PARSIFAL.
The Grand Master knew the contents by heart, but it always inspired him to read the vision of the Reichsfuhrer. He opened the binder. The pages were foxed and turning brown. The neat, ordered lines of type were still legible. He read for a few moments. He set the PARSIFAL documents aside and rested his hand on a thin booklet. The cover page was inscribed with the runic letters of the old Germanic tribes.
His father had been one of Himmler's inner circle. All through his childhood and early years, his father had taught him. Prepared him for the day when his father had shown him the binder and told him of PARSIFAL. Of the Grand Council. Then he'd talked about the ritual that had brought German success after success early in the war.
"I was having dinner with Himmler and Heydrich in the North Tower of the Reichsfuhrer's castle." His father had sighed, remembering when the swastika had flown over three continents.
"Heydrich said he had written down the words of the invocation. Himmler was Grand Master of the Council but it was always Heydrich who invoked the power of the Spear. After he was assassinated in '42, things turned against us."
"But the Fuhrer, father. Surely he could have carried it on, or the Reichsfuhrer."
His father had snorted in contempt. "The Fuhrer! In the beginning, he understood. He believed. He had learned. He did what was necessary. He followed the ritual. But he turned his back on the old ways. He forgot where his power came from and became caught in the illusion of his own will. You must never make that mistake.
"Himmler tried to continue, but the power is…difficult…to control. It will not respond unless conditions are perfect. The right day and time. The right setting. Everything must be exact."
His father had held up the booklet with the runes on the cover. "We will study this together. One day we will retrieve the Spear. On that day the Reich will be reborn. If I am gone, it will be your duty to speak these words. If your honor is pure, if your loyalty is true, you will prevail."
"Yes, Father."
He had never forgotten.
The final stages of PARSIFAL were unfolding. It couldn't be coincidence that the Holy Spear had been found just as the forces he'd set in motion were coming together. It was a sign from the gods, a sign he was favored. It was only right, his just due. The Grand Master raised his glass toward the painting of Barbarossa and smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carter found Arslanian's store on a narrow side street of the Armenian quarter. The metal gate that protected the shop was rolled up. The entrance was stacked with hand crafted Sabbath trays, candlestick holders, plates and ceramics decorated with vivid colors, flowers and animals.
The shop stretched back from the street through the entire block. The walls were lined with goods. The interior was in shadow. A sliver of daylight came from a door cracked open at the far end.
Halfway down, someone sat in a swiveled wooden office chair at a desk piled high with papers and pots. The chair was turned away from the entrance. The figure wasn't moving.
Carter's ear began itching. The darkness of the shop didn't feel right. He slipped his pistol out and held it down by his right side. He moved away from the light at the entrance, toward the figure in the chair, scanning the shadows.
He reached the desk and turned the chair around. Arslanian's body slumped over and slid to the floor. Something fell from his right hand.
There was a small hole in his forehead. Blood trickled from his ear and into his beard. His eyes were open. They told nothing about whoever had killed him. The only messages Carter had ever seen in dead men's eyes were reminders of his own mortality.
Arslanian's cheek was warm, the blood not yet dry. The killer had been here a few minutes before. Probably right after Arslanian opened up for the day.
Nick bent down to pick up whatever had dropped from Arslanian's dead fingers. A soft sound like a sneeze came from somewhere in the darkness of the shop. A stinging wind passed the back of his skull and a vase exploded behind him. He ducked and fired three quick shots over the desk at the back.
Pottery shattered along the wall where the rounds hit. The .45 sounded like cannon fire in the narrow confines of the shop. A rapid patter of silenced shots sent broken plates raining down on his head. There was a burst of daylight and the sound of the back door slamming shut. Nick got up and ran to the back. He stood on the side and pulled open the door.
The door opened onto a walled garden. A small fountain trickled under a tree shading a rickety table and two chairs. There was an ashtray on the table. A vase held wilted red flowers. In the far wall was a closed wooden gate.
Nick ran across the garden and swung the gate open. He glanced into the street on the other side of the wall. Two Armenian priests were walking toward the entrance to the quarter and St. James Cathedral. Another priest in an odd hat and black ankle-length robe walked in the opposite direction. Across the way a stout couple looked at postcards. There were shopkeepers, food vendors, strollers. Everything looked normal. There was no way to identify the assassin.
He holstered the .45, closed the gate and bolted it. He went back into the shop and closed the rear door. A crowd began to gather in front, drawn by the gunfire.
Rivka Stern, Nick's Shin Bet watcher, came in through the entrance. She had a Baby Eagle nine mil out and held by her side. Her dark, thick hair was pinned up under a pale yellow scarf. She wore an olive green skirt that came to her knees, sturdy sandals tied with thongs on her lower legs and a loose tan shirt of cotton under a light tan jacket. She had wide hips and full breasts bound close under her shirt. Her skin was dusky with the legacy of the Middle East. Sunglasses hid her eyes.
"What happened?" Her voice was low, tense.
"I found Arslanian dead. Someone took a shot at me. I shot back. He got away through the rear."
Rivka holstered her pistol, took out a phone, dialed, and began talking. Nick looked at what had fallen from Arslanian's hand. It was a flash drive. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.
He looked at his watch. It was only 2:30 in the morning in Washington, but Harker needed to know about this.
"Yes, Nick." Her voice was full of sleep. She cleared her throat. "What's happening?" She coughed.
"Arslanian's dead. Someone put a hit on him before we could meet. The shooter was waiting for me but he missed. He got away."
"You're sure he was after you as well?"
"Had to be. Arslanian had only been dead a few minutes. The shop was open to anyone and the killer was still inside. When he missed me he got out fast."
"Who knew you were going there this morning?"
"No one except Shin Bet and you."
"That's a short list."
There was a brief silence while Harker thought about that.
"What's your plan?" She coughed.
"I don't have one. Herzog will think of something. I'm following his lead right now."
"You'd better watch your step. All right, I'll see what I can uncover at this end."
"I'll be sending something to you." He fingered the drive in his pocket.
"Keep me posted." She ended the call.
Rivka stood near. He caught her scent, a subtle combination of musk and Judean flowers.
"Calling your mother?"
"Yes. Someone knew I was coming. The timing's too much of a coincidence."
"You could be right. We'll talk it over with Ari."
Police showed up and cordoned off the shop. Two more Shin Bet agents arrived. Carter took another look around. He knew the cops would do a better job of finding anything useful than he would. They left to meet with Ari.