Shadow Ritual (2 page)

To his surprise, there was no officer to meet him at the bunker, but instead, an insignificant civilian. His threadbare jacket bore the insignia of the Nazi Party. The man told him that he and the other officers of his rank would be assigned to a special detachment under the direct orders of Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. His mission would be explained in due time.

The man led him to a tiny room. Other officers, all detached from three SS divisions—Wiking, Totenkopf, and Hohenstaufen—had received the same orders and were lodged in nearby rooms.

Two days after they arrived, Martin Bormann, secretary of the Nazi Party and one of the few dignitaries to still be in Adolf Hitler’s good graces, called the Frenchman and his comrades together. With a cold, self-confident gaze on his bloated face, he looked at the fifteen men gathered in what remained of a chancellery meeting room. Then Hitler’s dauphin spoke in a strangely shrill voice.

“Gentlemen, the Russians will be here in a few months. It is possible that we will lose the war, even though the Führer still believes in victory and has put his faith in new weapons even more destructive than our long-range V-2 rockets.”

Bormann let his eyes drift over the group before continuing his monologue.

“We need to think about future generations and remain committed to final victory. Your superior officers chose you for your courage and loyalty to the Reich. I speak especially for our European friends from Sweden, Belgium, France, and Holland who have conducted themselves as true Germans. During the few weeks we have left, you will be trained to survive and perpetuate the work of Adolf Hitler. Our guide has decided to stay to the end, even if he must give his life, but you will leave in due time to ensure that his sacrifice is not in vain.”

Le Guermand looked around. The other officers were murmuring and shifting in their chairs. Bormann continued.

“Each of you will receive orders that are vital for our work to continue. You are not alone. Other groups such as yours are being formed throughout German territory. Your training will begin at eight tomorrow morning and will last for several weeks. Good luck to all of you.”

During the two months that followed, they were taught to live an entirely clandestine life. François Le Guermand admired the organization that persevered, despite the impending apocalypse. He felt detached from his French roots, from that nation of whiners that had prostrated itself at the feet of Charles de Gaulle and the Americans.

Le Guermand was cloistered in underground rooms and went days without seeing sunlight. A rodent’s life. There was no rest between the lectures and coursework. Soldiers and civilians introduced him to a vast network that was especially active in South America, as well as Spain and Switzerland.

They were trained in covert bank transfers and identity management. Money didn’t seem to be a concern. Each member of the group had a duty: to go to his assigned country and blend with the population under a new identity. Then wait—ready to act.

By mid-April, the Soviets were just six miles from Berlin. Three hundred French survivors of the Charlemagne Division were guarding the bunker. That was when the liaison officer from Munich arrived. Bormann deferred to the major, as though he were a superior officer. Le Guermand ate a quick lunch with the major, who called Hitler an evil madman and then held out a black card embossed with a white capital T.

“This card marks your membership to an ancient Aryan secret society, the Thule-Gesellschaft,” the major explained. “It has existed since long before the birth of Nazism. You have been chosen for your courage and devotion. If you survive the war, other members of the Thule will contact you with new orders.”

The cut on his cheek was now imperceptible.

It was finally time. It was April 25, and they were scheduled to leave on April 29.

Le Guermand polished the tips of his shiny boots. He wanted to be impeccable for this final meal with his comrades.

He stepped out of his small room, left the bunker, and took the long underground tunnel to the exit, emerging aboveground. He headed toward a large military building. The two soldiers on guard saluted him, and he hurried to the conference room.

Le Guermand walked through the door and looked around. Something was off. His companions were standing straight as fence posts and staring at a dark-haired man in a chair at the back of the room. The man’s SS jacket was unbuttoned. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

It was one of his comrades, a transmission specialist. Le Guermand stepped closer and stiffened when he saw two patches of dried blood where his ears had been. The man was groaning and mouthing a plea for help.

