The Bell and the Blade, page 38
“She did, but Fletcher upset her so much, she must’ve stopped before we got to Severin’s prophecy.”
“Fletcher upset her? That man doesn’t know how to upset a nun.”
“Oh, he obviously does.” Charlie smiled into the steering wheel. She felt liquid heat flow through her heart and body when she so much as thought his name.
“You want to hear it?” The woods they were driving through were perfect for a prophecy—cool, shadowy, summery. Louise adopted the Reverend Mother’s deep, sonorous tone. “During the Reformation, the abbey was abandoned and the forest consumed it. But in the late 1600s, a mad Jesuit monk named Brother Severin stumbled upon it, while wandering the woods in search of a place he’d seen in his nightmare—the oak trees bleeding sap the color of blood into the ground that was chanting and moaning in elegy.”
“Did he, like, write his nightmares down or . . .”
“Yes! His journal, believed to have been long lost, was found in a crumbling wall by a novice nun at the turn of the century.”
“Was that when the bells stopped ringing?”
“What bells?” Louise continued. “Most of the journal was illegible—except for a few pages, written in a strange mix of Walloon and French. Some of it was written in what appeared to be . . . dried blood.”
“Dried blood, no kidding.”
“Severin wrote about the vision that compelled him to leave the comfort of Bruges and seek out this strange, forbidding place. He died shortly after, his face frozen in a kind of rapture.”
“Who’d want to leave Bruges?” Charlie muttered, half in reverie herself.
“Ready? The Ashen Bell will ring,” Louise intoned, “when blood is carried in barrels of flame, and ravening wolves in iron skin shall hunger for it.”
“And Reverend Mother wondered why you couldn’t sleep,” Charlie said. Wasn’t Fletcher’s mission called Santa Fe? Operation Holy Fire. “Was that Severin’s nightmare or his prophecy?”
“Both,” said Louise. “The tower will fall when the girl with fire in her hand comes near.”
“What girl?” said Charlie, snapping to attention.
Louise shrugged. “Sometimes the girl wears a soldier’s coat, Verene said. And sometimes a white veil. She is surrounded by shadow, but the shadow does not touch her.”
“Severin said this, or Mother Verene?”
“Yes,” said Louise. “She made me repeat the last part three times. One shall rise, one shall fall, one shall betray with a whisper, and the Ashen Bell will toll when the hour comes not to save the world, but to choose what must burn.”
55
RED LINE
LATE TUESDAY NIGHT, OTTO Brandt’s corpulent body was fished out of the shallow Willemstad dry dock, found decomposing, bloated, and drowned. He was in full uniform—SS Eagles and insignia still affixed to his lapel. An empty bottle of Remy Martin Louis XIII floated beside him in the dirty water. The dry dock was surrounded by office buildings and businesses. There was constant foot and vehicular traffic around it. It looked like nothing more than a nasty accident, and foul play would’ve been ruled out, but the body was found a block and a half from Daisy Lane.
Everyone in the SS knew of the years-long enmity between Rheinhardt and Brandt. Naturally, Rheinhardt fell under suspicion—until he produced an ironclad alibi. In the hours immediately preceding the discovery of Brandt’s body, he had been seen by at least fifteen witnesses, playing chess at Café Ruben, an upper-floor salon thick with smoke and retired Flemish military officers, all collaborators. He appeared in good spirits and more relaxed than he’d been in months, the men later said.
Everyone had a good time that evening, the Belgians testified.
Especially Rheinhardt.
His record—135 straight chess victories since 1940—remained unbroken.
“I may be disgraced, Herr Krieger,” Rheinhardt said during his private audience with the general, who returned to Antwerp just after the investigation into Brandt’s death was closed, as if he wanted nothing to do with it. “I may be disgraced, but I’m not aimless. If I’m allowed to expand the command of my port and my men, I will find what we’re looking for. You know better than anyone how little time we have. I need all available resources for a proper search of the city and the region.”
“And what am I supposed to tell Himmler?” Krieger said. “How long do you think I can keep equivocating?”
