Sign of the Cross Read online

  Beckman wielded the heavy, battery-powered drill and began auguring with a three-centimeter bit. When he was finished, Bruckner removed lengths of thermal tubes from a pack and dropped them in each hole.

  ‘Dichter, now’s your time to shine,’ Kempner said. The explosives expert, a man of few words who sported a perpetual grin, handled the sticks of TNT as if they were as harmless as candy canes and soon had them wired up to a detonator.

  ‘It would be best to fall back, turn away and cover your ears,’ Dichter said, talking too loudly as usual. ‘You don’t want to be as deaf as me.’

  He counted down, pulled up on the plunger and there was an almighty BOOM, followed by plumes of coarse and fine ice extending high into the frigid air.

  Kempner scrambled back down with a shovel and began clearing the debris from one corner. He called for a crowbar and thrust it into the gaping hole. There was a satisfying sound of metal on metal.

  ‘Ok, off your asses, men. Time to dig again. We’re close enough to taste it.’ It was the first time Schneider had heard him sound joyful.

  It took another hour and they were all drenched in sweat, but they had found it: a large steel door, black as night, lying at a thirty-degree angle to the bottom of the trench. By the light of a torch, Schneider could see that the door was fixed to the rock below with giant bolts studding its circumference.

  ‘Thermal liquid,’ Kempner ordered and two aluminum flasks were produced. Dichter mixed them together and quickly poured several drops of liquid onto each bolt.

  After a few minutes, Schneider and Hufnagel were sent down with a huge lug wrench to manhandle the loosened bolts, one by one. Collapsing with exhaustion, the two men were relieved and four others took their place with crowbars, grappling hooks and chains.

  When the time came to heave against the chains, Kempner solemnly said, ‘The men who sealed this cave were the gallant crew of the U-530. It will be an honor to soon breathe the air they breathed in 1945. Now pull!’

  The steel door groaned forward and crashed onto the floor of the trench. Kempner shone his torch into the void and wasted no more time on fine words. He clamored in, followed by Bruckner and the others. The two youngest, Schneider and Hufnagel, were the last and found they had to duck down low and light their own torches to navigate a low tunnel with steel-reinforced walls. After crab walking for ten meters, they found themselves in a huge cavern that seemed to have no end. The light from their lamps bounced off large columns of ice that took on grotesque shapes, as if an army of subterranean demons guarded the chamber.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Kempner announced, throwing his beam around the blackness, ‘Welcome to Station 211. Now that we have made it this far, I can reveal the truth. The German Antarctica Expedition of 1938 and 1939 explored this region by air, land and claimed it as New Swabia. These brave men discovered this underground formation but it was later, in 1943, under the personal command of Grand Admiral Dönitz, that this cave was expanded, reinforced and secured. Why was this done? As a precaution. To create a remote and impregnable fortress for the Führer and his high officers, to give them a chance to rebuild the Reich in the event of a disaster. Well, the disaster happened. But Hitler, as we know, simply refused to flee Berlin. Station 211 was not used for this purpose. It was used as a museum.’

  Kempner consulted a small, hand-drawn map, which he kept tucked in the pages of his leather journal; a precious piece of paper that had been passed down to him years earlier by the captain of U-530. He folded the map and started walking through the cavern, his men following closely behind.

  ‘Look at the size of this place,’ Hufnagel said to Schneider. ‘You could hide an entire army down here.’

  Schneider felt something hit his shoulder. Alarmed he shone his light up at the ceiling of the chamber and saw a fine dust of ice raining down.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘Relax,’ Hufnagel said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing except the dynamite we used to blast our way in.’

  Schneider kept track of his paces and counted to three hundred, as Kempner traversed the cavern and passed the mouths of two further tunnels before entering a third. This low tunnel was also reinforced with steel girders and jack stands. It opened into a relatively small chamber, perhaps twenty meters across, high enough for them to stand upright with ease and there, against the far wall, was a line of large bronze chests.