“Gentlemen.” Martin Bormann’s voice echoed in the room. “What you see here is a traitor. He was packing his bags to join Heinrich Himmler. The BBC announced this morning that our loyal Heinrich has offered the Allied troops unconditional capitulation. Our Führer was enraged and gave orders to execute anyone planning to join this betrayal, starting with his companion Eva Braun’s own brother-in-law, Herr Fegelein.”

The man was still groaning.

Bormann approached the prisoner calmly and touched his shoulder. He smiled and went on. “Our friend wanted out of his assignment. We cut off his ears and tongue so he couldn’t converse with his master about our glorious Führer’s decisions.”

The party hierarch ran his fingers through the prisoner’s hair, a distant look in his eyes. “You see, a German, and an SS at that, cannot turn on his own people and go unpunished. Learn that lesson. Never betray. Guards, take this piece of trash outside and shoot him.”

Two guards seized the man’s arms and dragged him out.

With the man gone, some of the tension in the room lifted. Everyone knew Bormann hated Himmler and was waiting for the occasion to discredit him as commander of the SS. Now it was done.

“Time is flying, men. Marshal Zhukov’s first army is approaching, and his troops are already at the Tiergarten. You will leave sooner than planned. Heil Hitler.”

The officers straightened and shot out their arms in response. “Heil Hitler.”

An explosion shook the room.

François Le Guermand turned to leave with the other men. But Bormann grabbed his arm and gave him a harsh look. “You know your instructions. It is vital for the Reich that you follow them to the letter.”

The room shuddered with another explosion, and the spasm spread through Bormann’s hand. Le Guermand looked him straight in the eye.

“I will leave Berlin by the underground network and go to a point in the western suburbs that is still safe. I will lead a convoy of five trucks to Beelitz, nineteen miles from the capital. There, I will bury the crates we transported. But I must keep one briefcase.”

“And then?”

“Then I will join our ninth army, which will fly me to the Swiss border. I will figure out how to cross the border and get to an apartment in Berne, where I will wait for further instructions.”

Bormann’s face relaxed a little.

Le Guermand cleared his throat and asked, “Sir, what’s in the crates?”

“That is not for you to know. Just obey. Do not be undisciplined like your compatriot Frenchmen.”

Bormann gave a weak smile, pursed his lips, and turned and walked away.

D
ACHAU
C
ONCENTRATION
C
AMP

Sunlight seeped through the dirty window, lighting up the dust particles dancing in the air, the only animation in the ramshackle barracks. The place was rank with death. Two days earlier, on April 23, the kapos had locked the doors, not bothering to remove the corpses.

Among the dozens of emaciated bodies, only three men—all of them French—were still alive.

Henri, a neurologist from Paris arrested in 1941 and recently transferred from the Reich’s medical research labs, had been delirious since nightfall. Deprivation, cold, and the long march ending at Dachau had depleted his strength. Leaning against a wall, he struggled to keep himself upright.

“We were wrong. The devil does exist. Evil is here, among us, lurking deep in our consciousness, waiting to be released. It’s like a coiled snake or a malevolent brother bent on forcing out the password to a room filled with everything he’s been lusting for.”

The youngest of the three, twenty-year-old Marek, turned to the third, Fernand, a retired administrative worker deported from Montluçon, France. “He won’t survive the night.”

“I know. What can we do?”

Henri slumped to the floor. Panting, he continued. “They woke up the ancient snake, the source of all evil. It gave them the seeds of hell. The fruit of the tree of knowledge has dropped to the ground. The seeds have sprouted everywhere.”

Fernand pulled a bowl from under a cot. He dipped his fingers in the gray water to wet Henri’s lips.

“Other demons will rise tomorrow. We will worship them. Evil wears many masks. It takes over because we are full of pride.”

“What are you saying, brother? I don’t understand,” Marek said.

Henri sniggered. “They went everywhere to find him, even the outer reaches of the deserts. But he was here the whole time. He was just waiting for us.”

“His mind is going.”

