"War produces great beauty and great ugliness." Lasche pointed first at the cannon, then the lamp shade as he said this. "And people pay handsomely for both. I keep this here to remind me of that."
He turned his attention to the jacket, his hands shaking as he held it, although it was hard to know if this was from anticipation or old age.
"It's obviously an SS uniform," he said between strained breaths, pointing at the distinctive silver double lightning bolts on the right-hand collar badge. "And its owner was probably German, since in theory only Germans were allowed to wear the Siegrunen. And you see the national eagle and swastika worn high on the left sleeve? Only the SS did this. Every other fighting service wore it on the left breast. The uniform is based on the M1943 design, but from the fabric and quality I'd say it was tailor-made rather than produced by the SS-Bekleidungswerke, which is strange…"
Tom tilted his head at the unfamiliar word.
"The SS clothing works," Lasche explained. "Tailoring was common for senior officers, but not for an Unterscharf-tihrer." He pointed at the left-hand collar badge, a single silver pip on a black background.
"A what?"
"It's the owner's rank. I suppose it would translate as corporal. So either this particular officer was very rich or…"
Lasche had just caught sight of the cuff title, a thin strip of black material embroidered with gold that had been sewn to the left-hand sleeve just below the elbow. The sight seemed to trigger a hacking cough and a frenzied gasping for breath that had the nurse behind him pressing the oxygen mask to his face and feverishly adjusting taps on the gas bottles until he was able to speak again.
"Where did you get this?" he croaked, waving the nurse away.
"London. Why?"
"Why? Why? Because, Mr. Kirk, this jacket belonged to a member of Der Totenkopfsorden. The Order of the Death's
Head."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Order of the Death's Head?" The voice from the speakerphone sounded skeptical. "Never heard of it."
"Not many people have." Renwick got up and began to pace back and forth behind the sofa as he spoke. Hecht observed him with a detached leer. "It has taken me years to piece together the little that I know. But it existed, I promise you that."
"I know every regiment, every division, every company that the Third Reich ever formed. And I have never heard of this so-called Order," Hecht said dismissively.
"Let him speak, Colonel," Dmitri snapped. Hecht shrugged, heaving his booted feet up on the coffee table and settling back into his seat.
"As you know, Heinrich Himmler turned the SS into the most powerful force within the Reich, a state within a state, its tentacles reaching into almost every facet of German life and influencing agricultural, racial, scientific, and health policies."
"It was a marvel," Dmitri agreed. "The pride of the Fatherland. In charge of the police, the secret service, and the death camps, as well as running its own businesses and factories."
"Not to mention controlling an army of nine hundred thousand men at its peak," Hecht added enthusiastically.
"Right from the start, Himmler realized that loyalty could more easily be bought by ensuring that people felt they were part of something special. So everything about the SS, from the black uniforms to the runic symbols and badges, was designed to enhance their mystique and elite status. And it worked. Almost too well…"
"How can it have worked too well?" asked Hecht, frowning.
"Because with increasing power came the need for the SS to expand. It was forced to recruit in such numbers that there was no choice but to draw from a wider and less exclusive pool of applicants than had originally been the case."
"Which threatened its integrity and exclusivity," Dmitri said thoughtfully.
"Exactly. So Himmler began to look to romanticized history and pagan ritual to unite the disparate groups that made up the SS. He longed for a return to a more feudal age, a time of myth and legend and chivalric ideals. He was particularly obsessed with King Arthur and the story of how he gathered his twelve bravest and most noble knights at a round table to defend the Celtic way of life. Inspired by this story, he chose twelve men, all of Obergruppenfuhrer rank, to be his knights. These twelve were to stand for everything that was best about the Aryan nation and the SS brotherhood."
"How is it I have never heard of this?" The voice from the speakerphone was laced with skepticism.
"The existence of the Order was unknown even to the Fuhrer himself. They wore no outward badge or sign that they belonged to the SS's most exclusive club — except when they were together. For their secret meetings, they swapped their normal uniforms for ones that declared their status."
"In what way?"
"Standard SS uniforms display the regimental title on their cuff."
"Of course" — Hecht dropped his feet to the floor and sat forward—"Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler; Das Reich, Theodor Eicke. These are names that have gone down in history."
"The Order was no different, except they used gold rather than silver thread."
"Why has this never come out before?" Hecht asked, his impatience clear.
"Because every single member of the Order vanished in early 1945, and with them their secret. Some say that they escaped abroad. Others that they died defending Berlin. But I believe that they lived… Or, at least, they lived long enough to carry out one last order."
"Which was?"
"To protect a train."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The season was in full swing and Kitzbuhel's snow-laden streets were buzzing with people. The skiers were beginning to make their way off the slopes, squeezing themselves onto sweaty buses or clomping noisily along the treacherously icy roads in their unfastened boots, skis precariously balanced on one shoulder. The nonskiers were emerging from long, late lunches and steeling themselves for the heavy dinner that lay ahead, the women, especially, dressed in billowing curtains of fur. A few dogs danced through the legs of the cafe chairs lining the pavements, or in between the expensive SUVs that purred effortlessly along the narrow streets, their owners fruitlessly calling them to heel.
Archie picked his way through the traffic, one eye on his map and the other making sure he didn't knock anyone over. Luckily, the house he was searching for was conveniently located on a large plot only a short way from the town center, and he pulled into the drive with relief.
The house looked better cared for than its overgrown garden; the walls had been painted a bright yellow, and the wooden cladding that surrounded the upper story looked to have been recently replaced and treated. To the left, a makeshift carport constructed of rough timber and plastic sheeting was sagging under a fresh blanket of snow.
The front door was to the right of the main building, up some steps and under a separate covered porch. Archie rang the bell. There was no reply.
He stepped back from the porch and looked up at the house with a pained sigh. It was bad enough being abroad, he thought, but it would be worse still if this turned out to be a wasted trip.
He stepped forward and rang again. This time the door opened almost immediately, taking him by surprise.
"Ja?" It was a woman, about thirty years old, her hair tied up in a blue polka-dot scarf, her hands sheathed in bright yellow rubber gloves. She was wearing tennis shoes and a baggy tracksuit. In the hall behind her he could just about make out the shape of a kid's tricycle and a football.