  Kempner spoke with the reverence of a devoted man entering a grand cathedral.

  ‘The treasures of the Reich.’

  ‘We can’t carry all these chests back to the helicopter,’ Beckman said.

  ‘We’re not taking the chests,’ Kempner said. ‘We are here for two objects only. We leave the rest for a brighter future. Unfortunately, we have no information to tell us which chest holds these objects. You must break the locks and look inside each one, until we find a green leather box and a small leather pouch. Get to work and hurry, unless you want to stay here forever. The helicopter engines are getting cold.’

  Schneider and Hufnagel paired off to start with the chest at the right-most end of the row. Falling to their knees, they inspected the heavy padlock.

  ‘Bolt cutters would be nice,’ Hufnagel said.

  ‘Well, we don’t have any,’ Schneider said, retrieving a hammer and chisel from his pack. ‘Fortunately, you’re as strong as an ox so go for it.’

  Soon the chamber echoed with the banging of metal upon metal. With a mighty hammer blow, Hufnagel’s iron lock shattered but alarmingly, it began to snow. Schneider looked up and saw a mist of ice coming from the ceiling.

  Without warning, chair-size chunks of ice and stone began falling immediately to Schneider’s right. Hufnagel stood and looked up. Schneider didn’t have time to do the same. All he could see was the terror in his friend’s eyes and feel two strong hands against his chest as Hufnagel sharply pushed him to the left.

  As he fell backwards, Hufnagel and half the chest disappeared under a mound of debris.

  ‘Oskar!’ Schneider cried.

  The others rushed over and Kempner shone his light onto the ceiling.

  ‘Dig the chest out and pull it away,’ he ordered calmly.

  ‘Help him!’ Schneider yelled.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ the leader said, ‘or the rest of the ceiling will come down.’

  The men began moving debris from around the chest with their hands and trench tools.

  Schneider couldn’t believe they were saving the chest and not Oskar so he began pawing at the larger mound that was concealing his body.

  ‘Stand down, Schneider,’ Kempner said, but he kept digging. ‘Schneider, this is a direct order.’

  ‘I’ve got to try,’ he protested.

  ‘No son of Otto Schneider would ever refuse a direct order from his superior,’ Kempner said. Then he added gently, ‘He’s gone, Lambret. We need to finish our mission.’

  Schneider was in a trance as the others pulled the bronze chest free and threw the lid open on its hinges. He numbly looked inside as Bruckner leaned over and rummaged through it. He saw an obelisk, a number of plaques, bundles of documents and photos tied in ribbons, rolled up maps. Near the bottom of the chest was a small silver box inscribed with the initials, AH. Bruckner passed it to Kempner who said reverentially, ‘The Führer’s ashes, collected from outside the bunker.’

  ‘Should we take them?’ Bruckner asked.

  Kempner shook his head. ‘We leave them. They are safer here than anywhere on the planet.’

  As Bruckner replaced the box, Kempner saw something and said, ‘That! To the left of your hand.’

  There was a simple leather pouch, the size of a change purse.

  ‘This?’ Bruckner asked, picking it up.

  ‘Give it to me,’ Kempner said urgently.

  Kempner undid the drawstring, looked in and saw a pointy sliver of wood.

  ‘What is it?’ one of the men asked.

  Kempner let them all peek inside the
pouch and said, ‘This, gentlemen, is a thorn from the crown of thorns that the Romans thrust onto the head of Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Is it real?’ another asked.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s real, I assure you.’ He cinched up the leather pouch and turned to Schneider. ‘Here, Lambret, I’m entrusting this to you. It’s a precious thing. Make sure you keep the pouch closed.’

  Schneider blinked away his tears, removed his gloves and carefully placed the pouch inside a zippered outer pocket of his parka.

  ‘All right, we have seven other chests to search,’ Kempner said. ‘Come now. Quickly. It’s a green leather box we want now.’