As long as it takes? Rheinhardt wanted to say. Instead he replied, “Tell him I’m a loyal servant of the Reich, of Germany, of Herr Hitler. I will stop at nothing to help us win this war.” There was no “please.” No real explanation. Just a declaration. This is what I need, Krieger, and you are going to give it to me.
“Listen, Rheinhardt,” Krieger said, “you know we wanted to promote you. I recommended it myself. But frankly, you’ve been nothing but an embarrassment. The uranium is gone!”
“I will find it.”
“And your superior officer is dead!”
“An unfortunate accident.”
“Strange how fate favors you, Rheinhardt,” said Krieger. “Especially when it comes to dead higher-ups.”
Rheinhardt took a beat. “If fate really favored me, Herr Krieger, perhaps it would have disposed of Herr Brandt before he reassigned the men guarding Germany’s most precious resource—not after.”
Even Krieger gave a sharp breath of disbelief at such brazen remorselessness. “How can I possibly reward your failure with a medal and a promotion!” he exclaimed.
“Because to find what was stolen from us, I need full operational authority.” He told Krieger precisely what he needed: to be made the SS commander of the Port of Antwerp. To have complete authority over the Gestapo, the SS, and the Belgian Polizei in northern Belgium. Unrestricted rights of search and seizure. Special dispensation for enhanced interrogation without oversight. “Nothing less than the security of our German nation is at stake.”
“You’ve had operational authority,” Krieger said. “And look what it cost us.”
Rheinhardt didn’t respond. “Have you been in touch with Saul Grunfell, sir?”
Krieger rolled his eyes. “I regret ever giving that man my number. Can I give him yours instead? He rings me five times a day, asking when the birdseed is coming.”
Rheinhardt nodded curtly. “We need to begin work immediately on the power and exhaust upgrades to Zvart Haus, as discussed,” he said.
“You want us to expand his power grid? We don’t have the uranium!”
“When we get it, everything needs to be in place. New power generators. The expanded exhaust pipes. And all the copper we can get our hands on.” When Rheinhardt saw that Krieger remained unconvinced, he pivoted to another, more ruthless tack. “The upgrade to Zvart Haus is a good and plausible reason you can offer Herr Himmler the next time you two speak. “You can tell him we cannot begin the actual work until the expansion is done. That we’re working as fast as possible. Assure him it’s only a matter of time.”
Krieger snickered, but there was unease in it. “That’s some misplaced confidence, Rheinhardt. You want me to lie to Heinrich Himmler?”
“If we begin the power grid renovation, it would not be a lie, would it, sir? It would be the actual truth.”
“And if you don’t find it?” Krieger stayed sardonic, but his throat was dry. The words came out croaky. “We will both be executed. You understand that? It’s not just your neck. It’s mine too.”
“Oh, I understand all too well, sir.” Rheinhardt gave a slight nod. “That’s why I’m asking for enhanced powers.”
Krieger shook his head in nervous disbelief. “You’ve got some balls on you, Rheinhardt. Some fucking balls. What makes you think you’ll ever see your uranium again?”
“Trust me, mein Herr. You yourself said how extraordinary it was that I found it in the first place. It’s somewhere in Belgium. All I need is freedom to act.”
“Needle in a haystack.”
“A needle in a lump of hay a few grass blades deep.”
“And those who took it from you?”
“Will be brought to swift and final justice, mein Herr.”
“I thought you told me you would not start a war?”
“I was wrong,” said Rheinhardt, cold as the reaper. “I will.”
Rheinhardt finally had almost everything he wanted—and all it had taken was a public humiliation akin to a quartering. He was promoted to Obersturmbannführer—the SS equivalent of a lieutenant colonel—with full authority over all SS and SD operations in Antwerp and its vicinity. It wasn’t Standartenführer, as he’d been promised in Liège, but it was good enough.
Upgrades at Zvart Haus began immediately: additional high-voltage lines to feed the cyclotron; new piping laid and buried underground to carry chemical fumes to the factories along the Olen canal; every system expanded to process the Congolese uranium—when it was found.
