Trevor Scott
Rise of the Order
For My Father
May He Rest In Peace
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the people of Magdeburg and Bernburg, Germany. In researching this book, I found out a great deal of my own Prussian past, and was able to visit the last known address of my Grandfather, a German Army officer who had survived trench warfare in World War I before emigrating to America. Also thanks to the cities of Vienna, Budapest, and Prague, for providing excellent food and beer and a great setting for this book. I hope I didn’t completely destroy the serenity of the Austrian Alps, one of my favorite places on Earth. A special thanks to the Teutonic Order. I meant no disrespect to this fine Order.
1
Europe had changed. Jake Adams knew that much. Gone were the pristine narrow streets lined with three hundred year old buildings leading to six hundred year old cathedrals. Now the streets were invariably littered with trash and the buildings tagged with Europe’s version of gang markings — ornately swirling messages in red or black or white — the culprits skinheads, anarchists, or simply disenfranchised foreign youth with too much time on their hands. Jobs gone to the more recently arrived.
Freezing rain pelted Jake’s exposed head as he strolled cautiously down a narrow lane along the Donau Canal in south Vienna. He had parked his car two blocks away, as instructed by phone, and wished now that he had never agreed to meet like this at midnight. It wasn’t that Vienna was normally a dangerous place at night or day, but he had been in situations like this far too often, and he knew that they were not always as innocuous as they seemed. Besides, he had driven most of the afternoon from Innsbruck; first there had been only rain, and then the rain left an invisible sheet of ice across the autobahn until cars were barely moving. That would have been tiring to anyone, yet he was starting to feel every bit his forty years. He held back a yawn.
Now he was having a hard time keeping his feet, despite the fact that he wore his best hiking shoes. The light windbreaker over his wool sweater kept the rain out, but the wind was picking up now and seemed to pass through both layers to his skin. He should have put on his lined leather coat. Worst of all, though, he had been forced to slide his 9mm CZ-75 automatic pistol into the right front pocket of his khaki pants, the handle butt hanging out and covered only by his windbreaker.
He didn’t know what to expect. Not one to take security jobs over the phone — impossible to judge how one lies under those conditions — he nevertheless felt compelled to hear the man out once the Federal President of Austria himself had called to ask for Jake’s help. How could he say no to him?
Ahead he saw the building, gray as the day had been, the neon sign at the corner bright red and yellow, indicating the Donau Bar was open for business. Only a couple of cars were parked along the deserted street, and Jake guessed that was because it was a Sunday night.
He stopped suddenly, turned and stooped down, as if he had dropped something, and took the time to glance about behind him as far as he could see in the shadows. Nothing. He re-tied his right shoe. With the pounding rain his senses seemed confused, his ears having an impossible time distinguishing the normal sounds of city life — cars and trams and buses — from that which should not be there. Like footsteps matching his stop-and-go pace. He would never be able to forget his training and years of experience in this game.
Satisfied all was as it should be, Jake rose and picked up his pace into the bar. He greeted the patrons with his best German, honed from living in Austria for more than five years and his work with the CIA and Air Force intelligence before that, stationed in Germany for most of his tours of duty. He looked Austrian now, with his dark hair and eyes and his clothes bought off the rack with European labels. In fact, it had been months since he had even spoken English.
After ordering a beer, Jake scanned the room quickly and took a seat in a corner booth, the tall wooden sides giving him an unrestricted view of the bar, where two men sat smoking. Large, full beers sat in front of each man. Jake sized them up. The one on the right was about five-ten, Jake’s height, and the other man looked to be a couple of inches taller than that. But since they were sitting, it was hard to tell for sure. They both wore long coats, and had barely touched their beers.
The bartender, a sturdy man in his early forties with a chiseled jaw, pock-marked face and bushy, unnaturally blond hair, brought Jake his beer and then hurried back behind the bar, his bulging eyes reminding Jake of the late Marty Feldman
It was ten after midnight. His contact was late. Jake guessed the man had been watching the front door, waiting for Jake to enter before coming in himself. Slowly, quietly, Jake slid his gun out and set it on his lap.
Less than a minute later the door swung open and an older man entered, his eyes shifting about from the men at the bar and landing on Jake. The guy was wearing a business suit covered by a topcoat with water bubbling and then dripping to the wood floor. He removed his fedora and rubbed his fingers along the brim. With that, Jake ran his hand through his hair. The man smiled as if recognizing an old friend, and hurried to take a seat across from Jake.
They shook hands across the table and Jake raised a thumb to the bartender, indicating to bring a beer for his friend.
Jake studied the man across from him intently. He had had almost no time at all to research the guy before leaving Innsbruck. And that had been a problem. He liked to know more about any potential client than they knew about themselves before taking on a case. Now he would have to play catch up. Jake prided himself on understanding people. After all, that was his business. Looking at the man, he saw an impeccable dresser, meticulously manicured nails, not a hair out of place despite the wind and rain. That meant his car was close. Concerned brown eyes. That’s what Jake saw. Something, in fact, out of character for the man. He knew the man was fifty-five, yet he had almost no wrinkles on his face — not even smile lines along his dark eyes. His only gray was a distinguished splotch along each temple.
“Slide your wallet across the table as if showing me photos of the wife and children,” Jake said in German, a smile on his face.
The man looked confused.
“I like to know who I’m working for,” Jake said, switching to English, his wide shoulders rising and falling.
“We talked on the phone,” the man said, his voice a near whisper.
Jake shrugged again, his eyes glancing to the side and watching the two men at the bar. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, Jake could see the man on the right peering directly at him before diverting his eyes back to the man next to him.
His contact slid his wallet toward Jake and then opened it, mentioning his two sons, which Jake knew he did not have. Jake read the Austrian driver’s license. Gustav Albrecht. His residence was the same as his work address, the headquarters of the Teutonic Order in Vienna. Jake had done a quick internet search of the organization. Having been established in 1190, Jake was dumbfounded that the Order still existed after more than 800 years.
Smiling, Jake returned the wallet to the man.
“What do you need from me?” Jake asked the man. “Don’t you have knights in shining armor to protect you?”
The man laughed and shook his head. “We are a charitable organization now,” he said apologetically. “We have churches and kindergartens.”
Jake knew that much. “So, what do you need from me?” he asked again. This was starting to get old.
The man leaned forward onto crossed arms. “I am the Grand Master of the Teutonic Order.”