  As the others got back to work, Schneider could only stand and stare at the mound that had become the permanent resting place of a vibrant young man. He felt inside his trouser pocket for the photo of Oskar’s knocked-up girlfriend and whispered to the mound that he would take care of his child, whatever it took.

  He was still staring at the mound when he heard one of the men say, ‘I think I’ve found it.’ Lambret found himself stumbling toward an open chest. There a green box, the size of a cutlery set, lay on top of a trove of gold and silver decorative pieces, small paintings on wood and canvas, and a cluster of what looked to all the world like Fabergé eggs. The leather box was emblazoned with SS lightning bolts and the initials, HLH.

  Heinrich Luitpold Himmler.

  Bruckner told Kempner that he should be the one to open it and the old officer fell stiffly to his knees. He undid the clasp and opened the velvet-lined box.

  Schneider recognized the object immediately, for when he was a child he had held its replica in his hands on the worst day of his life.

  The Lance of Longinus, the Spear of Destiny.

  When Kempner’s eyes filled with tears, Schneider became angry. The old soldier’s eyes had stayed dry over Oskar’s death, but Lambret held his tongue. Kempner told the men they could look at the lance, but only for a moment, as they had accomplished their mission and had to leave.

  ‘But do not touch it,’ Kempner ordered.

  ‘Why?’ he was asked.

  ‘Just do as I say.’

  The box passed from hand to hand, each man admiring the long, black spearhead wrapped in a sheath of glittering gold.

  Schneider was the last to take the box. He had it near the chest pocket that held the pouch and thorn.

  Suddenly the spear changed color, from black to glowing red.

  He felt a pain in his breast and the zippered pocket over his chest began to smoke.

  Kempner snatched the box away from him, as Schneider cried, ‘What the hell is happening?’

  NINE

  Croatia, present day

  He was surprisingly youthful for a man in his forties; perhaps it was his modern haircut – longish and bottle-blonde on top, shaved sides that were several shades darker – or maybe it was the impish smile he used liberally to get his way. Regardless, he was an imposing fellow whose steroidal chest and arms bulged under a thin sweater and light rain slicker.

  The man entered the ancient stone building and closed the wooden door behind him. Brother Augustin, frail and aged, was alone in the chapel of St Athanasius. It was evening and the light coming through the few small windows was fading fast. The monk tired easily these days and found it difficult to sustain even simple exertion without the need to shut his eyes for a while. His younger colleague, Brother Ivan, was no spring chicken himself and had to pick up the slack by doing more of the monastery chores. Recently, they had been forced to stretch their already tight finances by hiring a local man to help with the vegetable garden and to do occasional repairs to the plumbing and electricals. Neither monk had ever learned to drive; they had entered cloistered life in their early teens. For years, a rota of village women had shopped for them.

  Augustin snorted and awoke at the sound of the heavy latch catching. He looked around and sighed at the sight of a tourist. He simply wasn’t feeling up to civility.

  He addressed the man in Croatian but switched to English when the big shoulders shrugged.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ the monk said. ‘Have a look around.’

  ‘Very old church,’ the man said with a German accent.

  The old man grunted and tried to blink away his cobwebs. He had been praying before he fell asleep and tried to start again but the man interrupted.

  ‘Is it just you here?’

  ‘We are a very small community. Only two monks.’

  ‘Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Fixing supper, I hope. I am sorry but I must return to prayer.’

  The man came forward down the aisle. He turned, his back to the rough stone altar and faced the monk. Before he spoke he pulled out a handkerchief and honked like a goose through his bulbous nose.

  ‘You know about this Italian priest who’s called Padre Gio, right?’

  Augustin’s watery eyes narrowed at the question. ‘I have heard something of him on the radio. Why are you asking?’

  ‘He came here. This priest.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He came here. I think you remember.’

  The monk became even more irritable than his usual crusty self. ‘Leave me in peace, young man,’

  ‘Peace,’ the man said with a chuckle. ‘All right, but first, let me shake your hand, ok?’