But despite the confident words Rheinhardt had thrown at Krieger, despite his blustering bravado, the red line remained unfaded—the uranium had vanished, and Rheinhardt had no idea where it was or who took it.
After another fruitless week, a despairing Rheinhardt decided to pay a visit to Grunfell. He made the trip to Zvart Haus alone, leaving Hubner to manage the flood of bureaucratic and political bullshit that had proliferated like fungus since his promotion. When Brandt had been in charge, Rheinhardt had rarely seen this side of operations in occupied Belgium.
But the Germans had deliberately constructed a labyrinthine, impermeable administration, with departments within the same division reporting to different ministries in Berlin. The SS, the Gestapo, and the secret Field Police all reported separately, rarely collaborating, and depending heavily on the Belgian Polizei to do most of their grunt work. Partnerships were discouraged. Actions were duplicated. And when things went wrong, the finger-pointing never stopped. It was everyone’s fault, and no one’s. Everyone was responsible—and no one. Rivalries bloomed where coordination should have. One team would arrest suspected partisans only to have the other unit release them for lack of paperwork—then arrest them again days later so they could claim the credit.
Now that he was in charge, Rheinhardt saw the insanity clearly and wanted no part of it. His loathsome duties had multiplied, while his nonexistent leads had all but vaporized. And every afternoon, Krieger called to ask if there was anything new to report, any good news he could bring Himmler.
Under Rheinhardt’s direction, the Gestapo was searching every home where there’d been even a whisper of clandestine activity. They tore through basements, sheds, storage facilities, trucks, barns and back rooms. The official justification for such a widespread irrational sweep was Jews. Hitler’s orders were clear: the Jewish question must be resolved—even in Belgium.
But Rheinhardt’s efforts were proving fruitless.
There were no Jews. There were no African men.
And the trail to the missing barrels was cold.
How hard was it to find a black man in Belgium?
Impossible, as it was turning out.
How hard was it to find eight tons of uranium?
Even harder.
Even the Jews were absent.
So Rheinhardt made a decision—if he could not catch the thieves by their faces, he would catch them by their shadows. And for that, he needed Saul Grunfell.
“Oh my goodness, what happened to you?” a shocked Saul said by way of greeting when Rheinhardt entered his study and took off his coat and visor.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rheinhardt said. But he knew. He must have lost ten kilos in the last few weeks.
“What happened to your hair?”
“Oh, that.” Yes. There was that. Rheinhardt had gone prematurely and completely gray in the time it took to connect Saul to more power, in the time it took not to find the uranium. “It’s of no consequence,” he said, keeping the grim sigh out of his voice. “Tell me about the upgrade work. Is it proceeding well?”
“They’re almost finished. But what use is it?”
“It’ll be of use shortly. You’ve waited for this long. Be patient.” All of you have to be fucking patient, Rheinhardt wanted to say, while you sit here and watch me as I do all the fucking work.
“Patient? Aren’t we on the clock?”
“No one knows that better than me, Saul.”
“But you still have no leads?”
“This isn’t something you need to worry over.” Or that I wish to speak to you about.
“I told you, I need fourteen weeks to make it happen.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve told me.” Rheinhardt felt each passing day like a stab wound. Every sunrise marked another Allied breakthrough in France, another meter of German retreat, another chance slipping away. Another day Grunfell wasn’t working on the one thing that might still change the course of the war. “This brings me to the real reason I came,” Rheinhardt said. “I need your Geiger machine.”
“No,” Grunfell said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. Ask Krieger for one.”
“You know he doesn’t have one.”
“Maybe he can get one.”
“Are you insane?” Rheinhardt said. “Do you want me to find the uranium or don’t you? To find it, I need the Geiger. What do you even need it for? You’ve got nothing to do.”
“Nothing to do?” Grunfell’s tone was blistering. “My work hasn’t stopped just because you haven’t held up your end of the bargain. I’m still trying to leach yellowcake from the pissant uranium from Czechoslovakia.”
