of the balcony.
Suddenly the world was moving at full speed again. Drummond heard a
scream as the punk went over the edge and crashed down on the spikes of the
ornate wrought-iron railing that surrounded the Palais Schwartzenberg. Breathless,
he ran to the balcony and looked down. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]