  The monk objected but, with a couple of long strides, the man took hold of his right hand and pulled back the robe to look at his wrist.

  ‘Nice and smooth,’ the man said. ‘Let me see the other.’ He grabbed his left hand and repeated the inspection. ‘Also nice and smooth but silly me. I forgot to shake your hand.’ He took his right hand again and began squeezing it.

  ‘Ow! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, clamping down harder. ‘Would you like me to stop?’

  The monk nodded in pain.

  ‘Then talk to me about this Italian priest.’

  ‘All right, stop.’

  The man let go and the monk rubbed his throbbing hand.

  ‘You remember him now.’

  ‘I remember him.’

  The man flashed his winning smile. ‘I knew you would. Tell me what happened when he came here.’

  ‘Happened? Nothing happened. He came as a tourist like everyone who comes here.’

  ‘Not everyone. I’m not a tourist. But ok. He was a tourist. He had a look around, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You took him to a special place, I think.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘The crypt. Will you take me there too?’

  The monk showed his fear now. His voice cracked. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You may call me Gerhardt and I will call you Augustin. We can be friends. Is that the way to the crypt?’

  There was an iron grate at one side of the chapel.

  The monk gave a weak, ‘Yes.’

  The man reached for the monk’s hand again, but the old man pulled it into his rough cloak in the same way a tortoise pulls into its shell at danger. He used his good hand to rise by pulling against the pew in front of him. It was only when he was upright that the disparity in size between the two men became apparent. The monk seemed like a small child being led to punishment.

  The grate had a lock. The big man had to inflict a bit more pain, by squeezing the old man’s shoulder, to get the monk to fish a key from his tunic. There was a wall switch in the vestibule and a spiral run of stone stairs materialized in the incandescent glow. The man told the monk to go first and followed on his heels.

  The crypt was only half the size of the chapel above, a low-ceilinged space with an uneven floor, its stones polished by centuries of use. Sunk into the floor were marker stones with inscriptions in Latin, showing the resting place of ancient prelates. In a shadowed nook, a small bronze urn was on a stone shelf.

  ‘Creepy down here,’ the man said. ‘Show me what you showed him, Augustin.’

  The monk gestured around the chamber
with his good hand. ‘Nothing more than what you can see for yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you take him here?’

  ‘He wanted to see it.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The crypt. He wanted to see the burials.’

  ‘Not much to see. Stones and, underneath them, bones. There was something else.’ He pointed toward the urn. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A reliquary.’

  ‘Augustin, Augustin,’ he said with a mocking tone, ‘You must explain this to me. I wasn’t the best student. I don’t know this word.’

  ‘A vessel to hold relics. You know what relics are, do you not?’

  The large man grunted, ‘Yes. What relics are inside this one?’

  ‘Nothing. It has been empty for a very long time.’

  The man went to the nook, took the urn from its stand and shook it.

  ‘Yes, it seems empty all right but let me check.’ With a quick twist of one of his paws, the top came off. He turned the urn toward the floor. Nothing came out. ‘I think that maybe something was in here recently. I think you’re not telling me the truth, Augustin.’

  The monk looked weary and dejected. ‘There was nothing inside the urn when I came to St Athanasius sixty-five years ago and there is nothing inside now.’

  ‘Isn’t it a sin to lie?’ the man said taking a few steps toward the monk. ‘Especially for a man of the Church.’

  ‘It is a sin to hurt an old man.’

  The man seemed amused. ‘Hurt? You call shaking your hand, hurt? I can show you hurt if you don’t tell me the truth. What was in the …?’ He fought to find the word and when he did he beamed. ‘Reliquary? Did you show it to the Italian priest? Did you give it to him?’

  The monk’s long sigh sounded like air released from a punctured tire. He remained mute.

  ‘All right, then,’ the man said. ‘I think I must encourage you. I’ll have to show you hurt.’

  It was dark when the man was finished.

  He carried the monk’s limp body up the crypt stairs and into the empty chapel.