Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 11
A Man of Diabolical Cast
At the Tomb of Lucy Westenra
1893
Seward stands to one side as Abraham Van Helsing prepares his butcher’s tools. Quincy Morris stands to one side, pale and wan, and Seward wonders whether the tough Texan will faint where he stands. Arthur Holmwood, his own work completed, is outside, vomiting into the bushes. Seward knows they have done the right thing, for he has seen the truth for himself. Quincy Morris will not meet his eye.
Murder most foul, Seward thinks. It is not the screams of the… ghoul? demon? - or whatever Lucy became in death. It is not the blood, which is everywhere. He has seen what Lucy did to the children, and Seward knows that he should feel no pity for the thing in the coffin. It is the last thing, the denouement of their midday tragedy, that makes Seward long for the release of morphine. He thought he was ready to end her life, but nothing - nothing – could have prepared him for the final horror as Arthur pounded the stake into her chest.
I.
Bavaria
1933
Sigmund woke as the first rays of sunlight streamed through the windows. He sat at the edge of the bed and prayed, as he did each morning. Sh’ma Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Eḥad. He had slept poorly last night, his rest disturbed by foreboding dreams. Blutsaugers scratching at the windows, no doubt.
His host, an old companion from the Wehrmacht who asked no questions, would be back in two days. We need to get across the border. Today if possible, but no later than tomorrow.
II.
Munich
Reinhard Heydrich smiled rarely in matters of state, and not at all in matters of personal or professional dignity. Behind the locked door of his office, however, he could allow himself a little bemusement. Diels thinks himself clever, and for once, I agree with him. It was common sense to watch the border crossings, but his attention had been directed westward, and the implications of yesterday’s call had left him thunderstruck. He could picture the smirk on Diels’s face. Go ahead, Reinhard. Produce the woman and explain to the Fuhrer how you embarrassed him for the sake of your little project. He tolerates many things, but not humiliation. And of course, Diels would be correct - a word to the Fuhrer would be sufficient to finish him.
The phone rang, and he picked up the receiver.
“Heydrich. Don’t give me details, just tell me - yes or no? Good. No, I’ll brief Otto on the layout of the house and send him this afternoon. And Hans? If you see Diels’s Jew, put two bullets in his head and dump him in the Alps.”
Heydrich replaced the receiver in its cradle and left word with his secretary to send Otto to Berchtesgaden. Otto and Hans could be at Haus Wachenfeld by tonight. Haus Wachenfeld. The very idea was appalling. Diels stashed the woman in the Fuhrer’s private residence.
III.
Graz, Republic of Austria
The University of Graz was newer and smaller than its counterpart in Vienna, and though Father Cristofor Albu was not averse to the occasional name-dropping - this portrait is of Ludwig Boltzmann, the great physicist, and that one is Fritz Pregel, who was awarded the Nobel Prize in chemistry - the visitors from Bologna or the Sorbonne, were rarely impressed, and they, in turn, rarely impressed him - pointing out the great scientists to his visitors was akin to teaching metaphysics to the ladybugs in his window. Still, if his own position was fairly humble – he ran the small chapel and lectured occasionally on Church history - Father Albu cared little for the prestige of Paris, or even Rome. The priesthood had allowed him an education and a chance to see the larger world, and that was sufficient. No mean feat for a peasant boy from Transylvania.
The knock on his door startled him, and he looked up from his reading - More’s unfinished biography of Richard III - at the woman who stood in his doorway.
He served tea, and Gabriela stared at the foothills of the Alps through his office window as he watched her with bemused exasperation. They had been childhood friends and fellow outcasts, he as a member of Romania’s Catholic minority, and she as… What, exactly? Rumors swirled around her family, and he had received more than one childhood admonition from the loose tongues in their village. Stay away from her - that girl is touched by the devil. She had grown from a gangly, somewhat clumsy child into a beautiful woman, marrying at eighteen, and Cristofor, who had felt no special calling to the priesthood, had entered the Church. Cristofor attached no significance to the timing of events, even if her marriage had been unhappy, and her husband’s death in the Red Terror had brought forth a mild temptation on his own part, easily dealt with - by that time, his path was firmly established. She visited him periodically, and Cristofor assisted her with questions of philosophy or theology or Romanian history. Questions answered on behalf of her employer, a wealthy recluse who never visits in person.