Yellowcake. He remembered the flag of the yellow narcissus from the mast of La Fortuna. “Why is it called yellowcake?”
“Um . . . because it’s yellow?” When Rheinhardt stared him down, Saul added flatly, “Bright yellow is the color uranium turns after oxidation. You saw it yourself in your marbled rock.”
“Yes, yes.” Rheinhardt became thoughtful for a moment. “And you can’t work with your Czech ore without using the Geiger?”
“Are you joking?”
“Why would I be joking?”
“We use it constantly, to make sure we don’t get contaminated.”
“Are you really in danger of contamination with your one percent ore?”
Grunfell stared at him in disbelief and contempt.
“Yes, Rheinhardt,” he said slowly. “Every day. Every minute. All of us who live and work in this house—especially down in the lab—are in danger of contamination from radioactive ore. The Geiger tells us when to scrub, when to shower, when to isolate. Dismiss it at your own peril.”
“Duly noted—and duly dismissed,” Rheinhardt said coldly. “You know as well as I do that without the Congolese uranium your so-called work is worthless. And without the Geiger, I can’t find it.” He stood. “So sit and relax, Grunfell. Take a load off. Read a book. Get some sun. You’re looking a little gray yourself, frankly. And as you’ve just explained to me, you’re nothing without your health.” He put on his coat and waited. When Saul brought him the machine, he took it without a word, carried it to his car, and left.
For days afterward, Rheinhardt stood guard at the main checkpoint into Antwerp, waving the Geiger wand over every truck that entered, and every truck that left.
From morning till night, he walked through all the warehouses on Glaskaai. He drove with Hubner and a Gestapo contingent to every business that used fortified trucks—every farm, every house, every barn, every stable—Hubner hauling the generator-powered transformer, and Rheinhardt sweeping the wand in slow, furious arcs, hoping for a single irregular reading, a single jump of the needle.
But the needle remained unmoved.
Ten more days passed.
And then fourteen.
56
TREMELO
THE WOODS GAVE WAY without warning, opening onto a gold meadow stretched across the flatlands. At its edge stood a long stone estate with weather-blackened shutters and a hipped slate roof. Its tall windows reflected the deep green of summer.
“It looks a little haunted,” said Louise.
“No, no. The Baroness is a lovely woman,” said Charlie.
“I’m not talking about the Baroness. I’m talking about her abode.”
Even before they hopped out of the Berceau, the front door opened and a slender regal woman in her sixties stepped out, waving.
“I like that she’s waving,” said Louise. “Already seems more hospitable.”
“Baroness Mathilde,” Charlie said, stepping forward. “Bonjour.”
“I know you,” said the Baroness. “You came to me once in 1943.” She smiled. “I never forget a face.” She looked past Charlie into the Berceau. “Have you brought me more children?”
“No, Baroness,” Charlie said. “But this is Louise.”
“You introduced me like I was the child,” Louise whispered sideways, elbowing Charlie. “Thanks a lot.”
“A pleasure, ladies. How can I help you? Would you like to come inside? It’s a balmy day for Belgium.” She fanned herself. “Is it just you two?”
Charlie cleared her throat. “No, Baroness.” Across the meadow, Fletcher and the others emerged from the trees. Zeus was running ahead.
Mathilde squinted into the distance. “Are they all with you?”
“Yes, Baroness.”
Mathilde was quiet for a moment. “What happened?” she said dryly. “Did Verene kick you out?” Her mouth curved in a wry half-smile. “The Abbess is a tough old broad. But her heart is true. She’s very protective of her nuns. And I see men with you, young men with weapons—there’s your whole problem in a nutshell.”
Charlie offered a noncommittal shrug. They were about to ask this woman for shelter—best not to argue with her.
“You had business with the Reverend Mother?” Mathilde asked.
“We did,” replied Charlie, and offered no further.
“Where are you girls from?”
“Herentals.”
“Beautiful church there. Saint Waltrude. Why not go back home if you need a place to stay?”