They heard boots stomping, and the barracks door swung open. Four men in green uniforms rushed toward them. All but one were wearing helmets. The one without the helmet brought down his heel and crushed Henri’s hand. The dying man cried out.

“Take him away,” the torturer shouted.

The soldiers grabbed Henri and lugged him out. The door slammed shut. The two remaining prisoners hurried to the grimy window.

Henri was forced to kneel in front of the SS officer. Brandishing a metal-tipped cane, the officer turned toward the barracks and smirked at the two Frenchmen. He twirled the cane and slammed it down on the kneeling man’s shoulder.

Marek and Fernand heard something crack. Henri howled. The officer ordered his subordinates to lift the prisoner and turned toward the barracks again. Wearing the same look, he used the cane to slam the back of the prisoner’s neck.

Henri fell to the ground, facedown.

The blood drained from Fernand’s face. He turned to Marek.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. He knows who we are. He’s perverting the ritual. But why? We aren’t a threat to him anymore. We’re nothing!”

“Marek, if either of us survives, we must remember this murder and hold these people accountable, just as the three men who murdered the master were brought to justice.”

The SS officer stretched and then leaned over Henri, whispering in his ear. The Frenchman shook his head.

The officer scowled and straightened. He raised the cane over his head and brought it down on the victim’s head.

That was the last of the three blows—one to the shoulder, one to the back of the neck, and a final one to the head.

The torturer was well versed in Freemason ways.

The German nodded to the two prisoners and started walking toward the barracks.

Fernand and Marek watched in silence, holding onto each other as their final moment arrived.

The door flew open. Sunlight flowed into the room, illuminating every inch, as if to better accompany the return of darkness.

S
OUTHWEST OF
B
ERLIN

He had to get out of the truck. François Le Guermand shouted an order to lob grenades on the crates.

Outside, the enemy was gunning down the occupants of the five trucks, which were stopped on the road.

His command went unheeded. The soldier was already dead. Half his face had been blown away. It was too late to leave the truck now. Le Guermand pushed the body out of the vehicle and swerved off the road. Swearing, he headed toward a line of trees.

Everything had started so well. He had left Berlin without a hitch and taken command of the small convoy as planned. They were just six miles from the hiding spot when they drove around a bend and straight into a Russian roadblock.

What were the Ivans doing there? General Wenck’s Ninth German Army, which was retreating westward toward American lines, was supposed to control this zone. Le Guermand realized that the rout had occurred more quickly than they had thought.

He had to get out of this mess.

A Russian soldier appeared from behind a bush. He took up position in front of the truck. Le Guermand accelerated and ran the man over. A concert of bullets whistled through the air. A projectile hit Le Guermand in the shoulder, and blood spurt all over the steering wheel. Le Guermand howled, and an acid taste filled his mouth.

He glanced in the rearview mirror to check on the rest of the convoy three hundred yards behind him. One vehicle was on fire, and Russian soldiers were already climbing into the others.

He bit his lip. The crates couldn’t fall into enemy hands. He pressed hard on the gas pedal, and the truck sped along a muddy lane toward the dark forest.

His heart was pounding. He didn’t have much time. The Reds would catch up and kill him slowly, making him pay for all the atrocities the Germans had committed.

One of the trucks exploded, giving him some breathing room.

He raced along, hit a rut, and swerved, nearly losing control. But he managed to right the vehicle. He would need at least a minute to reach the woods. He allowed himself a bit of hope. No one was behind him.

He let out a yelp of victory when he reached the first trees standing guard over the forest. The truck bounced over another rut, and Le Guermand grimaced in pain. The blood was pounding in his head, but there was no stopping. Those damned Ruskies would never take him alive.

The truck careened past the trees, no Russians in sight. Le Guermand chanted to himself as the sunlight disappeared behind the thick branches. Maybe he would get out of this alive.

Then he saw it. A gigantic tree trunk was blocking the track just yards in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, skidding and slipping on the mud until the weight of his cargo shifted and the vehicle tipped over. The truck started rolling down a hill covered with emerald-colored ferns.