“What brings you to Graz?”
Gabriela ran her thumb and forefinger through a strand of dark hair. “Ten days ago, an Englishwoman disappeared from the Mediterranean.”
“In that case, you need a lifeboat, not a priest. Unless, of course, you want someone to administer last rites. What am I missing?”
“A fine lot the Church’s spies turned out to be.” She arched an eyebrow, an expression that he remembered from childhood. “The English believe she was kidnapped and taken to Germany. I want you to help me get across the border.”
“Definitely not,” he said. “Do you know how a man goes bankrupt? Slowly and then all at once. Germany has been going slowly mad for fifteen years, and now they are leaping off the cliff. And you, dear, with your dark hair and lovely cheekbones, would stand out in ways not likely to end well. Who is this woman to you?”
“My employer is searching for her. Will you help me, or not?”
“Let me make a few inquiries. I can’t stop you if you’re determined to go to Germany, but you need to know where you are going.”
“Thank you.” She slipped an envelope across the desk. “As soon as possible, please - He is anxious for news.”
When she was gone, he opened the envelope. Another gift from her benefactor, delivered by the only person that he trusts. A generous man, but an odd one.
IV.
Berchtesgaden
Sigmund’s attention began to wander as morning yielded to afternoon, and he nearly missed the old forest road. There were no tire tracks in the soil, and grass grew in the middle of the roadbed. Did they miss this one, or does it dead-end in a hundred meters? He pulled the car into the woods and removed his pistol from the glovebox. The SS would have figured out his identity by now, and his photo would be handed out all over Bavaria. Frau Spencer would survive recapture, but if Heydrich’s blonde thugs caught him, he could hope for little more than a shallow grave in the forest. Then don’t let them catch you. He tucked the pistol into his belt and loped into the woods.
He heard water in the distance, a fast-moving stream, and the pleasant aroma of fir lingered in his nostrils as he walked. The road looked passable, but he was unconcerned about the car - if necessary, they could abandon the vehicle and continue on foot. A sheer rock face rose to his left as Sigmund ascended the mountain, and he began to sweat a little from the exertion. He stopped periodically to check his surroundings. Listen for voices or engine noise. Anything that indicates a guard post around the next curve. Finally, he found himself in an alpine meadow, and after a short uphill walk, Sigmund found himself in a low saddle between two mountains. An old signpost marked the border, and the road beyond descended in a series of sharp, but manageable, switchbacks. Austria.
He lingered at the signpost and stared at the mountains to the south. His own wife had died in 1917, wasting away as wartime rationing yielded to starvation, and there was nothing to keep him in Germany. There was talk of Palestine among the Jews of Berlin, and if he continued south, he could slip across the border into Italy. From there, he could find a ship that would take him across the Mediterranean. Perhaps Diels would work things out with a few well-placed bribes, or the rule of law would reassert itself in Berlin.
It won’t. Do not speak of laws to men with swords.
Sigmund retraced his path toward the car, walking a little faster as the sun descended in the west. Don’t let the blutsaugers catch you after dark. The thought made him smile. It was funny, like a twisted fairy tale told for the amusement of grown-ups. Once upon a time, there was an old castle with a monster. Or perhaps not - who the hell knows? There was also an ogre from Munich, who was all too real, and the ogre kidnapped a fair maiden, so that she could take him to the monster. There were no brave knights left in Germany, since all the best had been killed by the War, so they sent a Jew, a poor zhlub hated by his countrymen, to rescue the maiden. Quite a story, isn’t it? If he survived, Sigmund thought, he would laugh about the whole thing for years.
“Good afternoon, Herr Foch.”
Sigmund cursed his wandering mind as he stopped abruptly. Two men stood in the middle of the road. They were well dressed, with fedoras and dark trousers unsuited for a walk in the woods. The younger one, a stocky blonde of perhaps twenty, caught his eye and grinned. The older man draped a submachine gun across his left elbow. The index finger of his right hand hooked casually around the trigger.
Sigmund left the road and sprinted into the trees as his assailant fired a long burst from the submachine gun. Bullets shredded the canopy as he moved in a zigzag pattern to make himself a smaller target. He ran downhill, toward the sound of running water, as another burst of gunfire erupted behind him. The stream cut through the rocks in a deep notch, and he abandoned the idea of crossing it almost immediately. Fall into that, and you’ll freeze before you make it back to civilization. He drew his pistol and dropped his hat at the water’s edge. Twenty meters downstream, a boulder rested at the base of a cascading fall. Sigmund crouched behind it and rested his shooting hand across the mossy surface. An easy shot at this distance, when no one is shooting back.
His pursuers moved quickly, paying no attention to their surroundings as they came on at a fast trot. Sigmund braced his pistol against the rock, and as the Luger jumped in his hand - pop, pop, pop, pop - one pursuer staggered from the impact of the bullets. The younger man gaped as his partner twisted in Sigmund’s direction and jerked the trigger of the submachine gun. A bullet grazed his upper arm, and Sigmund fell backward as his assailant braced the gun against one shoulder for better aim. Sigmund controlled his breathing as he fired another pair of shots, and the SS man went down, shot through the spine. He released the magazine of the Luger and felt for the spare as the boy tugged at the inside of his own coat.
I’ll never make it.
Sigmund crouched behind the boulder as the boy’s first shots went high. The spare magazine was in his hands now, but his fingers, devoid of fine motor control, fumbled, and the magazine slipped from his fingers. The boy charged, pistol extended in one hand for a final coup de grace, but through inexperience or fear, he hesitated, unwilling to expose himself for the last crucial steps. Sigmund gripped the boy’s wrist and seized the pistol with his free hand, twisting it away from his torso. Caught off guard, the boy overbalanced, and they toppled into the water.
The current was frigid, even in midsummer, and Sigmund lost his grip on the boy’s wrist as his head went under. The flowing water carried him downstream, and he thrashed with his arms and legs in a desperate pinwheeling motion, searching for the streambed as he fell end over end. After several agonizing seconds, his feet connected with the bottom, and Sigmund forced his head above the surface. He gasped for air as the current pressed into his body.
Something slammed into him from behind.
The blow sent him spinning, and Sigmund kicked at the boy’s legs. His movements felt weak and sluggish in the cold, but he pulled free of his assailant’s grip as the current caught them again. Both of them were weaker now, battered and hypothermic, but the blonde thug was stronger, and Sigmund’s knees buckled as his head was forced beneath the surface. He extended an arm to break his fall, and his hand closed upon a smooth stone.
Sigmund twisted his body, a floundering sideways roll that caught the younger man off-guard, and his eyes widened with surprise as Sigmund battered him with the rock. A gush of blood poured from the boy’s nose, and he cried out, a sharp wail of panic, as Sigmund hit him again. The rock flew from his hand, and Sigmund closed his hand into a tight fist. His punch connected solidly with the boy’s chin, and he winced at the sensation of breaking teeth that reverberated in the bones of his arm. The boy ceased fighting and held weakly to Sigmund’s arm as he snuffled through a broken nose.
“Fucking Jew.” He spoke with the squeal of a frightened child. “When they find you, you’re a dead man.”
“I know.” May God forgive me.
He planted his feet and gave a hard shove, and as the boy fell backward, Sigmund grabbed one foot in the crook of his elbow. The boy was inverted now, his head against the streambed, and Sigmund let the elements do their work as the body thrashed beneath the surface. When the struggles finally ceased, he released his grip, and the corpse floated downstream.
He returned to the other body and retrieved the submachine gun and a pistol. Sigmund rifled through the pockets for cash and identification cards, then dragged the corpse to the water’s edge. He started for the car as the dead man vanished into the current, moving as quickly as his frozen legs would allow. They weren’t trying to capture me, he thought. They were trying to kill me. That means that they have Sarah, or they know where she is. He craved warmth and rest, but Sigmund knew that he had to reach Sarah before the SS found her.
If they hadn’t already.
V.
The chalet was well-stocked with food, and no homeowner’s key jangled in the front door, but the interior of the house was oppressive, and Sarah moved to the terrace to watch the sunset. Until yesterday morning, she had seen no traffic on the narrow road, but lulled by the morning air, she had been caught outside as the black sedan passed. It was nothing, she told herself, simply a motorist enjoying a view of the Alps. All the same, she kept an eye on the road as the light faded.
Sarah loved the twilight, though its beauty was always tinged with sadness. How could it be otherwise? Her mother hated the sunset, and every evening, Mina Harker would walk through the house as afternoon yielded to evening, checking the latch on each door and window. Mina insisted that she be indoors an hour before last light, and Sarah had chafed at the restriction with childlike stubbornness. Mark my words, Sarah, nothing good happens after dark.
She had rebelled only once. At ten years old, on a summer holiday in the countryside, Sarah had lingered outside as the shadows pooled around their cottage, ignoring her mother’s calls. Mina’s voice became angry, then fearful, until a single anguished cry emanated from the house as the first stars appeared overhead. When her father found her hiding in the garden, Sarah expected a severe punishment, but Jonathan had ushered her inside without a harsh word. It hardly mattered - the sight of Mina, panicked to near-incoherence, was sufficient.
Nothing good happens after sunset. The restrictions ended two years later, when John Quincy was killed at the Somme. Sarah’s enjoyment of her new freedom mingled with grief for her brother’s death and resentment for her mother’s sudden indifference. Her fingers touched the locket, a token of atonement given by Mina in her last days. And now I am separated from my own son. Is this how you felt when John Quincy died?
In the valley, a thousand feet below, she saw headlights. Sarah watched for several minutes, her stomach churning, as the car crawled up the mountainside.
VI.
Skorzeny killed the lights for the last quarter mile, and in the darkness, he could hear Hans’s labored breathing. Can’t blame him for being afraid. The steep curves were a deathtrap, and if he missed a turn, the flimsy guardrail wouldn’t stop them. At least they’ll know where we went over the edge. Make it easier to sweep our guts off the rocks. Skorzeny grinned in spite of his own fear. Too young for the last war, he did not pine for the lost glory of the trenches, and while others looked to men like Hans as symbols of German glory, Skorzeny considered them relics – brave but dull men who charged mindlessly at the enemy guns. Skorzeny hungered for a new age of covert action and street violence, of assassination and unconventional warfare, and the kidnapping of Frau Spencer was proof of concept for his ideas. He killed the engine, and they waited with the windows down, listening. There was no sign of life from the house, and after ten minutes, they eased the doors open.
VII.
Sarah eased the curtain to one side. The car idled at the end of the driveway, and her heart sank as she realized her mistake. The house is a fine place to hide as long as they stay on the road. Where do you go if they stop? In the road, the headlights winked out as Hans and Otto exited the car.
She retreated to the master bedroom and locked the door. I’m going to disappear, Sarah thought. They will never let me leave Munich alive, and in a year, no one will remember the Englishwoman who vanished in the Mediterranean. Sarah worked the latch on the window, and the casement swung inward on its hinges. Gripping the frame to steady herself, she lifted one leg, then the other, across until she was perched on a narrow ledge. Sarah pulled the window closed with her free arm, and the latch fell into place. Sigmund is gone, probably dead, and no one is coming to save me. The distance to the ground made her slightly ill, but she was faced with an impossible choice - surrender to her kidnappers or pray that the drop would not shatter her legs or snap her spine.
Sarah released her grip on the casement. She felt a sickening heave in her stomach as she fell, and she rolled as she struck the earth. Her ankle felt swollen and tender, but Sarah forced herself to her feet and hobbled toward the road. She needed to distance herself from the house and hide out until she could make her way to Berchtesgaden. Once she was out of immediate danger, she could dare to hope that Sigmund was nearby, ready to spirit her across the border.
VIII.
Working by touch, Skorzeny slipped his key into the lock. The interior of the house was dark, and he tried to visualize the layout. If I were setting up an ambush, I would do it here. Stand just around the corner in the pantry and shoot as we are backlit in the doorway. He drew his pistol as he slipped across the threshold and stepped to the left. Hans followed, moving right. Otto Skorzeny breathed deeply and closed his eyes, listening. Silent as a tomb.
“Hans. Turn on the torch.”
Hans played the beam about the house as they moved deeper into the darkened room. Two guest rooms and a master bedroom at the far end. A faint glow was visible under the closed door, and Skorzeny gritted his teeth at the sight. She’s in the Fuhrer’s bedroom. He delivered a kick to the latch, just below the doorknob, and they surged into the room as the door gave way. Hans knelt to examine the underside of the bed as Skorzeny moved toward the closet. To make up for their troubles, he decided, Frau Spencer would arrive in Munich with bruises and a few missing teeth. Where in God’s name could that woman be –
They heard the car engine at the same time.
VIII.
The car did not slow as it approached the Austrian checkpoint, and its horn blared imperiously as it smashed through the barricade. An informal arrangement, supported by regular cash payments, kept the border open for illicit traffic in men, materials, and weapons, but the latest action was outrageous. In the future, the guards agreed, they needed to raise their price.
Sarah drove until the sun glow began to brighten the eastern horizon. When the fuel ran out, she parked on a forest road and stretched her aching body across the front seat. Ten minutes later she was asleep, arms curled tightly against her breasts as the songbirds twittered the dawning of a new day.
IX.
Munich
Reinhard Heydrich was playing with his son when the telephone rang. He asked a few questions, and when the caller finished, he began dressing for work. Careful attention to his uniform - shoes shined, no loose threads, tie perfectly knotted - soothed the fury that raged beneath his calm demeanor. A burglary at the Fuhrer’s summer residence, a stolen SS staff car, and an incident at the border post in Austria. He wondered if it would please Frau Spencer to know that, in a way, she had beaten him. Bringing her back to Germany was, at this point, a greater risk than he was willing to accept. At least her father would hear no word of her escape, and he would use Jonathan Harker’s ignorance to his own advantage.
When his uniform was perfect, he went to the door to await his driver. Go ahead and run, Frau Spencer. You are still far from home, and I have friends in Austria. It’s only a matter of time.
X.
Germany
1928-1929
In later years, some would look back and consider the bloodshed that could have been avoided if Adolf Hitler had been hanged for treason in 1924. Still, the fortunes of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (not Nazi, the faithful would assert - ask a Party member, and he would explain at length why the term was used only by Communists and Jews) were at a low ebb. After six years of near-continual disaster - the defeat and dismemberment of the Great War, the ruinous inflation that destroyed the middle classes, the bloody street violence - things were turning for the better, and soon, everyone assumed, the rabble rouser from Linz would be forgotten.
The stock market crash ruined the German economy, and where the American and British systems could weather a downturn, even a long one, the Weimar Republic could not. The violence resumed, worse than before, and as Germany began to spin out of control, it was widely believed that a bloody civil war between Communists and nationalists was inevitable. Adolf Hitler, failed artist and failed politician, thrived in the ensuing disasters, and in the near-continuous cycle of parliamentary elections, the Nazi party made steady gains in the Reichstag.
He was a naval officer now, and if the Reichsmarine, like so much of Germany, had been neutered by the Treaty of Versailles, there was food to eat and work to occupy his time. He was disliked by the others – junior officers and enlisted seaman found him overbearing and arrogant – but it mattered little. He was destined for greatness, and from the naval base in Kiel, he watched the events in Berlin with growing interest.